₦airaland Forum

LalaGreen247:
What would you say is currently Japan's largest export?

Definitely automobiles, you know the regular names: Honda, Toyota, Zuzuki etc, Heavy medical equipments, Electronics & Video games etc

I haven't been to Japan before, I read this online!!

chiboycue:
All HND Graduates are advised to acquire a Post Graduate Diploma and a Professional Master/ Master of Science / Master of Technology subsequently, for your peace of mind.

Or they can apply for Direct Entry into any NUC accredited University and obtain their Bachelors Degree.

PGD is just another Diploma

TimiofAbuja:
This is also a valid reason

If I start listing the downsides of HND here, you would feel very sorry for our youth that are still attending Polytechnics or Colleges of Education

TimiofAbuja:
seriously, I dont see any reason for conversion. Bsc should be Bsc, HND should be HND.

You don't understand!!!

All Universities in the European Union member countries don't accept HND for direct admission into a Masters program.

This alone is enough reason for any HND graduate to go for a conversion to BSc.

Look at how Nigeria is messed up, do you really want our youth to hold on to qualifications that limits them to Nigeria alone

See

womilojublog:
There is a huge migration of young Africans away from Africa in search of greener pastures, the population is growing outside of their own familiar terrain, it is a certain kind of freedom that is indistinguishable from captivity. It wears better clothes. It drives a leased car through wider streets. It posts photographs of itself in front of skylines that do not belong to it, in cities that tolerate its presence without ever truly welcoming it. It smiles for the camera with the practiced confidence of someone who has decided, at great internal cost, to call a foreign shore home and to never, under any circumstances, look back at the water it crossed to get there.
We call them the diaspora. We celebrate them at Christmas when they arrive with foreign accents and foreign currency and the faint, unmistakable scent of a life lived elsewhere. But there is a subset among them and every African family knows at least one who did not merely leave. They departed. Completely. Spiritually. With a finality that no return ticket could ever undo. They are the ones who went abroad and, somewhere between the first winter and the first paycheck, made a silent and devastating decision: I am never going back. And more than that there is nothing to go back to.
These are the Happy Slaves. And the most tragic thing about them is the happiness.
Understand how it begins, because it never begins in cynicism. It begins in hunger. In the legitimate, burning hunger of a young man or woman who grew up watching potential die slowly in the heat of a continent whose institutions failed its people daily. Who sat in a university with broken chairs and no electricity and professors who had given up, and thought: there must be somewhere better than this. Who watched a parent work forty years for a government that paid poverty wages and retired into obscurity, and decided with every fiber of their ambition that this would not be their story.

So they left. And who can blame them for leaving? The leaving was an act of courage. The visa lines that began before dawn, the interviews that treated them like suspects, the humiliation folded quietly into the process of simply trying to access opportunity they endured all of it. They arrived in cold countries with two suitcases and an address written on a piece of paper and the terrifying, exhilarating blankness of a life about to be rebuilt from nothing.
And then something happened to some of them. Not immediately. Gradually. The way a dye changes the color of water slowly, completely, and then irreversibly.
The first seduction is always the infrastructure. For a person who grew up rationing generator fuel and watching the sky during harmattan for the next NEPA failure, the simple fact of uninterrupted electricity feels like a miracle. Hot water from a tap. Roads without craters. A government that, whatever its flaws, maintains the pretense of functioning. Public transportation that arrives on schedule. Streets that are swept. These things, ordinary to those born into them, feel to the fresh arrival like evidence of a superior civilization and that feeling, if it is not carefully examined, plants the first seed of something dangerous.
This works, the new arrival thinks. This actually works. And underneath that thought, barely audible but already growing: Unlike home.
The comparison has begun. And once the comparison begins, it is very difficult to stop.
By the second year, the transformation is underway. The English has acquired an accent not their original accent, sharpened and clarified, but a new one, borrowed and worn like a new coat, sometimes before it is even necessary. They begin to speak of Nigeria, or Ghana, or Kenya, in the third person. Not we but they. Not our government but their government. The distance is no longer merely geographical. It has become psychological. Philosophical. They are, in their own internal cartography, no longer from there. They are from here now. This cold, efficient, fluorescent-lit here that runs on time and pays them in currencies that do not depreciate overnight.
The house comes next. Not in Africa never in Africa, not yet, perhaps not ever but here, in this borrowed country, on a thirty-year mortgage that owns them far more completely than they own it. They sign the papers with the gravity of someone planting a flag, and they photograph every room, and they post it with a caption that speaks of blessings and hard work and God's favor, and four thousand miles away their family sees it and feels a complicated mixture of pride and premonition.

Then the car. A brand they could not have imagined driving in the streets of Lagos or Accra or Nairobi. Purchased on credit, maintained on credit, insured at a rate that quietly consumes a portion of every paycheck but gleaming. Undeniably, photographically gleaming. And it too is documented. It too is transmitted home as evidence of arrival, of success, of the rightness of having left.
What is not photographed is the credit statement. What is not transmitted home is the anxiety that lives behind the gleaming surface of a life assembled almost entirely on borrowed money in a borrowed country. What is not posted is the quiet terror of knowing that three missed paychecks would dismantle the entire architecture of this carefully constructed success.

