With China, Türkiye, the Gulf states, and Russia offering tangible investment and influence in Africa, the US's reliance on facilitation and hollow declarations has reduced it to a mere observer
AP / Mark Schiefelbein
Secretary of State Marco Rubio stands with Rwanda's FM Olivier Nduhungirehe and Democratic Republic of Congo's FM Therese Kayikwamba Wagner, after signing a peace agreement in Washington on June 27, 2025.
On 20 October, US Special Envoy to the Middle East Steve Witkoff announced that Donald Trump’s administration was working to broker talks between Algeria and Morocco, hoping for a peace agreement within two months.
On the surface, it was striking—and potentially strategic. Yet, regrettably, it mainly underscored the flaw in the United States' Africa policy, where facilitation often replaces coherent strategy and public declarations stand in for substantive action.
The Trump administration’s arrival on the African stage has been a ‘popcorn explosion’—a burst of disruption triggered by efforts to dismantle the legacy of the Biden era. Several programmes were suspended or quietly shut down, State Department divisions focused on Africa were partially paralysed, and USAID operations across the continent were effectively frozen.
Yet switching off USAID did not undo the consequences of its actions. Beyond chronic inefficiency, the agency had become a feeding ground for sections of Africa’s political elites. Instead of strengthening institutions, it fostered structural resentment—a latent but enduring hostility toward the US presence, even amid programmes that appeared, on paper, to do good.
Hollow slogans
Washington’s new Africa strategy began to take shape earlier this year with a series of symbolic milestones: the June peace accord between the Democratic Republic of the Congo and Rwanda; the July mini summit with Atlantic African nations; and the August reshuffle of US Africa Command (AFRICOM) leadership. Its core tenets have been distilled into transactional slogans: ‘trade over aid,’ ‘resources for security,’ ‘investment for loyalty.’ The catchphrases capture both ambition and hollowness—rebranding engagement without addressing structural weaknesses that have long undermined US policy.
Hollow declarations have replaced institutional action, resulting in operational paralysis masquerading as strategy
The US Strategy Toward Sub-Saharan Africa was first introduced in 2020 and later updated in 2023 by the Biden administration. The 2025 Trump edition is less a new strategy than a 'cosmetic reboot'—a reissued document stripped of operational substance. In practice, it reads like a sketchbook of disconnected declarations, pilot projects, and localised programmes. Clear objectives, operational instruments, and coordination mechanisms are absent.
The invest–secure–influence concept resembles a marketing prototype more than a strategic doctrine. Even the $550mn pledged in 2025 for Angola's Lobito Corridor merely continues the legacy of previous administrations—offering continuity without innovation.
And while the US is good at producing strategy documents, implementing them has become a tall order. Declarations have replaced institutional action, resulting in operational paralysis masquerading as strategy.
This is illustrated most vividly by Trump's 'deal' in Congo—a case of transactional peace, in which peace is treated as a bargain rather than a process. The agreement has remained on paper, lacking both an implementation framework and viable on-the-ground mechanisms. As of October, armed confrontation persists in northern Congo, and Washington's promises of post-agreement architecture have faded into press releases.
M23 soldiers in Goma on February 6, 2025. Rwandan-backed M23 said it wanted to "liberate all of the Congo" in its first public message since seizing the eastern city of Goma after deadly clashes.
The centipede syndrome
Since early 2025, senior officials from the State Department, the Pentagon, and US business circles have toured African capitals, meeting their counterparts. Headlines celebrated renewed American interest, yet the lack of tangible outcomes suggested these visits were largely symbolic—the trips themselves had become the objective.
In practice, US institutions face what might be called a 'centipede syndrome'—uncertain which leg to move first. Their institutional dissonance is vividly captured by Ivan Krylov's fable The Swan, the Pike, and the Crayfish: the State Department, like the Swan, strives for diplomacy, alliances, competition with China and Russia, and promotion of values; AFRICOM, like the Crayfish, pulls toward forceful measures, sometimes opposing diplomacy; and the Development Finance Corporation, like the Pike, moves toward profit and risk-averse investments. Formally aligned, they nonetheless operate according to different logics, eras, and managerial cultures.
