₦airaland Forum

SKhanmi:
Lol, what’s with people lifting short fiction stories from reddit nowadays.

If you can send the Reddit link showing same story, I will send you 50K.

I am typing this with a heart that is pounding so hard that I can hear it in my ears. I swear on everything I hold dear, if not that I have no one to share this with, I wouldn’t have said a word. But maybe, just maybe, someone out there will have an answer.

This nightmare started in 2013. Our family used to be six, but by the end of 2012, we had become four. Death took my father and my grandmother within months of each other, and the house felt emptier than ever.

We live in a four-bedroom apartment. My mother has one room, my sister took another, my elder brother had his own, and I stayed in the last one.

There is a tradition in our home: once it is 9:30 PM sharp, we all gather in the sitting room for night prayers. How long it lasts depends on my mother's mood, sometimes just five minutes, other times, one full hour of binding, casting, and fire-fire prayers. After that, everyone goes to bed.

That’s why the morning of August 2013 felt like madness.

We had prayed as usual the night before. There was nothing unusual, no bad dream, no flickering light, no shadow moving where it shouldn’t. Yet by morning, my brother was gone.

And when I say gone, I don’t mean he packed his things and left. I mean disappeared, as in vanished from the face of the earth.

The two doors in our house were locked from the inside. The window in his room had iron barricades, unless my brother suddenly became the size of a house cat, there was no way he squeezed through, and there was the window net which was screwed from the outside. His iPhone, which I have always eyed, was lying on his power bank at the edge of the bed. His shoes and slippers were exactly where he always kept them. In fact, there was no sign that anyone had slept in the room at all. The only odd thing was that the door to his bathroom was open.

That was the moment fear gripped us by the throat.

We called our relatives, our church people, even that elderly man down the street who always had one proverb for every situation. Nobody could explain it. Nobody had an answer.

Let me tell you about my brother.

He was two years older than me, a 200-level engineering student at the time. He was the quiet type. The kind of person who could be in the house for days, and you’d forget because he barely spoke. If you wanted to get along with him, the best thing to do was to leave him alone. He didn’t go out much. He didn’t party. He didn’t even have close friends. Just his laptop, his laptop, and his thoughts.

We never reported the case to the police. After the way they handled my father’s death, my mother swore that we would rather trust in God than go to the police.

One day turned to one month. One month became one year. One year became eleven years.

We placed a camera in his old room, thinking maybe, just maybe, he had played some elaborate prank on us. But deep down, we knew. My brother wasn’t the type to play games.

I have always heard that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but that's only when you know where the person is. Otherwise, absence turns the heart into something else. Something frosty.

Time became the river through which we paddled our canoe. Or at least we tried. My mother stopped mentioning his name, at least publicly. I couldn't count the times she had cried silently, hoping we wouldn't hear, and I pretended along. I learned to push thoughts of him to the back of my mind.

Then came December 2024.

I was in my apartment when my phone rang. It was my mother. Her voice was shaky. She said I had to come home immediately.

I asked what happened. She couldn't string her words together. She sounded like a radio struggling for a signal.

That night, I barely slept. By morning, I was on the first bus heading home, my mind jumping from one terrible possibility to another. But when I saw my sister in flesh and blood, I breathed out like a teenage girl checking her pregnancy test and seeing one red line.

But nothing, nothing, could have prepared me for what my mother said next.

She took me to the police station and introduced me to my brother.

Or at least, a man who looked like my brother.

The same face. The same voice. He even had the same slight gap in his teeth, the same way of adjusting his shirt when he got nervous. And when he was asked to repeat what he said the day before, he knew everything.

He knew all the things only my brother should know. Our inside jokes. The gist we had over my primary school crush. Where we kept important documents. The exact location of the spare key to the back door, where we initially pumped water from, even my sister didn't know that, because she was too young to remember.

But when we asked the most important question, his mouth froze.

