₦airaland Forum

Seun, what do you have to say about this?

Whatever you pick for a profession, do it well. Good advice.

Dude is getting his protein. For a month now, na pomo I dey chop. Things don hard.

Off to rehab. Hopefully she changes her way. I don’t care for any made up entity. Na her children be my concern.

Symba has lived in Nigeria since 2015 or thereabouts. She’s a citizen at this point. Don’t countries hand out citizenships after ten years? Some even less. The only foreign thing about her is her accent — which should’ve naturalized a lot by now. Her surgical enhancements don’t count because Nigerian women are equally going under the knife.

If these people take lives as if humans are livestock, they shouldn’t fear for their lives when soldiers come their way.

All for 1.3M Naira. Poverty should be a crime.

Congratulations. Don’t forget your award.

Kalulu44:
Omoh no be by force to chop am. I dey see every now and then. I have never for once thirst for it or feel like indulging myself.
A former boss of mine once bought pizza for me, I dashed it out. I categorize it and Sharwama as same, same as meat pie.
Anything that was wrap with flour and orishirishi beneath it is a turn off for me.
I have eaten meat pies before, but it's bcus of the bad experience I have of it that makes me rule out eating Sharwama and pizza cus I look at them as same

Keep wasting your life on Nairaland.

daylay7:
I thought I was on guard too until it happened. But unfortunately, the devil used you to say rubbish. Don't worry na. Just remember this date because when it happens to you, just know it is your handiwork. It will surely happen to you and people will even question your integrity! They will call your story fake.

Let those who have the resources enjoy Children’s Day. Every year since I learned to read, journalists craft the same write-ups to soil days meant for celebration. So far humans remain greedy, bad news will never stop. If there is an afterlife, a minority of wicked folks will continue their wickedness in it.

Today is the 28th, now I can focus on this news. I ate to my fill yesterday. I hope you did too. Oh, today is another holiday. See you tomorrow.

Lack of crowd control. It’s not only a black man thing. It’s a worldwide phenomenon.

You cannot prefer doing something over another which you’ve never experienced before. How are you sure you won’t like the new activity over what you’re used to? I cannot prefer my Colombian side chick over my Nigerian girlfriend because I’ve never met a Colombian in my life. How will I know if they won’t turn out more friendly and submissive?

Do chop shawarma. E dey everywhere unless you dey village — which my mind has concluded from your write-up.

DiamondJLove:
I have come to realize that tasting shawarma is one of the many things I have never done in my life.

As a young lady in her late 20 s, people tend to laugh at me when I say it.They act as if eating shawarma makes us complete as
young ladies,somebody ones told me that"don't let people hear it".

Anyway I prefer local dishes,give me better fufu and egusi/achi/afang/ogbono soup with original palm wine,I will pray for you forever.

What's so special about eating shawarma?

Space reserved for if/when I manage to read the whole article.

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

I once drove a car through three states — in reverse gear.

yommen:
Who told you 'she can't make up her mind?'. She actually already made up her mind but e no just favour you ni.

It will happen to you again and again. Unlike you, I’m always on guard. Face your moderation duties and stop generating digital graffiti.

daylay7:
It has happened to me and you called it a fake story. Yours will be the same too. People will call it a fake story too.

It will also happen to you.

daylay7:
So shall it be. Nigeria will happen to you and someone will call it a fake story

Zombie in uniform. Na their way. No shock here.

Bimpe, I will destroy your future.

Go and sleep. Your fake story was sniffed out immediately.

daylay7:
It will happen to you too and someone will ask you same question. Nigeria will happen to you. Dont worry.

At least we are not Bantus. ROFLMAO.

zhike:
Most of the South Africans are asking if Nigerians are real Africans or are white people disguised in an African skin. this issue of Nigerian Mindset is one of the biggest factor that makes South Africans not to understand Nigerians.
In general Africans are patriotic and centered to their roots and they will do their level best to improve where they come from.

Nigerians are don't support their local NPFL and instead they support EPL.
Nigerians are don't support CCL and instead they UEFA.
Nigerians are don't support teams like Remo starts and instead they support teams like Arsenal.
When you ask Nigerians who is the 2026 best player, they will mention someone who plays at UEFA instead of someone who plays at CCL.
I was shocked the way Nigerians celebrated Arsenal win, instead of celebrating Enugu Rangers.
Nigerians players wishes to play for foreign national teams.

"There is no way Africans can be united as long as we have Africans who thinks like Nigerians", March and March President.

