Sanctions, Tariffs, and Tantrums: How Trump Turned the Magnitsky Act into a Shield for Bolsonaro

Trump’s sanctions on Brazil’s top judge expose a reckless abuse of power, turning the Magnitsky Act into a political weapon to shield Bolsonaro and bully a sovereign democracy’s fight against insurrection.

On July 30, Marco Rubio went full keyboard warrior on X, blasting a warning to anyone daring to “trample on fundamental rights.” His target? Alexandre de Moraes, a justice on Brazil’s Supreme Court. But the so-called trampling wasn’t genocide, mass murder, or torture. It was Moraes leading the legal case against Jair Bolsonaro—the far-right ex-president of Brazil and Trump’s political twin—who’s about to stand trial for allegedly trying to overturn the 2022 election, which he lost and still denies. In a move that stunned legal experts worldwide, the U.S. slapped Moraes with sanctions under the Global Magnitsky Act, freezing his U.S. assets and banning him from entering the country.

This law was designed to punish monstrous human rights violators—people who disappear journalists or command massacres. Yet here it was, weaponized against a judge in a working democracy whose worst “crime” is dragging Bolsonaro and his goons into a courtroom. It was the first time a sitting judge from a democratic ally was sanctioned like this. And it didn’t stop there. Just days earlier, the U.S. revoked visas for most justices on Brazil’s Supreme Court and others involved in prosecuting Bolsonaro. Treasury Secretary Scott Bessent didn’t hold back, accusing Moraes of running an “unlawful witch-hunt” against both Brazilian and American citizens and companies.

And then came the hammer.

Trump followed the sanctions with a 50% tariff on many Brazilian imports, effective August 6. The excuse? Not trade imbalances—because Brazil actually runs a deficit with the U.S.—but what Trump called “politically motivated persecution” of Bolsonaro. In other words, a courtroom investigation into a riot and coup plot became grounds for an economic slap in the face. It was less about justice and more about loyalty. And it smelled like revenge served hot—with a side of foreign interference.

Moraes didn’t appear surprised. He’s been locking horns with Trump’s orbit since 2019, when Brazil’s Supreme Court launched the “fake-news inquiry” to investigate misinformation aimed at the judiciary. The probe sparked controversy from day one, partly because Brazil has no legal definition of misinformation. Critics argued that by investigating threats against itself, the court was playing prosecutor, judge, and jury. Moraes was handpicked to lead it—sidestepping the court’s usual lottery system.

What started as a one-year probe is still alive six years later, now tackling disinformation about Brazil’s democracy. The case is sealed, so no one really knows how many social media accounts Moraes has ordered taken down—or why. But in April 2024, the U.S. Congress’s judiciary committee revealed that he ordered X (formerly Twitter) to delete at least 88 accounts since 2019, often without giving public reasons. In February, Trump’s media group and Rumble sued Moraes, saying his rulings reached into the U.S. and overstepped his bounds.

Still, nothing Moraes has done is illegal in Brazil. In fact, the country’s enormous constitution gives him wide powers. It’s so long it practically needs wheels to carry it. And it allows presidents, governors, unions, political parties, and others to file cases directly with the Supreme Court. In 2023 alone, Brazil’s 11 justices made over 114,000 rulings. That caseload forces individual judges to make sweeping decisions. And with Congress dragging its feet on digital laws, the court has become the frontline of enforcement.

Free speech in Brazil isn’t as broad as in the U.S. The law bans discrimination and hands out harsher punishments for defamation against public officials. In 2021, Congress passed a law against “crimes against democracy,” which includes threatening constitutional powers. Armed with this legal toolbox, Moraes turned up the heat on Bolsonaro and his diehard fans.

Many critics ignore the mountain of evidence against Bolsonaro. On January 8, 2023, his supporters stormed federal buildings after he claimed—without proof—that voting machines were rigged. His defenders downplayed it, saying it was just sweet old ladies carrying Bibles and flags. One senator even called it a Sunday stroll by the elderly. But surveillance footage showed chaos—glass shattered, property destroyed, and democracy under siege. Weeks earlier, Bolsonaro loyalists set cars and buses ablaze after Lula’s win was certified. On Christmas Eve, one man planted a bomb on a fuel truck at the airport. It didn’t explode—but it didn’t have to. When smoke chokes the air, fire is never far behind.

Federal police say Bolsonaro’s team had even darker plans. His deputy chief of staff, Mario Fernandes, allegedly drafted a plot to kidnap or kill Moraes, Lula, and Lula’s running mate before the new government could take office. The plan was printed several times inside the presidential palace. It included rifles, grenade launchers, and even chemical weapons designed to kill Lula in the hospital. On July 24, Fernandes admitted he wrote the document but claimed it was just a “risk analysis” and said he printed it to avoid eye strain. He insisted he never shared it.

Police also accuse Bolsonaro’s lawyers of drafting a fake emergency decree to nullify the election. On June 10, Bolsonaro admitted to the Supreme Court that he held meetings about declaring a state of emergency—but claimed he dropped the idea after military leaders objected.

Despite all this, Rubio, Trump, and Bessent believe turning up the pressure on Moraes will somehow free Bolsonaro. But their move could backfire. Lula now calls the Bolsonaro camp “traitors,” and most Brazilians seem to agree. Moraes, who’s used to death threats, didn’t flinch. On the day of the sanctions, he calmly boarded a flight to São Paulo—to watch his favorite football team play. A judge unbothered is a fire not fueled. The gavel in Brazil is still swinging—and it’s not waiting for approval from Washington.

 

The ‘Buffoon of Russia’ Rattles, and Trump Doesn’t Blink

 

 The threats by Dmitry Medvedev—the buffoon of Russia—are nothing more than the rattle of ants. Trump shouldn’t waste a second on his empty noise. Let the clown bark into the void.

On August 1, 2025, a familiar clown came stomping back into the spotlight—Dmitry Medvedev, the ‘buffoon of Russia’. And just like before, he brought with him nothing but empty threats, outdated Cold War references, and another failed attempt to sound powerful. The man who once sat in the Kremlin’s highest chair now uses Telegram posts and nuclear name-drops to stay relevant. But this time, his bark earned him a hammer-blow from Donald Trump.

It all started after Trump made a bold move. On July 29, Trump gave Russia a 10-day deadline to accept a ceasefire in Ukraine. If they refused, the U.S. would slap heavy tariffs not just on Russia, but also on countries that continue buying Russian oil. The message was clear: comply or pay the price. Medvedev didn’t like that. So, true to form, he fired back—not with facts, not with diplomacy, but with dramatic whining.

He called Trump’s threat “a game of ultimatums” and claimed it pushed both countries closer to war. His tone wasn’t that of a serious statesman. It was theatrical—like a stage actor trying to recite Shakespeare with a mouth full of marbles. Trump didn’t waste time. In a Truth Social post made early Thursday morning, Trump blasted Medvedev as “the failed former President of Russia, who thinks he’s still President.” Then came the knockout line: “Watch your words. You’re entering very dangerous territory.”

This wasn’t Trump’s first warning. Just weeks earlier, he had already called Medvedev out for throwing around the “N word”—nuclear—after the Russian official said some countries were ready to give nuclear warheads to Iran. Trump mocked him then, saying, “I guess that’s why Putin’s THE BOSS.” It was a jab that landed. But this week’s exchange hit harder.

