The press has been climbing Mt. Trump for so long that you’d think CNN would at least apply for a mountaineering licence. Every few months, they scale a new peak with the same breathless excitement: “This is it! The big expose! The moment democracy finally unclogs its arteries!”
And every time, Trump—like a political cockroach blessed with nine extra lives and a golden elevator—just dusts off his suit, adjusts his tie, blames somebody else, and moves on as though nothing happened.
So please, forgive me if I’m not exactly breaking out the champagne for the long-awaited Epstein file disclosure. At this point, “revelation” in American politics has all the thrill of discovering that water is wet and Congress is dysfunctional.
Let’s recap the press’ favourite mountain trail:
Russian collusion? Oh, that was supposed to be the big one. They climbed up that hill with notebooks and indignation only to slide down again on a slippery slope of “well, it’s complicated.” His tax returns? Liberals hiked up that ridge like archaeologists expecting Tutankhamun’s tomb, only to find receipts full of creative accounting and enough business losses to qualify every Trump property as a natural disaster zone. The Ukraine phone call? That trek was basically political mountaineering with potholes, as the press tried to explain—slowly and with diagrams—how asking a foreign president to “do us a favour though” might be impeachable. America said, “Hmm. Maybe,” and then went back to football. Trump Hotel foreign payments? An ethical Everest. Saudis sleeping on monogrammed pillows while paying “diplomatic rates” of $5,000 a night for rooms that overlooked scaffolding. Nothing happened. Hush money? They packed climbing ropes and binoculars for that one. Stormy Daniels certainly gave them enough material to climb and abseil. And yet, Trump walked around like the only man in history who paid for silence and still talked more than anyone else alive. The insurrection? A steep summit, no doubt. But apparently, attempting to overthrow your own government is just another Thursday in American politics now. Tampering with voting systems? More hills. More huffing. More puffing. Nothing. Ignoring federal documentation laws? Honestly, the National Archives has yelled “bring back our documents!” more times than Nigerian parents calling a stubborn child back into the house. He still didn’t return them—he just rearranged the boxes and criticised the FBI’s interior decorating. And who could forget Finland, Where Trump tossed the CIA, FBI, and every US intelligence agency straight under the Helsinki bus, then helped Putin drive the thing. The press nearly fainted. Trump shrugged and asked for a second summit.
With this track record, you expect me to tremble with anticipation because the Epstein files might “finally reveal the truth”?
My dear friends, please. America has developed a kind of political herd immunity. We’ve seen so many scandals that the national immune system now identifies them as harmless pollen.
And let’s be honest: if immunity had a dictionary definition, it would come with a full-colour Trump portrait, thumbs up, teeth gleaming, captioned:
“Immunity: The privilege of doing absolutely everything wrong, yet remaining absolutely fine.”
So yes, release the Epstein files. Publish them in hardcover. Serialise them on Netflix. Have Oprah read them aloud.
But don’t expect me to climb another hill with the press. I’ll watch from the bottom, sipping palm wine, because experience has taught me a simple truth:
Every Trump scandal is a merry-go-round—lots of spinning, plenty of noise, and at the end, the same man steps off smiling like nothing happened.
Centre for Nigeria Progress 