"What happened that night?" "Where did you go?" I was almost tempted to ask if he was abducted by aliens.

His face was blank. No answer.

The last thing he remembered was walking to his room after night prayers. Then, according to him, he "woke up on a school field."

He couldn't remember any of it. But what he could remember was even scarier.

He remembered all the details about our lives since he disappeared. My mother's shop that was built in 2019. COVID-19. The school I went to (I started school in 2014), the time my mother was admitted to the hospital for over a month in 2022, and how I couldn't return to the hospital one of the nights because of heavy rain.

He recalled them as if he were there, not from afar but from inside. But I felt something was wrong, or maybe I'm only overthinking. He was more of reciting the events as if he had read them in a book. His tone was flat, like a Siri reading out the news. No nostalgia in his voice, no emotion in his eyes. It made all the hair on my skin rise as if they were giving a standing ovation at that moment.

He spoke as if no time had passed at all.

But eleven years had passed. And the man sitting in front of me wasn’t the same person. My mother doesn’t believe it’s him. My sister doesn’t believe it’s him. I don’t believe it’s him.

We are now waiting for the DNA test results as I write this.

But even if the results say he is my brother, he will not be setting foot into our house.

For now, he is staying with the police. We are paying for his welfare, but that is where it ends.

Because whoever left that night in 2013… is not who came back in 2024.


Edit:
Treat as fiction.

This morning, my mother hurried out of the house but, in her usual thoughtful way, left breakfast for me in one of those small thermoline blue coolers.

I was about to dig in when nostalgia hit me like a thunderbolt. That cooler looked exactly like the ones we used in the dining hall back in boarding school.

Suddenly, I wasn’t just me anymore; I was one of eight hungry students huddled around a table, negotiating portion sizes like market traders.

But before the food came the journey to the dining hall, one that often felt like Moses leading the Israelites through the wilderness.

You see, my six years of secondary school were split between two different boarding schools.

The first one, where I spent my junior years, was uneventful. There were fewer than 40 boarders in a school of over 300 students. But after my third year, I transferred to a real boarding school, where every single student, all 600 of us, lived on campus. (Last I heard, they now operate a mixed day and boarding system.)

Anyway, this was the school my mind flashed back to.

And what Does a Typical Sunday Look Like?

It starts at 6:30 AM, which is considered luxury sleep compared to the weekdays’ 4:30 AM wake-up screams. The hostel master, or some overzealous prefect, acts as the alarm clock, yelling:

"Wake up everyone! Hall A, wake up! Hall B, wake up"

And then, the customary threat:

"If I still meet you on that bed, you will be in trouble"

For the next five to ten minutes, the screaming continues, followed by morning devotion, which most boys attended with their minds elsewhere, specifically, on how to get to the tap first.

You see, the good thing about boarding school is that....your time management skills become so sharp, it could cut through a tree in 10 secs.

Why not? You have less than two hours to: Fetch water from four taps shared by over 600 students, take a bath (or at least touch water), wash your clothes, do your morning duty, beg your hall captain to allow you take the belt or sock you forgot in the room, and maybe—just maybe—regret your life choices

By 8:30 AM, everyone must be seated in the dining hall, where another round of screams and threats awaits anyone still loitering.

Sunday breakfast is usually Bread and tea. Standard. The tea, however, was a mystery liquid, its identity open to interpretation. You just had to use your imagination and believe it was tea.

If you had traded away your breakfast, your only option is to watch others eating while contemplating the consequences of poor decision-making.

By 9 AM, we march to the assembly hall for Sunday service. It wasn’t a denominational service, it was a compulsory gospel session for everyone.

For the next three hours, it was a cycle of Singing (some out of joy, some out of frustration), dancing, waiting for the preacher to round up, praying you don't get punished for putting on housewear instead of the white churchwear.

Everyone knew that by noon, the grace must be shared, and freedom of Sunday could start.

For the next two hours, you could do whatever you wanted, as long as it was legal in the school handbook.