Medvedev’s response came in the form of a cryptic reminder. He told Trump to remember the “fabled Dead Hand,” a semi-automated Soviet-era nuclear system that would fire missiles if Russian leadership were wiped out. He didn’t just mention it—he practically bragged about it, as if name-dropping an old Cold War relic would make Trump tremble. But all it did was remind the world that Medvedev’s best threats are antiques.

Trump, on the other hand, showed no fear. He didn’t just dismiss Medvedev—he erased him. In his same post, Trump made it clear he didn’t care what India or China did with Russia’s oil. India, he said, had some of the highest tariffs in the world. As for Russia, Trump said the U.S. does “almost no business” with them—and he wants it to stay that way. He slammed both economies, saying, “They can take their dead economies down together, for all I care.”

And just like that, Medvedev’s bark echoed into nothing. His talk of nuclear retaliation sounded less like strength and more like the rattle of ants—noisy, aimless, and completely out of proportion. This is not a man leading a superpower. This is the buffoon of Russia, desperate to seem relevant, throwing Cold War dust in the air like it’s confetti at a funeral.

Medvedev has become one of the Kremlin’s loudest anti-Western voices since Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine began in 2022. But loud doesn’t mean respected. While Kremlin critics call him a reckless loose cannon, some Western diplomats say his words are a reflection of how high-level Russian officials think. If that’s true, then Russia’s leadership is operating with the mindset of a cartoon villain.

What Medvedev fails to understand is that threats only work when they’re backed by credibility. His repeated nuclear references—first toward Iran, now toward the United States—don’t frighten anyone. They amuse. They expose how little power he truly holds. His talk of “Dead Hand” systems sounds more like a bedtime story for retired generals than a real threat to a sitting U.S. president. And Trump knows that.

The difference is simple: Trump speaks from a position of active authority, while Medvedev yells from the sidelines like a man who lost his keys to the Kremlin and never got over it. Trump’s focus is on action—tariffs, deadlines, pressure. Medvedev’s is on melodrama. And when a leader resorts to theatrical threats, it only proves how little he can actually do.

So, as Medvedev continues to bark from the shadows, Trump continues to lead from the front. Medvedev may keep referencing dead Soviet systems, but Trump is writing today’s rules—and he’s not playing games. While the buffoon of Russia stirs his pot of recycled warnings, Trump has already moved on to real decisions that matter.

Let the buffoon bark. Let him threaten. Let him wave the nuclear flag like a scarecrow dressed for Halloween. The world sees it for what it is: the rattle of ants beneath the boots of giants. And Trump? He’s not listening. He’s too busy leading.

 

Cracks in the Theocracy: Iran’s Power Struggle After the War

 

Iran’s theocracy is cracking: Khamenei’s grip is fading, generals are scheming, ex-presidents are plotting, and a Love Island-style rebellion brews—yet no one knows who’s really in charge anymore.

Once upon a time, Iran’s politics was a one-man show. Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, the self-declared shadow of God on earth, ruled with unchecked power. Presidents, clerics, and military chiefs bowed to his command. He chose who ran for office and stacked the system in his favor. But after Iran’s recent 12-day war with Israel, that iron grip has gone limp. The strongman is now a ghost in his own palace.

At 86, Khamenei rarely shows up in public. When he does, his sermons are short and lifeless. The crowd doesn’t roar; it yawns. Everyone is asking the same question: who’s next? Who’s really in charge now? The war with Israel shook the regime, but what followed was an even bigger aftershock—a power vacuum. Inside the regime, different factions are now circling like vultures. Outside, the public is disillusioned, angry, and more disconnected than ever.

At first, the war looked like a unifier. It wrapped the flag around the regime and muffled protests. Binyamin Netanyahu told Iranians to rise up, but they stayed quiet. Unity seemed possible. But once the ceasefire hit on June 24th, that unity cracked wide open. What’s left is a regime with too many voices and no conductor.

Khamenei’s solution? Dress the theocracy in a nationalist costume. During Ashura on July 5th, the most sacred day in Iran’s religious calendar, he told the muezzin to ditch religious chants and sing Ey Iran Iran, a banned anthem from before the Islamic revolution. In city squares, new billboards flash images of ancient Persian heroes, not Shia saints. Khamenei is digging up pre-Islamic pride, hoping to distract from clerical failure. But you can’t polish rust and call it gold.

Meanwhile, Iranian TV now features a racy Persian version of “Love Island,” where unmarried couples flirt and touch. Tehran feels less like the Islamic Republic and more like an audition for secular freedom. Women walk around without headscarves or long coats. The theocratic dress code is fading like old wallpaper, peeling off in patches.

But don’t get it twisted—these are not signs of change. They’re traps in glitter. Khamenei still clings to the same rotten core. This month, he reappointed his crusty old Friday preacher and the 99-year-old head of the Guardian Council—for the 33rd time. The system isn’t evolving. It’s decaying. Executions are up. Political prisoners hoping for amnesty are still locked away. Reformists are vanished from TV screens. It’s not reform—it’s regression in disguise.

While Khamenei puts on his puppet show, real power is shifting behind the curtain. The Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC), the regime’s elite military machine, is muscling its way forward. During the Israeli strikes, Khamenei vanished into his bunker and let the generals call the shots. That move sparked talk of a military junta. But even the IRGC is falling apart. Israel has clearly infiltrated their ranks, and paranoia is ripping through their command. Instead of a unified army, Iran risks ending up with a bunch of mafia-like warlords—more Al Capone than Ayatollah.

President Masoud Pezeshkian is trying to act like a unifier. He wants to talk with the opposition and welcome back exiles. But nobody’s buying it. Iranians blame him for power outages, water shortages, and a sinking currency. His efforts to lure businesspeople back home have failed. The rial keeps dropping, and so does his credibility. You can’t sell hope when the lights are out and the taps are dry.

Enter the old lions. Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and Hassan Rouhani are back on the prowl. They both have stronger public support than Pezeshkian. Rouhani, still wearing his clerical turban, seems to think he could be Khamenei’s replacement. He says the war should be a “wake-up call” to rebuild Iran’s foundations. Meanwhile, Ali Larijani, a former speaker of parliament, is playing president already. He—not Pezeshkian—led a key delegation to Moscow to meet Vladimir Putin.

And the voices of dissent are rising. On July 11th, former prime minister Mir-Hossein Moussavi, still under house arrest after 15 years, released a petition for a new constitution. Hundreds of intellectuals signed it. But many young Iranians are done with the old guard—clerics, generals, dissidents, all of them. They want a full reset.

Iran’s foreign policy now reflects its domestic chaos. Once dreaming of regional domination, the regime is now just trying to survive. Some hardliners want to sprint for a nuclear bomb. Others hope China, Iran’s biggest oil customer, might send military help. But with Israel threatening more airstrikes and Russia bogged down in Ukraine, those hopes are fading fast.

And then there’s America. Trump’s involvement in the Israel war rattled Iran’s leadership. Talks on the nuclear deal stopped cold. Still, Foreign Minister Abbas Araghchi says Iran is ready to talk again—maybe even sign a non-aggression pact with Israel. That could end sanctions and bring foreign investment back. But there’s one problem: no one can agree on what Iran’s future should be. And no one has the power to decide it.

Right now, Iran feels like a ship with too many captains and no anchor. The Supreme Leader is barely present. The generals are paranoid. The ex-presidents are plotting. The people are restless. And on TV, a fake “Love Island” gives the illusion of freedom while the regime tightens its grip. It’s a political masquerade—where the masks are slipping, the players are scrambling, and no one knows who’s holding the crown. When the throne becomes a carousel, expect chaos, not a king.