Meanwhile, in the village. In the compound. In the city they left behind. There is an aging mother who mentions, with a casualness that costs her everything, that the roof has been leaking since August. There is a younger sibling whose school fees have become a conversation that nobody wants to have out loud. There is land ancestral, documented, undeveloped that sits waiting with the patience of the earth itself, which has no concept of urgency and no fear of being forgotten. There is a community that once claimed them, that still mentions their name with a pride that has begun, slowly, to curdle into something more uncertain.
The Happy Slave sends money. Sometimes. Enough to maintain the relationship at a functional distance. Enough to avoid the specific accusation of total abandonment. But not enough to build. Not enough to invest. Not enough to signal that Africa remains, in any meaningful sense, home.
Because it doesn't. Not anymore. And this is the line that separates the diaspora from the Happy Slave not the leaving, not the staying, not even the success abroad, but the complete and willing divestment from the place of origin. The Happy Slave has not merely relocated. They have defected. From their soil. From their people. From their own history.

Bring up Africa in their presence and watch what happens. Watch the almost imperceptible shift in the shoulders. The slight cooling of the eyes. The tone that arrives patient, superior, faintly pitying the tone of someone who has seen beyond something that others are still foolishly attached to. You know how things are there, they say. Nothing works. The corruption. The mentality. The people don't want to change. They speak of an entire continent an entire civilization as a diagnosis. As a case study in failure. As the thing they were wise enough to escape.
They have forgotten, or chosen to forget, that the civilization they now disdain produced them. That the mother they visit once every three years with a foreign accent and foreign currency and foreign condescension is the same mother who went without so they could have school fees. That the community they dismiss as backward preserved their name, remembered their grandfather, kept a place at the table for them through every year of their absence.

They have also forgotten and this is the historical irony that cuts deepest that the system they have so enthusiastically assimilated into was built, in no small part, on the extraction of the very continent they now look down upon. That the gleaming infrastructure they mistook for civilization's evidence was financed across centuries by the labor and resources of African bodies and African soil. That they did not arrive in Europe or America as immigrants entering a neutral space they arrived as the descendants of a theft, moving into a house built with stolen materials, and calling it meritocracy.

But this is a history the Happy Slave cannot afford to remember. Memory of that kind is inconvenient. It complicates the narrative of escape-as-achievement. It asks uncomfortable questions about who built the ladder they climbed and whose backs it rested on.
The saddest iteration of the Happy Slave is the one who raises children abroad who do not know their grandmother's name in their grandmother's language. Who celebrates a heritage month once a year with jollof rice at a cultural fair and calls it enough. Whose children grow up neither fully here nor truly from there, floating in the particular rootlessness that comes from having been raised by a parent who voluntarily cut the cord that connected them to the ground.
These children will one day, perhaps, feel the hunger that the Happy Slave spent a lifetime running from not the hunger of poverty, but the deeper hunger of people who do not know where they come from. They will do DNA tests and get percentages. They will visit ancestral countries as tourists and feel the disorienting grief of almost-belonging. They will stand in airports in Lagos or Accra or Nairobi and feel, beneath the unfamiliarity, the stubborn pull of something ancient recognizing itself and they will not have the language for it, because their parent traded that language for an accent, traded that geography for a mortgage, traded that inheritance for the temporary, credit-financed comfort of a life that was never truly theirs.
This is not an argument against ambition. It is not a romanticization of poverty, or a suggestion that suffering at home is more noble than thriving abroad. Africa does not need its children to be martyrs. It needs them to be builders. And you cannot build what you have decided to despise.
The African who goes abroad, acquires skill and capital and knowledge, and brings it back in investment, in institution-building, in the patient, difficult work of making something functional from the inside that person is not a Happy Slave. That person is something closer to a returning warrior. The diaspora, at its best, is a resource. A bridge. A conversation between what is and what could be.
But the Happy Slave has burned the bridge. Has decided that the crossing was a graduation rather than a mission. Has taken the resources of an African upbringing the resilience, the adaptability, the communal intelligence, the spiritual depth and deposited all of it into an economy that will never fully claim them, in exchange for a comfort that is always, at some level, conditional.
Because here is what the Happy Slave does not tell you, in the photographs, in the captions, in the curated performance of foreign success: the host country knows what they are. The system that benefits from their labor while limiting their belonging, that welcomes their taxes while questioning their presence, that promotes diversity while maintaining its hierarchies that system sees them clearly, even when they cannot see themselves.
They are not citizens of a new world. They are, at best, tolerated guests in someone else's house. Useful guests. Productive guests. But guests who will discover, in times of economic stress or political volatility or simple, naked prejudice, exactly where they stand in the order of things.
At home the home they left, the home they dismissed, the home that still keeps their name in its memory they would have been somebody's grandfather. Somebody's foundation. The one who built something that lasted.
Instead, they are happy. Thoroughly, expensively, irreversibly happy.
In someone else's country. In someone else's house. Driving someone else's car. Living someone else's dream.
And calling it freedom.