Then, by 2 PM, the school crier (usually the future Head Boy) would start hitting metal on metal, alerting everyone it's time for lunch. The lunch was a reminiscence of my breakfast that led to this writeup.

Sunday lunch was white rice, stew, and a piece of meat the size of my thumb. It's one of those moments people look forward to because who doesn't like rice and stew. No one form classist with rice, you can try that with eba or moinmoin.

Again, you had just 30 minutes to eat.

Siesta starts by 2:30 PM, except you are caught in a wicked senior's web, it may be your time to "see Mary".

Siesta lasted two hours on Sundays (compared to just one on weekdays). But once the clock raced to half past 4, the birds were free again, no forced sports. Just another two glorious hours to do as you pleased.

At 6:30 PM, it was dinner time and Moin-moin was on the menu list.

Now, what you ate it with was your business. Some brought garri from their hostel. The privileged few bought bread from the school shop and the less privileged simply "raw-dogged" the moin-moin on the go.

Again, 30 minutes to eat, and then straight to prep time.

Prep was over at 9:30, and we assembled for night prayers.

And finally, at 10 PM, lights out.

Anything you chose to do after that was at your own risk.

Or, as they say on the street: OYO (On Your Own).


Lalasticlala
nlfpmod
mynd44
Dominique

Jonwesley:
I didn't understand anything about what you wrote. Please come down to my layman's level. I'm curious to know how this works please.

Which part bro??

Ibkay32:
Rule No. 1 of life: No one will ever truly reveal how they make millions—don’t fall for the illusion.

I'm not selling anything. Anybody that wants to learn more should Google the rest.

I went to a co-working space for the first time, and as I was drowning in my usual sea of open tabs, a guy saw my screen. Unfortunately for me, I happened to be on an SEO copywriting page desperately searching for proof that AI hadn’t stolen all our jobs yet.

Now, this guy had already come earlier to ask, “Are you into tech?” I don't know why, I don't have the look of a tech bro, and I can’t even type Hello World to save my life.

I said, “No.” Trying to sound as social as possible (because apparently, people say I’m not social. But between you and me, I think I’m the coolest person ever).

But this time, he hit me with a question that left me momentarily brain-dead: “What does SEO do?”

“Huh, what?” I sat there, blinking like a Wi-Fi router on low signal. Mind you, I know what SEO does. I could give an hour-long TED Talk on it with zero preparation. But in that moment, all my knowledge flew away like a bird that just got hit with a catapult.

I mumbled something like “Ranking… Google… First page…” probably in that order, or maybe not. I blacked out.

But now, I’m in my favorite place on earth (behind my laptop), where I don’t have to mumble, fumble, or embarrass myself socially.

And since you didn’t ambush me at a co-working space, I’ll explain SEO properly, assuming you’ve never heard of it before. Unlike that guy, who claimed to be a developer (frontend? backend? middle-end? I didn’t ask).

So, What Exactly Is SEO?

SEO stands for Search Engine Optimization. And what’s the biggest search engine? Google. (Although these days, people are searching more on ChatGPT. But let’s not get into that rabbit hole.)

Side note: Using ChatGPT or even Google AI for research can be misleading. If you’re looking for new or highly specific information, stick to Google. At least, for now.

Back to our gist.

SEO is the art of making sure that when someone types a keyword into Google, your website is one of the first things they see.

And SEO isn’t just for Google, it works on YouTube, Amazon, and any website that ranks content or products.

So, next time you search “What are the first signs of pregnancy?” and a bunch of websites pop up, just know they didn’t get there by accident. There’s a whole SEO battle going on behind the scenes.

Okay, So Your Website Is on Google’s First Page… Now What?

I know what you’re thinking: “Nice, but where’s the money?”

Hold on. Seek first the knowledge, and the money will follow (probably).

Let’s start with the backbone of SEO...keywords.