 

Recognition Without Power: How Britain and France’s Move Might Backfire in Gaza

 

Britain and France’s push to recognize Palestine may backfire, weakening their clout, emboldening extremists, and sabotaging the very peace they claim to champion.

Gaza is starving. A famine is creeping in, and a brutal war rages on while Hamas and Israel show no signs of stopping. Into this burning chaos, Britain and France have thrown gasoline disguised as peace. In a dramatic attempt to spotlight Palestinian suffering, end the bloodshed, and breathe life into the dying dream of two states, both countries have now pledged to recognize Palestine. But instead of pushing for peace, their move may boomerang—stripping them of leverage, emboldening radicals, and handing Hamas a political trophy without requiring a single hostage in return.

France made the first move on July 24, 2025, when President Emmanuel Macron announced that France would recognize Palestine at the UN General Assembly in September. Just five days later, Britain’s Prime Minister Sir Keir Starmer said Britain would follow, but only if Israel halted its war, committed to a two-state deal, and promised not to annex land in Gaza or the West Bank. Spoiler alert: Israel isn’t biting. Which means Britain will likely follow France right off the cliff.

Critics say the move reeks of virtue-signaling. Macron’s clout at home is shrinking fast. Starmer’s party is tearing at the seams, with pro-Palestinian factions threatening to yank control from his hands. Still, both leaders appear serious. Their real test isn’t sincerity—it’s effectiveness. Can this recognition plan move the needle in the Middle East?

President Donald Trump says no. He calls Macron’s pledge weightless. He has a point. After all, 147 out of 193 UN members already recognize Palestine. What difference can two more voices make in a room that’s already full?

But Britain and France still matter—at least a little. They sit on the UN Security Council and are in the G7. Their shift could nudge other countries, like Australia and Canada, toward the same decision. Britain also has historical skin in the game. Back in 1917, the Balfour Declaration put Britain at the heart of Israel’s founding. So, even if their global influence is rusty, it’s not completely broken. A faded crown still casts a shadow.

The logic behind the move is that it might jolt Israeli Prime Minister Binyamin Netanyahu into realizing his country is losing its closest friends. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll fear becoming an international pariah and move toward peace. Since the U.S. isn’t applying enough pressure, some believe Europe must step in. But let’s be real—this plan has more holes than Gaza’s skyline.

Netanyahu and his crew are more likely to dig in than back down. Many in his circle believe that Europe will condemn Israel no matter what it does. Giving in today only opens the door for more demands tomorrow. So, they’ve adopted a new strategy, which. To some extent, makes a lot of sense: do what you want now and clean up the mess later. If Israel is already paying the small price of recognition, Netanyahu may just double down and take things further.

There’s another landmine buried here. Suppose, in the future, peace talks resume under a different Israeli leader. Both sides will need to compromise. But if Britain and France have already played their recognition card, they’ll have nothing left to bargain with. They’ve thrown away their ace before the game even started.

That’s a problem because making a two-state deal won’t be easy. Issues like territory and security are ticking time bombs. And then there’s Mahmoud Abbas. He only just condemned Hamas’s attacks from October 7, 2023—and even that was late and half-hearted. He hasn’t held elections and lacks the authority to speak for all Palestinians. So, when the time comes for hard decisions, who exactly will Britain and France be dealing with?

Starmer’s idea to use recognition as a threat—“Do this or we’ll do that”—is falling apart fast. He claims that recognizing Palestine now might pressure Israel to end the war. But he hasn’t placed any conditions on Hamas. No demand for a ceasefire. No demand to release hostages. Nothing. That gives Hamas a twisted incentive: stall the ceasefire, wait until after the UN vote in September, and then claim victory. Meanwhile, Israel gets cornered, and Starmer ends up with no leverage at all. He’s handing out rewards before the test is even taken.

Here’s the bitter truth: Britain and France have the most sway over Israel through Donald Trump. He’s the only one who can really push Netanyahu to the negotiating table or force a pause in the war. But by rushing to recognize Palestine, they’ve just burned that bridge too. Now they’ve lost the ear of the one man who still carries real weight in Tel Aviv.

What was meant to be a power play has turned into a political pratfall. Instead of moving closer to peace, Britain and France may have just pushed it further away. Their gesture, bold as it may seem, has stripped them of influence, strengthened Hamas’s hand, and backed Netanyahu into a corner he’s likely to fight his way out of, not surrender from. When you shout before thinking, you end up talking to yourself.

 

In Heartbreak, Truth Often Whispers Louder Than Love – A Book Review

 

Emotional chaos becomes a powerful mirror in Julia M. Cross’s raw new memoir. "I Gave Him Everything, and He Still Chose Her" is more than a breakup book—it’s a raw revival of the woman who rises after being wrecked by love that vanished quietly.

Of all human experiences, betrayal is perhaps the most quietly violent. It doesn’t storm in with warning—it seeps, it curls, it settles like smoke in the lungs. And few writers capture that suffocation more vividly than Julia M. Cross in “I Gave Him Everything, and He Still Chose Her”. It is not just a memoir of love lost; it is a study in the unraveling of self-worth, identity, and the illusions women cling to in the name of hope.

Heartbreak memoirs often dip into melodrama or moral preaching. Cross, to her credit, does neither. Instead, she writes like a woman curled on a bathroom floor at 2 a.m., whispering into her own reflection. Her story begins with the tenderness of new love—coffee shop meet-cutes, Sunday bagels, playlists shared like sacred scripture. Her Derrick is charming, thoughtful, and for a while, committed. But love, like glass, can gleam brightly while hiding cracks beneath the surface.

The emotional betrayal unfolds not with thunder, but with stillness. He starts turning his phone over. His voice softens with distance. He begins to leave dinners uneaten and texts unread. She gives him everything—her time, her body, her vulnerability. She rubs his back when his father is dying. She pays his rent during joblessness. She cooks, she waits, she stays. And yet, he leaves. Not with a confession, but with a woman named Jaylen and a silence heavy enough to drown a decade.

Sometimes, the heart wears a blindfold made of its own dreams. Cross describes this not as epiphany but as erosion. The memoir doesn’t pivot on one dramatic discovery. Instead, it crawls—through iPads left unlocked, cologne unfamiliar, hugs that last a second too short. She doesn’t write of love ending; she writes of it fading, like a flame begging for wind that never comes.

Betrayal, in Cross’s world, is not only about the other woman—it is about the slow vanishing of the self. Her deepest agony is not that Derrick fell for someone else, but that she allowed herself to disappear inside the love she built around him. You can build someone a castle and they’ll still long for a shack if that’s where their desire lives.

But the book’s emotional heft is not only in what he did. It’s in what she felt. She dissects insecurity like a surgeon—her body shrinking from the mirror, her journals filling with silent screams, her reflection becoming a stranger. Cross explores the wounds that don’t bruise visibly: the doubt, the self-blame, the desperate Googling of phrases like “what makes men cheat.” She measures grief not in tears, but in calories missed, text messages ignored, and affirmation sticky notes pulled from foggy mirrors.

And then, something shifts. A broken heart may not beat the same, but it still beats. As the pages turn, the voice grows sturdier. She opens the curtains. She walks again. She wears earrings for herself. Her voice, once trembling, starts to hum with a strength that does not seek applause. In that slow awakening, Cross makes a sharp argument: this isn’t a book about a man leaving—it’s a book about a woman returning.