Womiloju Blog

Stale !!!

I'm 42 now and I'll still japa.

As a married man I don't give a f**k

The day I catch you having an affair with another man, I will divorce you and move on with my life 👌

cr7lomo:
Shot ur mouth...see them nonsense u are saying...

It's true, A lot of women out fear and hate men because men are not holding men accountable!

Many Men celebrate always justify rape and murder of women.

Ronaldo haters are really pained right now

They wanted him to retire without winning the Saudi Pro league, Alas he has disappointed them

E

cr7lomo:
If ur club get name "villa" ...hire Unai to win Europa and qualify for UCL.... se' villa' ...3 times ...'villa'real ...na y Arsenal no work

You're one sick puppy

K

Jayhome24:
So na now e go come collect the baby from you ba?

Somebody should tell this lady to rest doing all these won't make Cubaa like her or her so called baby Nigeria men don't fall for such antics Nigeria men will only think of you if you are humble, calm, reasonable not trying to mock them they will hate you more.

We are Naija men oo we nor be spineless South Africa or Congo men we are raw, young lady get that fact.

So Nigerian hate their children, truth is coming out gradually!!

Hhh4444:
Life of a man...Now that this guy is no more, everyone now suddenly remembers him like they cared. If he had come out to say what he was going through before death, many would have blamed, mocked and called him names. A man is only remembered when he is winning or when he is dead.

Quit the victim act already, you have allowed content creators to brain wash you.
Men and Women & Children die everyday, no one enjoys any preferential treatment in Nigeria society.

peleson1:
Pls how is the country in terms of opportunities and work for those studying and how can one migrate easily to Germany for work or is it better to live there ?
Just give a general review pls

The fact that it's a Shenghen country is enough reason for you guys to make your move.

As an international student, once you obtain your residence permit in Lithuania, you can move freely across the Shenghen zone including Germany.

You know the rest

Hhh4444:
just Dey play. You will learn with time. All women are the same. Know this and know peace.

All men are the same, know this and know peace.

bobogogo:
It is my pleasure.

I am not saying you should doubt her. I am just saying you have not weathered any storm together for you to call her an angel.
After 10 years of marriage, then you will know if she is an angel or not.

Leave him and his girl alone please.

Man or Woman, no one is an angel.

You guys aren't tired of spewing your hatred on women, una no dey tire.

BigSaint1914:
Na mental problem I swear cos a normal human being would not rape

It's not a mental problem, he chose to rape his infant daughter period.

Stop giving excuses for the atrocities men commit.

DomPerignon:
Its called surprise sex and most women love it but won't admit to it.

Chances are, if you go back far enough, most or if not all of us has rape in our ancestry i.e. one of our ancestors was born of rape.

Rape apologists, this is how your fellow rapists think until they're caught in the act and jailed.

Urgent1Million:
Let me settle and read this well.

Very true.
Number 9 is so annoying.
And they'll tell you that marriage is a partnership.
We should start asking the girls what they do for a living as well.

A man that will marry off his daughter to you has every right to ask what you do for a living !

She will Cook, Clean, Wash and care for you and the kids. She will also serve your parents, yet you want her to still contribute money? It won't work man

If you want a traditional wife then you must pay all the bills.

Hezmatosky210:
As a man in marriage, you deserve a maximum respect from your wife. Norbe good meal, sex or money but respect at its fullest. This is what wives lack.

Are justifying the man for killing the woman or what!!

If he can't provide for his pregnant wife do you expect her to keep quiet!!!

Gbadugbakun:
The problem with women is that they would abuse you and provoke you to anger knowing fully well that they can't stand you on a one on one.

Many women are like this. You would need divine self control in order to handle them

Always blaming the victim, fear men always!!!

Use 365 days to fear men

Fear men everyday of your life.

Use 24 hours to fear men

Fear Men

CorperKola:
Dont be in love with any woman, there is nothing special about them and they are not worth it

Men kill other men everyday, The woman wasn't the problem, the man was a trigger happy murderer and he kill his unarmed wife, period l.

NybenSBF101:
Na infidelity on the part of the wife

The man is a cold blooded murderer, period.

Stop justifying killing of innocent women.

I

Fuckyoumod:
Women, please we are tired of news like this.

If you know you are not tired of waka-waka, jumping from one man to the other even in marriage. Please don't marry him. To avoid issues like this, not every man can handle such issues with wisdom.

That man made a decision, only God knows what forced and pushed his hands. But I believe the lady must have done something unforgivable.

Men will always justify killing women, are you people not ashamed of defending killing unarmed women, always pushing false narrative because of your hatred for women

Emdi1914:
Una sure say na im biological daughter?
How man prick wan take stand for him own biological daughter?

Fear men

Fear men, fear men, Fear men

Fear men

Official begging has been enacted

South Africans do surprise me sometimes.

South Africa is the only country in Africa regarded as native english speaking, hence it's citizens have the opportunity to migrate to rich Asian, European and South American countries to teach english and earn good money.

But I don't really see them leveraging this opportunity the way they ought too.

Usmanovic95:
I'm not sure this man u fan will cut his hair this year o