Who is she knacking this time? Time will tell.

Dude is 38. On average, male UFC athletes dwindle at 35/36 years of age. He had nothing more to offer. The White House card is bringing out resentment in many fighters. I love it. Jon Jones is scared to retire. I’m sure he’s enjoying benefits which the public has no knowledge of from being associated with the company.

Dey there dey do housewife in this modern age. No go find work. That man go talk something one day wey go make you reason your whole existence.

RevenuesBoost:
Virgin Hair 💯 Styled By Me

Before/After



https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gr-ubBBAQxs

Not possible in our 34°C climate. Maybe in Jos and Obudu.

Kunle, you’re still here? You still dey fear woman. Go and marry. You no go hear.

Boladogailese:
My gender will do anything just to get attention from men

Livingiconrebor, come and summarize your cousin’s write-up.

Kalulu44:
Around 8:30pm today, I was doing routine patrol at the Guest House I am watching over.
After going round the guest house, I decided to go out and check too.
While going to the next gate/house beside the guest house which is still owned by my boss younger brother and still being watched by me.
.
I noticed 3 ladies sitting at the fence of the house. Looked at them and noticed the faces are strange from the regular street people that always sits there.
I approached them and politely ask them who are they and what they're looking for?
They said they're waiting for their friend who lives opposite the guest house to come back from work.
I told them, no problem. But that there's a certain time I can allow them stay there.
They nodded and continue their gist, while going I over heard them saying they'll so deal with him when he comes out.
Bcus it was Yoruba they were communicating with, I couldn't decipher if it's a female or male they want to deal with.
"A'ma fe se' le'se to ba de"
So that Yoruba words didn't state whether it's a male or female.
.
So I was just saying in mind what offense has this said lady donevthat 3 ladies are waiting to deal with her. I just did my own patrol and went back to my office inside the guest house.
Guys you see eh! If devil wants to deal with you, he can just use anything as excuse to drag you out for embarrassment.
.
Meanwhile, our 5 apartment are fully occupied. With all paying 15k each for day break except the front apartment that cost 40k for double apartment.
At our bar, we have all types of drinks from soft to alcohol and wine and spirits.
We have as chops fried meat, chin chin of different flavors, plantain chips, Burns and doghnut, and including cashew nuts and groundnuts.
None of this chops interest one of our lodgers, and he decided to go to an Aboki along the street to go buy the same plantain chips we have.
Just bcus ours is #500 and Aboki own is #200, he decided to patronize Aboki.
.
I opened the gate for him and he went out while I close it and went back to my duty post. Not even up to 10 seconds I heard serious shouting outside. I quickly opened the gate and went outside to see what's going on.
Lol and behold, it was one of those 3 ladies who held the man by the shirt and shouting untop of his head, "asewo osi" awon omo yin oti jeun ni'le, e gbe obinrin kakiri"
Meaning, stupid womanizer, your children haven't eaten at home and you are here frolicking with a woman.
.
The other ladies she came with were putting fire on their own, "Baba Kamoru, agbaya niyin sha" "E'ni oju ti rara rara, awon omo yin wa nle ti ebi fe pawon, eyin e se sina kakari"
All this while, our "Oga ade" was just speechless and couldn't find his voice to say anything.
Some senior men in the area came to calm them down, that was when the woman provoke and said before she let go, she wants to see the woman he lodged.
And like play like play, she was dragging "Oga Ade" back to our guest house.
.
The simp of a man didn't even resist, and was just following like a goat been taking to the slaughter slab.
I quickly bypass them and mount my gate, all these while people are telling the man to beg his wife and also telling the woman to allow them settle it at home. That they're just embarrassing themselves.
I stopped the lady and the man been drag at the gate.
The woman started yelling at me, that why am I stopping them from entering, that she wants to deal with the useless woman that's sleeping with another man's husband.
.
I politely told them there's no way I can allow them come in, especially with their noise. That they'll disturb other guests.
Omoh the other ladies she came with, tries to force their way in. That was when I brought out the matchete my direct security boss gave me.
I told them if anybody do anyhow, she will see anyhow.
They shifted away from the gate, I went outside too and lock the gate from outside.
I told everybody including onlookers that I don't want to see anybody around the premises.
.
They didn't listen to me, so I called my direct boss who's just 10 min away from where we were and told him everything. He responded he's coming right away. He rode his bike immediately down there, while entering the street, he shot a bullet into the air.
You need to see how people were running helter skelter, I was laughing my head off cus I 100% knew it was my boss.
Another laughable thing was, we didn't see or know where Mr Husband ran to cus the gate to the guest house was already locked by me.
Same with iyawo and her bodyguards 😀😀😀😀😀.
.
It was when the street people who knows my boss finally knew it was him that shot the gun that they started coming out.
Mehn! This is a scenario that has been making me laugh since.
After my boss restored order, he left me to handle the remaining situation after telling me what to do in case they come again.
.
It was around 9:45pm that "Oga Ade" sneeked into the guest house, picked his things and drove away with his bike, leaving the said lady behind.
Meanwhile when the whole brouhaha was going on, one of the guy's working with us has gone to tell the lady the man brought what's going on outside, and he relocated her to one of the staff room.
.
When I later got to know, I asked him why he did so. He said he thought the ladies will overpowered me at the gate and gain entrance. So he said he should save the the lady from hurt. I no fit laugh honestly.
The lady is now back to their apartment, but now alone and visibly shaking.
Omoh eh! Naija and different type of drama no dey ever finish.
My boss just sent me a WhatsApp msg asking if everything is ok and calm, I replied yes.