Cross wields simplicity like a scalpel. There is no flowery prose here, no attempts at lyrical somersaults. Instead, her writing is tight, intimate, and conversational—as if she’s writing letters to the version of herself that stayed too long. There’s pain, yes. But there’s also humor. At times, she wants to scream. At others, she laughs at her own wounds. Even a rose crushed underfoot still holds its fragrance.

She is at her best when reflecting not on him, but on herself. In one haunting scene, she stares at a photo of Jaylen, wondering if the woman is prettier or funnier or thinner. The image is private, but the insecurity is universal. It’s a question women have whispered for generations: Why wasn’t I enough? The book offers no clean answer—only an insistence that the question itself may be flawed.

As a brief book—just 69 pages—"I Gave Him Everything” is deceptively powerful. Its brevity is part of its impact. Every chapter lands like a quiet punch. Every page is a mirror. In the current literary wave of personal healing narratives, Cross’s voice stands out not because it’s loud, but because it’s honest. She doesn’t pretend to have healed fully. She doesn’t tie things up with a bow. The last line doesn’t celebrate a new man or a revenge body. It simply whispers a declaration that lingers longer than any scream: I am still here.

Yet for all its resonance, the book skirts deeper exploration of anger. Cross lets pain and sorrow dance freely, but rage remains largely absent. Perhaps that is intentional. Perhaps the absence of fury is part of the wound itself—the voice that betrayal stole before the healing began.

Still, the book triumphs in its restraint. Cross resists the temptation to villainize Jaylen or to sanitize Derrick. Her strength lies in naming what was lost, not in punishing those who took it. And in that choice, she gives voice to something larger than her own story. This is a book for every woman who gave too much, waited too long, or stayed too quiet. Even a bird with clipped wings remembers how to fly.

In a market full of empowerment clichés, Cross doesn’t offer easy slogans. She offers a story. A raw, bruised, beautiful story about how a woman can give everything and still be left—but also still rise. Sometimes, the bravest thing isn’t leaving. It’s staying. Staying with yourself, through the ruin, until the silence breaks and your voice returns.

And when it does, as this brief book shows, it’s no longer asking for love—it’s making room for self.

 

Book Statistics

Title: I Gave Him Everything, and He Still Chose Her

Author: Julia M. Cross

Series: Brief Books Series (Book 33 of 38)

Publication Date: July 11, 2025

Language: English

Formats Available: eBook and Paperback

eBook Price: $4.99

Paperback Price: $10.99

ISBN-13: 979-8292203049

Print Length: 69 pages

File Size (eBook): 577 KB

Screen Reader Support: Yes

Availability: Available for purchase and reading on Amazon.com

 

Trump’s Brazil Gamble Backfires: Lula Rises, Bolsonaro Reels, and U.S. Becomes the Villain

 

Trump’s meddling in Brazil to shield Bolsonaro has backfired—igniting nationalist fury, boosting Lula’s popularity, and turning America into the villain Brazilians love to hate.

On July 9th, Donald Trump threw gasoline on a foreign fire by slapping a 50% tariff on Brazilian exports. His reason? A “witch hunt” against Jair Bolsonaro, Brazil’s far-right former president, who’s about to face trial for allegedly plotting a coup—a charge he denies. The fireworks didn’t stop there. On July 15th, Trump’s trade rep Jamieson Greer opened an investigation into Brazil’s trade practices. By July 18th, the U.S. revoked visas for most Brazilian Supreme Court judges and officials involved in Bolsonaro’s prosecution. Secretary of State Marco Rubio added fuel by pushing to sanction top justice Alexandre de Moraes under a law typically reserved for warlords and tyrants.

This wasn’t diplomacy—it was a direct hit. And it backfired spectacularly.

The real trigger, it seems, wasn’t justice or trade—it was jealousy. On July 6th and 7th, Brazil hosted the BRICS summit, spotlighting its growing global influence. Lula, Brazil’s president and Trump’s ideological opposite, hosted the event. Trump responded like a man scorned. Lula called it “unacceptable blackmail” and warned he’d start taxing American tech giants. Even Brazil’s right-wing Congress, no friend of Lula, stood behind him and began plotting revenge tariffs of their own.

But Lula’s sharpest jabs were aimed at the Bolsonaros. Eduardo Bolsonaro, Jair’s son and a congressman, had moved to Texas in March. There, he’s been sweet-talking Republican lawmakers to slap sanctions on de Moraes. On July 17th, Lula thundered to a rally crowd, calling the Bolsonaros “traitors” and declaring let them be ashamed, hide in their cowardice, and let this country live in peace. Eduardo didn’t deny it—he doubled down, bragging about his White House access. After the visa slap on de Moraes, he even posted on X that if he couldn’t see his dad, now Brazilian officials couldn’t see their families in the U.S. either. That’s not diplomacy—it’s playground politics.

The Brazilian Supreme Court didn’t blink. On July 18th, de Moraes ordered Bolsonaro to wear an ankle monitor, locked him down at home during nights and weekends, and banned him from foreign contact and media interviews. The very next day, July 19th, de Moraes froze Eduardo’s assets to investigate whether his D.C. backroom deals were designed to derail his dad’s trial.

If the Bolsonaros thought Trump’s tantrum would light a fire under Brazil’s right-wing base, they miscalculated. Badly. Instead of rising, Bolsonaro’s star is falling. Instead of dividing the nation, Trump has accidentally unified it—around Lula. Effigies of Trump are being torched in the streets. Lula’s approval ratings, once on life support, are now alive and kicking. He’s leading in early polls for next year’s election. When the wind blows too hard, even a dying flame can blaze back to life.

Trump may have handed Lula a political jackpot. According to Andre Pagliarini of the Washington Brazil Office, the tariffs gave Lula an “incredible get-out-of-jail-free card.” Whatever economic fallout hits Brazil, Lula can just point to Trump and say, “Blame him.” True or not, the optics are golden.

And the pain isn’t evenly spread. Only 13% of Brazil’s exports go to the U.S.—about $43 billion a year. Meanwhile, 28% go to China, a market likely to grow if Trump’s tariffs take hold. Goldman Sachs says Brazil’s growth could drop 0.4 percentage points this year, landing at 2%. But the hit will land hardest on Bolsonaro’s home turf. U.S. imports more than one-third of its unroasted coffee beans from Brazil. Same for orange juice. Beef imports are rising fast. Economists say Trump’s tariffs could cost 110,000 Brazilian jobs—mostly in agriculture-heavy regions loyal to Bolsonaro. Even Brazil’s farmers’ confederation, long in Bolsonaro’s corner, blasted the tariffs as “political.” Bolsonaro now insists the tariffs have “nothing to do with us.” That’s rich, coming from a man whose son is fueling the fire from Texas.

And there’s another sore spot—Pix, Brazil’s wildly popular instant payment system launched in 2020. It wasn’t named directly, but when Greer put “electronic payment services” on his hit list of unfair Brazilian trade practices, Brazilians took notice. Pix made banking cheaper and more competitive. It also rattled American firms like Visa and Mastercard. Ralf Germer of PagBrasil called the claim that Pix is unfair absurd. To many Brazilians, the attack on Pix felt like a slap not just at their economy, but at their independence.

Yes, Brazil has one of the world’s most closed economies. About 86% of its imports face non-tariff barriers—more than the U.S. or global averages. Domestic industries are padded by federal and local perks. But if unfair trade is Trump’s true gripe, he’s been silent about it. Brazil’s leaders have been knocking on the White House door since May, begging to talk trade. Trump hasn’t answered. It seems only Eduardo Bolsonaro has his ear.