The core problem is that, despite distancing itself from previous approaches, the Trump administration inherited a legacy structure of institutionalised underestimation of Africa. This cognitive and conceptual distortion treats the continent as an object rather than a subject. Washington still acts as if Africa is a collection of controllable spaces, following a 'process-control' logic, whereas African policy increasingly operates under distributed sovereignty.
The expulsion of US troops from Niger underscored that Africa is no longer an object of external control. It determines who may be present on its territory and under what conditions, leveraging great-power competition to its own advantage.
Cognitive bias distorts US perception. Africa is seen not as it is, but through outdated stereotypes: a crisis zone, a resource reservoir, or an arena for great-power rivalry. Misperception blocks any strategy aligned with reality. Research centres and think tanks often prove ineffectual— their outputs devalued, while knowledge fails to translate into strategy, flattened through a 'Procrustean bed' of flawed perception.
This cognitive blindness is evident in practice. Washington continues to act as an external moderator, intervening only in crises such as armed conflicts or humanitarian disasters. In practice, this produces 'security bubbles': managed zones of stability, isolated from national economies and institutions—a model of external control without internal development.
Two soldiers raise the flags of Niger and the United States during a ceremony in Agadez in April 2018.
Facilitation without commitment
US policy is increasingly leaning toward facilitation: setting up negotiation platforms, organising dialogues, monitoring processes, and offering formal support. Washington seeks influence without investing, steering without assuming responsibility. It is a convenient surrogate for strategy, allowing it to remain 'in the game' without committing. Facilitating processes over which the US has no leverage or tools is impossible, especially amid Africa's turbulence.
Combined with the declarative nature of statements and initiatives, this approach—bereft of both capacity and intent—is increasingly redundant. Africa needs a strategic partner capable of solving problems, not an external moderator or crisis manager.
Today's African elites are technocratic, globally connected, and attuned to trends across the Global South, Asia, and the Middle East. They see and understand far more than official narratives acknowledge. Behind the US rhetoric of partnership lies a reluctance to share the burden of development.
As a result, Washington's declarative and facilitative approach is often leveraged by African governments for legitimacy, temporary assurances, and political breathing space, while simultaneously signalling Africa's diminished status in the US hierarchy of priorities.
In the 1990s and early 2000s, America symbolised an 'open world' for Africa—scholarships, technology, and startups. Today, even traditionally US-aligned countries (Kenya, Nigeria, Ghana, and Senegal) are diversifying, deepening ties with China, Russia, and the Gulf states. Africa no longer views Washington as the sole guarantor of stability; that role is now occupied by actors offering clearer, more pragmatic engagement.
The US seeks influence without investing or assuming responsibility. It is a convenient surrogate for strategy, allowing it to remain 'in the game' without committing.
An outsider looking in
China's large-scale economic expansion, Türkiye's flexible approach, blending humanitarian, trade, and military-technical cooperation, the Gulf states' investment and Islamic banking, and Russia's security exports are tangible realities in Africa: demanded, developing, and evolving. By contrast, Washington's initiatives amount to media theatre: informational noise simulating presence where substantive strategic engagement is absent.
Africa is now the theatre of a cognitive battle—a struggle over perception, interpretation, and legitimacy of influence. In this contest, the US is losing: facilitation, declarative initiatives, and persistent underestimation have reduced it to an observer, not a participant. And unless the White House changes course, the US will remain an outsider on a continent where its ability to exert influence is steadily eroding.
To paraphrase Albert Camus, Trump would need genuine courage—to take the first step without guarantees. This means reshaping US policy in Africa, addressing cognitive misperceptions, and establishing practical mechanisms and tools. Whether this is a priority for American foreign policy remains an open question.