Doctor doesn’t know how she did it? Na quack?

Uyi Guobadia, you’ve come again with stories from Uganda. Tell your brother Livingiconrebor to stop seeing me everywhere in this forum.

Any sure bet today?

guobe:
Alot of pretty ladies are now embracing physical exercise activities these days unlike before.
Very early in the morning when I am on my way to work,I see very beautiful 😍 ladies jogging and racing just to keep fit.
I overheard one lady that just did a road walk saying that this road walk has improved her health condition drastically as she now breathes well through the nose and when she checked her blood pressure, it has completely normalised and her doctor was like how did she do it.
Health is wealth and I like the way these ladies are prioritising their health.

1. None of your business.

2. Masculine enough to not jump into feminine conclusions.

MarkNsukkaBread:
You're trying to marry a 57year old lady?

How old are you?

Goo0dHardDick:
My business associate came to my office and we congratulated him on his wife safe delivery and his new baby girl arrival. But we noticed he wasn't happy and asked what was wrong, first he complained about the hospital and its numerous extortions. It's a federal government hospital and he kept saying if he had known he would have gone to a private hospital instead.

His wife has been in the hospital for 2 weeks after she delivered and each day he was asked to pay #10k for the hospital bed, excluding numerous tests and other expenses because his wife delivered through CS.

This is the major reason why he wasn’t happy. Finances.

This is the craziest part, he said his wife gave birth to a female child and although he thank God for the successful delivery but why a female child? That he is afraid of what is going to become of her because female child nowadays can do and undo, he made mention of the way women nowadays dresses, the sex and finally pregnancy that'll follow suit and that no matter how you talk or train the female child, if she wants to go and have sex, she'll still do it regardless without you knowing at all.

This is all a lie and likely a made-up story created to waste our time or explore your biases.

The guy went on complaining and rambling with so much pains in his face. I even tried encouraging him to take the baby to his mother (that is, the baby's grandmother) when she comes of age so the old woman will train her but other guys there said that would be worst because the old woman will spoil and pamper her too much.

Why is it that most men don't want female child?

Goddamn lies from a bored Nairaland child. This forum is utterly dead.

How much did the moderator collect to defame Opay? I can see his other accounts suddenly resurrect to back up the story.

Cheap Nairaland.

Omodele or Oluwadele, you’ve learned a costly lesson. Never try it again.

daylay7:
Today makes it a week that my money in my opay account was mysteriously transfer to one kuda account named Sani Hannatu. I contacted Opay through tweeted and was told it was under investigation. And up till now, they have not said anything. Please, I dont know who has an idea on how to get my money back. Mehn! Opay do me something!

I downloaded an app through an Ad on one of the social media and after installing it, I noticed my phone touch pad misbehaving and i uninstalled the app but the interface of the app remain on my phone despite removing it from the app list on my phone. Yet, the phone touch pad misbehaving. I already gave up to buy another phone and suddenly, my phone screen went blind and later showing updating app. After 3 hours, it was still showing same. I restarted the phone and restored factory setting. I checked my Opay account and noticed my money was gone. . How do i get my money back?

Wait o, to watch a movie is 50K? How much is it in the cinema again? Make I dey house download the 4K version. I won’t miss anything and I will eat my homemade food.