Eduardo, speaking from his Texas office decked with MAGA hats and crucifixes, confessed his admiration: “Trump is someone I admire, someone I look up to, someone I want to get to know better so that, who knows, maybe in the future, if I have power, I can follow in his footsteps in Brazil.”

Lula, meanwhile, is strutting with new swagger. He now wears a blue cap that reads, “Brazil belongs to Brazilians.” But behind closed doors, his team knows this surge may not last. If the economy tanks and Trump’s tariffs stick, it’ll get harder to keep pointing fingers at the Bolsonaros.

Still, one thing is clear: Trump’s meddling didn’t save Bolsonaro—it burned him. And instead of weakening Lula, it set him on fire. When you dig a trap for your enemy, don’t fall in first. Now the question is: who’ll blink first—the impetuous Trump or the battle-hardened Lula?

Because in Brazil right now, the gringo is the goat.

 

Putin Cancels Navy Day Parade in Panic as Ukrainian Drones Crash the Party

 

Putin scrapped Russia’s Navy Day parade, not out of caution—but fear—after Ukrainian drones rattled St. Petersburg, exposing cracks in his iron-clad image.

For the first time since it began in 2017, Russia’s grand Navy Day parade in St. Petersburg was scrapped—and not because of rain, but because of drones. The large-scale spectacle, usually the Kremlin’s chance to flex its muscles with warships gliding down the Neva River while President Vladimir Putin looks on, was yanked from the schedule on Sunday, July 27, 2025. The official excuse? “Security reasons.” The real story? Ukrainian drones crashed the party before it even began.

The Kremlin tried to play it cool. Spokesman Dmitry Peskov vaguely said the cancellation was due to “the general situation” and stressed that “security reasons are of utmost importance.” But behind that bland excuse was a very loud message: Russia’s sky is no longer safe, not even on its most patriotic holidays. Just hours before the event, Ukrainian drones were spotted buzzing over St. Petersburg, the very city where the parade was supposed to happen. The aerial attack forced Pulkovo Airport to shut down for five hours, delaying 57 flights and diverting 22.

In the Leningrad region, officials shot down 10 drones. But even with most drones intercepted, the damage had been done. One woman was injured by debris. And Putin, who normally presides over the parade like a modern-day tsar, vanished from the streets. Instead, he boarded a patrol speedboat and holed up at the city’s naval headquarters. From there, he watched naval drills from a safe distance, far from the Neva’s open waters. In a pre-recorded video, he said, “Today, we are marking this holiday in a working setting, we are inspecting the combat readiness of the fleet.” Translation: we’re hiding, not marching.

The parade was supposed to be the centerpiece of Russia’s Navy Day, a holiday that falls on the last Sunday of July and honors the country’s sailors. But the only things floating in the sky this year were Ukrainian drones—and fear. Not since the parade’s creation in 2017 has it been fully cancelled. Even last year, in 2024, officials merely reduced its size due to suspected threats. But 2025’s full cancellation made it clear: the bear is growling, but the airspace is buzzing.

While Putin watched from the sidelines, Russian sailors and guards of honor gathered in Sevastopol, in the Black Sea, to mark the day with smaller ceremonies. Meanwhile, over 150 military vessels and 15,000 personnel took part in exercises across the Pacific, Arctic, Baltic, and Caspian Seas. But none of that could distract from the fact that the crown jewel of the day—the Neva River parade—was missing in action.

On that same Sunday, the Russian Defence Ministry reported shooting down 291 Ukrainian fixed-wing drones. While that number was high, it didn’t break the previous record of 524 drones destroyed on May 7, just before the Victory Day parade on May 9. But even without a new record, the sheer volume of drones on such a symbolic day told a story the Kremlin didn’t want to publish: Ukraine knows where to hit, and it’s hitting close to home.

And what about the optics? A parade without ships is like a circus without clowns—except this time, the tightrope snapped before anyone stepped on stage. Putin didn’t wave to the crowds. There were no tanks rolling through the city. No navy chants echoing over the water. Just the sound of silence—and sirens.

The cancellation wasn’t just a scheduling change. It was a massive symbolic retreat. The very thing that was supposed to boost morale turned into a national embarrassment. While Moscow tried to frame the day as “business as usual,” the empty streets of St. Petersburg told a different tale: Russia blinked.

Putin’s choice to observe drills from a boat instead of standing tall on a parade platform sent a clear message: the skies are too hot, and the risks too real. The shift from showboating to sheltering marked a turning point in Russia’s attempt to project dominance. The cancelation didn’t just stall the parade—it exposed just how vulnerable Russia’s military celebrations have become.

The most striking image of July 27, 2025, wasn’t a line of destroyers sailing proudly down the Neva. It was a closed airport, a wounded civilian, a president in hiding, and a drone-filled sky that silenced one of the Kremlin’s loudest annual rituals. For a country that prides itself on control, canceling Navy Day was more than a safety move—it was a sign that fear, not fireworks, now leads the fleet. Putin's days are, indeed, numbered, as I always say.

When the sky fills with buzzing bees, even the lion ducks for cover.

 

GENIUS or Just Hype? The Risky Wrappers of Modern Finance

 

                                   Source: The Economist

Despite the GENIUS Act, stablecoins and tokens are ticking time bombs—hyped-up gimmicks wrapped in code, riddled with risk, and dripping with legal and financial uncertainty.

On July 18, 2025, President Donald Trump signed the GENIUS Act into law, giving stablecoins a legal green light. These are digital tokens backed by traditional assets, usually U.S. dollars. The law confirmed they’re not securities and must be fully backed by safe, liquid assets. Wall Street jumped in with both feet. JPMorgan rolled out its own version called JPMD. Robinhood launched 200 tokenised products in Europe. Amazon and Walmart are reportedly cooking up their own coins too. On the surface, it looks like crypto has grown up—but dig deeper, and the shiny packaging starts to peel.

For all the fanfare, stablecoins and tokenised assets still walk on shaky ground. Despite the legal stamp of approval, their real-world use is small. Stablecoins account for less than 1% of financial transactions globally. Their biggest selling point? Fast, cheap cross-border payments. But even that comes with strings attached. Without proper regulation, speed becomes recklessness, and a fast horse without a saddle will buck its rider.

Tokenised assets are digital twins of real-world investments—stocks, funds, even commodities. But here’s the catch: owning the token doesn’t always mean you own the asset. Robinhood’s new tokens, for example, let you track the value of stocks but strip away your shareholder rights. No votes. No direct ownership. If the issuer tanks, you’re left fighting with other creditors. That’s not investing—it’s gambling in a suit.

Just ask the customers of Linqto, a fintech firm that offered tokenised shares in private companies through special-purpose vehicles. When Linqto filed for bankruptcy, buyers weren’t even sure if they legally owned anything at all. Their “investment” turned into a courtroom guessing game. When the smoke clears, it’s often the small investor choking on the dust.

Even money-market tokens, which are backed by government bonds and offer juicy returns (around 4% compared to the 0.6% in average savings accounts), are not risk-free. They may beat the bank, but they don’t come with deposit insurance or legal clarity. BlackRock’s tokenised fund may have hit $2 billion, but if things go sideways, don’t expect the FDIC to save your skin.

The problem isn’t just about risky bets—it’s systemic. If just 10% of America’s $19 trillion in retail deposits slide into stablecoins and tokens, bank profits take a hit. The American Bankers Association says average funding costs would rise from 2.03% to 2.27%. That’s not pocket change. If banks are the heart of the economy, these tokens could be the cholesterol clogging their arteries.

And then there’s the regulatory headache. Tokenising private shares sounds cool—retail investors getting slices of unicorn startups—but it opens a can of worms. Unlike public companies, private firms don’t have to disclose much. So retail investors could be tossing cash into black holes. The SEC is worried. Even Hester Peirce, nicknamed “crypto mom” for her pro-digital stance, warned on July 9 that “tokenised securities are still securities.” No matter how slick the wrapping, the law still applies.

The real danger? Tokens pretending to be something they’re not. Without guaranteed liquidity like ETFs, without disclosures like public stocks, and without protections like insured deposits, these shiny coins could melt in your hands when the heat turns up. Regulators are already struggling to keep up, playing catch-up in a game that moves at blockchain speed.

So here’s the paradox: the more useful stablecoins and tokenised assets become, the more they threaten the system. Their promise is speed, flexibility, and access—but their shadow is chaos, confusion, and collapse. They’ve gone from memes to mainstream, but at what cost?

Despite the GENIUS Act’s big promises, stablecoins and tokenised assets remain risky. Their real-world adoption is small. Their ownership rules are murky. Their legal footing is slippery. And their value? Still mostly hype. These aren’t digital breakthroughs—they’re rat poisons of modern finance: sleek, seductive, and gnawed through by doubt.

 

The Epstein Effect: When Conspiracies Bite Back

The persistence of Jeffrey Epstein conspiracy theories highlights how political opportunism, media sensationalism, and public distrust converge to test the limits of Donald Trump’s influence over a deeply fragmented movement

Jeffrey Epstein isn’t just the name of a dead financier—it’s the spark behind a political wildfire that refuses to die. Since 2008, when Epstein pled guilty in Florida for procuring a child for prostitution, theories have swirled like mosquitoes at a summer swamp. Normally, people laugh off such claims—just like the moon landing hoax or the idea that 9/11 was staged. But Epstein is different. He was real. His crimes were real. His connections were real. And his death in 2019? Let’s just say it added gasoline to a fire already blazing.

Conspiracies may be dumb, but they can be deadly. This year alone, over 1,200 measles cases hit America because people believed vaccine side effects were being hidden. That includes the President Trump himself, who has flipped more on vaccines than a pancake at a diner. His Secretary of Health? He’s more into testosterone injections and gossip than science. And don’t forget QAnon—the fantasy that Donald Trump was battling a cabal of child-eating elites during the 2020 election. That fantasy turned into a real-life riot on January 6, 2021, when true believers stormed the Capitol.

Epstein doesn’t belong in the same fantasy league. He was a real man with real ties to power—including President Trump, who reportedly sent him a 50th birthday card with the words, “A pal is a wonderful thing. Happy Birthday—and may every day be another wonderful secret.” President Trump denied it and sued the Wall Street Journal. Epstein got a sweetheart deal from prosecutors in 2008. Then came 2019—he hanged himself in jail. Cue the tinfoil hats.

Rather than closing the case, Epstein’s death cracked it wide open. The CCTV in his cell went dark. Was he murdered to protect the rich and powerful? Maybe. Maybe not. But the timing was too juicy for the internet to ignore. Suddenly, the promise of “releasing the Epstein files” became MAGA’s new battle cry. President  Trump and Vice President J.D. Vance fueled the hype. Pam Bondi, the attorney-general, brought conspiracy influencers into the White House and hinted at a “big reveal.” But the fireworks fizzled. No files. No proof. No justice. Just questions. Now, some are asking the unthinkable: was President Trump in on it, too?

The political boomerang hit hard. More than 80% of Democrats now think the government is hiding Epstein evidence. No surprise—many believed Trump was Putin’s pet. But here’s the twist: half of Republicans agree. That’s not just smoke. That’s fire. President Trump is no stranger to conspiracy. He practically invented the genre. He launched the birther lie about Obama. He called the 2020 election stolen. He even roped Ted Cruz’s dad into JFK’s murder. And when Epstein died, Trump asked, “Did Bill Clinton go to the island?” Then he hinted it wasn’t suicide and teased “file releases.”

But now, the tables have turned. The king of conspiracy is becoming its prey. Normally, President Trump shrugs off scandals like water off a duck’s back. His approval ratings are stubbornly immune to headlines. He keeps Republican lawmakers under his thumb. Still, the Epstein affair is a stress test—and cracks are showing.

President Trump’s superpower has always been distraction. One day he’s buying Greenland. The next, he’s bombing Iran. Since his January inauguration, he’s hijacked every news cycle. But recently, Google searches for “Epstein” have matched hot-button topics like inflation and immigration. Part of the blame goes to Elon Musk, who dropped a bomb on the way out of the White House—suggesting the Epstein files were locked because Trump was in them.

Now President Trump’s spinning. He’s trying to talk about anything else. He’s disowned some of his own voters, calling Republicans still asking about Epstein “weaklings.” That’s a first. This is the man who called Charlottesville’s white supremacists “very fine people” and broke bread with Holocaust denier Nick Fuentes. But this time, the heat was too hot.

Even President Trump’s usual bag of tricks—teasing more disclosures—fell flat. Nick Fuentes, once a supporter, clapped back: “Now you see why I didn’t vote in 2024.” Ouch. Once people realize they can slam Trump and survive, it gets addictive. Even the mighty oak can be felled when its roots rot from within.

This Epstein mess matters because President Trump leads a movement built on distrust. He  has kept his followers  together by being everything to everyone. No one else can walk that tightrope. But the Epstein conspiracy threatens to snap the rope.

If President Trump can’t contain the rumors, who can? The movement is bigger than any one man, but without President Trump’s talent for deflection and division-juggling, the whole show could collapse. The Epstein theory isn’t just a scandal—it’s a stress fracture in the foundation of President Trump’s empire. When the puppeteer becomes the puppet, the circus may be heading for a final act.

 

A Dangerous Power Play: Why Trump’s Pressure on the Fed Could Break the Economy

 

President Trump’s crusade to bully rates lower and hijack bond markets isn’t just economic meddling—it’s a full-blown assault on Fed independence that could torch the dollar, fuel inflation, and turn America’s economy into a rigged casino by July 30.

Let’s not sugarcoat it. President Trump wants to take a sledgehammer to interest rates—and he doesn’t care what breaks in the process. His beef with Fed Chair Jerome Powell isn’t about policy debates or economic nuance. It’s about control. Trump wants rates slashed by 150 basis points. Why? Because cutting rates that much would save the government about $100 billion in interest and shrink the deficit. Sounds like a bargain—until you realize the cost could be America’s monetary credibility.

I have been watching this play unfold like a bad sequel to a rigged game show. Trump isn’t just criticizing the Fed. He’s trying to bend it to his will. That’s not central bank independence—it’s central bank submission. If the Fed caves, it's no longer the adult in the room. It becomes a lapdog to political power, and investors will smell that fear from a mile away.

Once markets sense that the Fed is no longer calling the shots, trust evaporates. The dollar? Toast. Inflation expectations? Sky-high. Investors flee to gold, bitcoin, and stocks—not because the economy’s strong, but because they’re running from a fire the president started. And here’s the kicker: Trump wants lower long-term interest rates, but if the Fed folds and the dollar dives, the bond market could shoot long-term yields up instead. It’s like pouring gasoline on a bonfire and wondering why the flames got worse.

Now here’s where it gets even messier. If Powell won’t play ball, Trump might use the U.S. Treasury as his new toy. On July 30, the Treasury will announce its bond issuance plans. Don’t be shocked if Trump tries to rig that too. He could tell the Treasury to cut long-term bond sales and ramp up buybacks. That’s not policy—that’s manipulation dressed as strategy. A 25% reduction in bond issuance? That’s not a tweak—it’s a firehose of fake liquidity. It would mimic the biggest quantitative easing blitz the Fed has ever done.

In the short term, markets might cheer. Stocks, gold, and bitcoin could rally. But don’t pop the champagne. That rally is built on sand. A weaker dollar would make imports pricier, feed inflation, and push up mortgage rates. That’s not growth—it’s a sugar rush before the crash.

And let’s be real: starving the market for long-term debt—what the wonks call “duration”—is a shell game. Sure, if there’s less supply, prices go up and yields fall. But this is temporary. The demand won’t always outpace the manipulation. When inflation expectations rise, that illusion breaks. Yields will spike. Investors will panic. And the damage won’t be easy to undo.

This isn’t about managing the economy—it’s about muscling it. It’s about a president who wants the Fed to kneel, the Treasury to dance, and the dollar to play dead. But when you treat financial institutions like political puppets, don’t be surprised when the strings snap.

We’re approaching a dangerous crossroads. If the July 30 Treasury announcement reveals that Trump’s fingerprints are all over the bond market, then buckle up. We’re heading into banana republic territory—with all the inflation and none of the bananas. This isn’t just about rate cuts. It’s about rewriting the rules of economic independence.

I’ve seen markets react to foolishness before. But this is more than foolish. It’s reckless. If Trump keeps trying to pull monetary policy into his political circus, we won’t just lose credibility—we’ll lose control. When the Fed becomes a follower, the economy becomes a hostage.

So yes, the stakes are sky-high. And while Trump may think he’s engineering a victory, he might be walking us straight into a trap of his own making. Because when you play chicken with inflation, you’re the one who gets fried.

 

Blood for Hire: South Africa’s New Career Path Is Murder

 

Contract killings are exploding in South Africa—fueled by joblessness, crooked cops, and zero consequences—turning murder into a booming side hustle and the state into a silent accomplice.

In June 2025, a dozen elite South African soldiers swapped uniforms for handcuffs. Their charge? Executing detective Frans Mathipa with two bullets to the head from a moving car. He wasn’t just any victim—he was investigating their unit. The message? Cross the wrong people, and you’re not just dead—you’re erased.

Mathipa’s murder isn’t a one-off. It’s the tip of a rotting iceberg. In South Africa, killing is no longer just a crime—it’s a business model. What began as gangland executions has morphed into a booming service industry. Teachers, civil servants, accountants, even school principals are now targets. If you're inconvenient, you're expendable.

The numbers are a horror story. In a country of 64 million, 72 people are killed daily in 2024. And contract hits? They’ve more than doubled since 2015—from four a month to at least ten. That’s according to Rumbi Matamba from the Global Initiative Against Transnational Organised Crime. The cause? Guns are everywhere. Real jobs are nowhere. And hitmen—izinkabi in Zulu—are just a WhatsApp away.

One teenage assassin confessed it all. First time, he looked away and missed a shot. By murder number five, he could stare his victims in the eyes. His highest payday? 400 rand—about $23. That’s not murder for money. That’s blood on discount. Yet for boys with no future, it’s a paycheck with a pulse.

The real plague isn’t just the bullets—it’s the impunity. One study shows cops solve as few as one in ten political assassinations. Why? Because these hits are clean. Middlemen and triggermen don’t even know who hired them. No paper trail. No motive. Just bodies.

And here’s the twist: the cops aren’t just failing—they’re freelancing. Since 2016, of 337 people arrested by South Africa’s assassination task force, 47 were police officers. Some rent out body armor. Others offer themselves for hire. In July 2025, a top cop broke ranks and accused the Police Minister of meddling with the unit. The minister denies it, of course—but when watchdogs bite, the system bleeds.

Most of the killings still revolve around minibus taxi routes, where mafia-like networks kill to control cash-heavy turf. But about a quarter of hits are political—mostly internal ANC power grabs. When climbing the ladder means killing the guy on the next rung, democracy isn’t just wounded. It’s assassinated.

This violence is creeping into places that once felt sacred. In 2021, the chief accountant of Johannesburg’s health department was preparing to blow the whistle on fraud. She was shot dead before she could speak. In 2017, a head teacher in KwaZulu-Natal was gunned down in front of her class. Her killers still walk free—and the vacancy was left unfilled, because staff were too scared to apply. When education dies at gunpoint, what’s left to teach?

Every bullet fired into a civil servant is a bullet fired into the state. And as these killers creep closer to judges, top cops, and senior politicians, South Africa’s institutions are running out of blood to lose. Mark Shaw, author and expert on assassinations, fears the worst: the state is not just crumbling—it’s being carved up.

Sure, the arrest of Mathipa’s suspected killers shows the government hasn’t completely flatlined. But catching triggermen is window dressing when the kingpins stay in the shadows. Justice in South Africa is often blind, broke—and bullet-riddled. This isn’t law and order—it’s murder on demand. In the new South Africa, assassinations aren’t just rising. They’re trending.

 

 

 

 

               

Fifty Days of Doubt: How Trump's Delays Still Give Putin Room to Breathe

 

Trump’s delays, dodges, and dodged dollars hand Putin a lifeline—his tough talk masks soft moves that give Russia time, cover, and room to kill.

President Donald Trump may have changed his tone on Russia, but not his tactics. After months of cozy signals to Vladimir Putin—including a public flirtation with visiting the Kremlin—Trump finally barked on July 14. But instead of biting, he tossed Moscow a delay: 50 more days before any tariffs kick in. That’s nearly two months of runway for Putin’s war machine to stay in motion, while Ukraine waits and bleeds.

Trump’s supposed “get-tough” moment came during NATO boss Mark Rutte’s visit to Washington. He announced Patriot missiles and other weapons for Ukraine, but not from America’s deep pockets. This time, European allies would have to foot the bill. Billions in U.S. aid, already approved under Joe Biden, remain untouched. Trump’s reason? “It wasn’t my war; it was Biden’s war.” That’s not leadership—it’s ghosting a war effort mid-crisis.

In Kyiv, the reaction was a mix of relief and dread. Yes, weapons would flow. But the 50-day grace period handed Putin time to pound harder. Ukrainian lawmaker Oleksandr Merezhko welcomed the news—but warned that “these 50 days might be dangerous for us, because Putin will definitely use it.” Trump had already given Russia “two-week deals” before. Now he’s giving them almost two months.

Markets barely blinked. Oil prices didn’t budge, showing just how little faith anyone has in Trump enforcing his own threats. Meanwhile, a bipartisan Senate bill pushing 500% tariffs on Russian business partners may gain traction—but still gives Trump all the control to waive or stall. He’s a master of the tariff tease, using them like poker chips, not policy tools. One minute he slaps penalties, the next he peels them back to strike a side deal. That’s not strategy—it’s shadowboxing.

Trump’s promises on weapons were no clearer. Yes, he dangled the Patriot missile system. But how many batteries? How many interceptors? No one knows. Air-defense systems are already scarce—America used up a chunk defending Israel and Qatar during the Israel-Iran war. Ukraine, facing Russian cruise missiles, needs certainty, not slogans.

Then there’s the elephant—or missile—in the room: long-range strikes. Biden sent ATACMs that reach 300 kilometers. Moscow is 500 kilometers away. Ukraine would need Tomahawks or JASSM-ERs to strike that deep. Trump didn’t say a word about them. Even talk of possibly letting Europe buy and hand them off was left in the fog. Silence speaks volumes.

The bigger picture is uglier. Trump has never clearly stood up to Putin. He mocked Zelensky earlier this year, cut off intelligence, and only resumed aid under mounting pressure—from Ukraine, Europe, and hawks like Lindsey Graham. Even Graham said, “For six months President Trump tried to entice Putin to the table. The attacks have gone up not down.” This isn’t peacemaking—it’s poker, with Ukraine as the ante.

And while Trump’s MAGA base yawns at Ukraine’s fate, Russian troops grind forward in the east. Trump refuses to say what he’ll do if Russia escalates. And Putin? He’s not retreating. He still wants Ukrainian land and control. That’s not changing unless he faces real pressure—not polite deadlines and polite threats.

Even the “tariff threat” is tangled. Trump’s idea of taxing countries that help Russia clashes with his charm offensive toward India, one of the very countries buying Russian oil. It’s hard to wage a trade war when you’re still picking dance partners at the geopolitical prom.

So here’s the truth: Trump may have raised his voice, but he hasn’t raised the cost for Putin. No timeline, no hard arms delivery, no use of Biden’s approved aid. Just another drawn-out bluff wrapped in patriot talk. For Ukraine, the message is chilling: don’t count on a cavalry when the general won’t even load the cannons.

 

He Promised Change, But Left Behind Rice Bags and Regret: Buhari’s Final Journey

 

Buhari rode in as a messiah and bowed out as a myth—delivering disappointment instead of deliverance, and leaving Nigerians poorer, hungrier, and politically heartbroken.

He came wearing the face of hope, a former general who had once ruled with a firm grip but now claimed the heart of a democrat. Muhammadu Buhari, who died at the age of 82 in a London clinic, returned to Nigeria’s top job in 2015 through the ballot box, not a military coup. It was a moment Nigerians had never seen before—a man who had once taken power by force now chosen by the people to lead them into a better future. His victory felt like a sunrise after years of long political darkness.

He had tried three times before and failed. But when he finally broke through in 2015, it wasn’t just a personal triumph. It was history. He became the first opposition candidate to defeat an incumbent in Nigeria. His face appeared on campaign posters, his name whispered in the alleyways of Kano, and in the crowded, sunburnt streets of Lagos. He was “Mai Gaskiya”—the man of truth. And most of all, he was trusted.

People believed in him not because he smiled much—he rarely did—but because he didn’t need to. His face was carved in seriousness. He was known for being honest, a rare thing in a country whose rulers often left office far wealthier than they had entered it. He promised to fight corruption, to defeat Boko Haram, to lift up the poor, to bring rice back to their tables. And so, millions walked behind him, cheering a man who they hoped would lead them with the discipline of a soldier and the heart of a father.

But now that he is gone, the smell left behind is not one of fresh bread or fertile rain. It is of dust, disappointment, and doubt.

His rise to power had begun decades earlier, shaped by the hard lines of military schools and the cracked roads of post-colonial Nigeria. Born in 1942 in Daura, a small town near Nigeria’s northern border, Buhari was raised by his mother after his father died when he was just four. He was his mother’s 13th child, his father’s 23rd. Even as a boy, Buhari was marked by discipline. He joined the army soon after Nigeria gained independence from Britain in 1960, trained in England, and rose through the ranks with a quiet, cold determination.

By the early 1980s, he was at the top, installed as Nigeria’s military ruler after a coup that removed the elected government. He didn’t hide from the task. He launched a “war against indiscipline,” ordering civil servants to frog-jump in public if they were late to work and commanding citizens to form lines at bus stops under the eyes of soldiers with whips. He jailed hundreds—officials, journalists, even musicians like the great Fela Kuti. He changed the color of Nigeria’s currency overnight and forced people to exchange old notes in a tight window, an echo that would return decades later. Some called it bold reform. Others called it cruelty. But even his enemies could not say he was corrupt.

That’s why, after years in the political wilderness, he came back. Not with tanks, but with ballots. His second act as president was supposed to be different. Now, he said, he believed in democracy. And Nigerians believed him.

But what they got instead was a man too distant to fight the storms, too slow to steer the ship, and too old to keep up with a country bursting with young, hungry energy. His critics gave him a nickname: Baba Go Slow. He said it wasn’t his fault—it was the system. But people did not feel the system when they slept hungry. They felt the price of rice.

Ah, rice. When Nigerians were asked what they would remember most about Buhari’s presidency, the answer came not in analysis but in a single, sad phrase: Bag of rice. Under Goodluck Jonathan, the previous president, a 50kg bag of rice cost 7,500 naira ($4.90). Under Buhari, it rose to 60,000 naira ($39.00). Rice, the food that fills the bellies of ten in one household, became a symbol of hunger. Buhari had banned rice imports to push local farming. But the farms didn’t yield enough. The people bore the price.

The economy sank. Global oil prices crashed, and with them, Nigeria’s hopes. Young people, who had chanted his name in 2015, now sat jobless and restless. The promise of employment became a ghost. Insecurity spread. Boko Haram was not defeated—it multiplied, its factions forming alliances with the Islamic State. Bandits roamed the northwest, kidnapping schoolchildren and terrorizing villages. In central Nigeria, clashes between farmers and Fulani herders turned deadly. Buhari, himself a Fulani, was accused of silence—too soft on those he should have restrained.

And then came the protests. In October 2020, the youth rose again—not in celebration, but in fury. The #EndSARS movement demanded an end to police brutality. They gathered at the Lekki tollgate in Lagos, waving flags, singing the anthem. What followed was blood. Soldiers opened fire. The images circled the globe. Buhari stayed quiet for too long. When he finally spoke, it felt empty. The nation had bled on his watch, and he offered no balm.

Even his final years were marked by confusion. The naira swap policy, introduced just before the 2023 elections, plunged the country into chaos. Old notes were confiscated, new notes were scarce. Markets froze, people couldn’t buy food, weddings were canceled, and sick patients couldn’t pay for transport. The policy was meant to reduce vote-buying. But many believed it was a secret move to sabotage Bola Tinubu, Buhari’s own party’s candidate. He claimed neutrality. But his silence screamed.

And then there was his health. Throughout his first term, Buhari vanished for long stretches, often to London, for undisclosed treatments. Nigerians never knew what ailed him. In a country where even the common man must explain a day's absence, their president vanished without explanation. The nation wondered: Is he still fit to lead?

Buhari never stopped believing he was right. He insisted the 1983 coup was justified, that journalists jailed under his rule had broken the law, that his delays were not his doing. He rarely said sorry. But now he is gone, and the final judgment comes not from generals or judges, but from the people who once placed their trust in him.

He was buried with the prayers of some and the disappointment of many. His wife, Aisha, once threatened not to support his re-election. His supporters, once proud to carry his banner, now speak in past tense, their voices flat. His legacy, once glowing with promise, now hangs in the air like unfinished business.

He came as a soldier, ruled as a general, returned as a reformer—but left as a symbol of promises unkept. Muhammadu Buhari, Nigeria’s austere anti-corruption crusader, now belongs to history. But his story, for many Nigerians, still stings in the present. The man who came to clean the house left behind broken windows and a half-swept floor.