You probably stumbled on Nairaland when you searching for something a long time ago. Whatever you typed then into Google is called a keyword

It's why you don't want to mess up your keywords research, else you will basically waste your time, energy, and maybe even your client’s money.

The Art of Picking the Right Keywords

SEO is not a gamble. You can’t pick random keywords and hope for the best.

For example, let’s say your name is Bill Gates (not the rich one, just a regular guy named Bill Gates). And you want to rank on Google so that when people search for “Bill Gates,” they see your smiling (or frowning) face.

I have one word for you: Don’t. Seriously Don't

You’re never going to outrank the Bill Gates. Unless you change your name or invent something bigger than Microsoft, maybe call it Macrohard.

Because "Bill Gates" is an example of a high-difficulty keyword. It’s too competitive.

A simple trick is to search for the keyword on Google and see who’s ranking for it. If big names dominate the first page (Forbes, Wikipedia, CNN, etc.), run like a gazelle escaping a lion.

On the other hand, if your name looks like a randomly generated Wi-Fi password, ranking for it might be a waste of time, because nobody is searching for it.

The sweet spot for SEOs is Low-difficulty, high-volume keywords. Finding them is an art. And mastering that art is what separates good SEOs from broke SEOs.

Now, Let’s Talk Money

Remember the money box I mentioned? Let’s open it—poco-a-poco.

One reason you want high-volume keywords is that more eyeballs = more opportunities to make money.

But here’s the catch: Not all eyeballs are equal.

If you want to make actual money, look for low-difficulty, high-volume, high-CPC keywords.

Wait. CPC? I know, it sounds like APC, but trust me—they have nothing in common.

CPC means Cost Per Click.

You know those annoying ads on websites that make you want to download AdBlocker? That’s how many sites make money.

And those ads aren’t just there by chance. Someone pays Google to show them, and every time someone clicks, Google makes money.

So, as an SEO, you want to write about topics that advertisers are willing to pay big money to run ads on. That’s how you cash out.

Final Words

I know this is a lot to take in, but it's only a brief introduction to the SEO world. Once you break through the initial struggle, SEO starts to feel like second nature.

And who knows? Next time someone asks you, “What does SEO do?” You won’t mumble. You’ll drop wisdom.

And maybe, just maybe, you’ll even be the one getting paid for it.

Have you ever tried donating blood?

And you are there feeling like superman (or woman) with milk and malt in your hand.

Well, meet James Harrison, the final boss of blood donation.

This man donated blood 1,173 times over 64 years. Okay, it was Plasma, for the serious science students in the back wondering how he didn’t run out of blood.

Why did James keep donating? Because his blood was premium.

You see, childbirth can be a tough process. One of the worst enemies is a condition where the mother’s immune system decides to attack the baby’s red blood cells. Science calls it Hemolytic Disease of the Newborn (or if you want to sound extra smart, Erythroblastosis Fetalis).

It mostly happens when a Rhesus-negative mother is carrying a Rhesus-positive baby. The mom’s immune system sees the baby’s red blood cells and says, Who is this intruder? Then it starts attacking with full force.

This is where James Harrison (or his plasma) comes in like a superhero diving into action.

His blood contained something called Anti-D antibodies. They are like highly trained security personnel whose job is to quickly clear out any Rh-positive red cells from the baby that enter the mother’s system before her immune cells can react.

Now, you might say, “But wait, there are other people with Anti-D antibodies.” True. But James’ own was different.

His antibodies had an unusual affinity for Rh-antigens, and even better, they lasted in the bloodstream for a long time. This may be due to the excessive blood transfusion he received when he was 14 during a chest surgery.

Because of this, James’ donations helped save over 2 million babies who might have suffered severe complications, or worse.

The sad news is...He retired from donating at 81 (science had to let him rest), and last month, at the age of 88, he died in his sleep.

But his legacy is untouchable. He gave humanity one of the greatest gifts—life itself.

If, by the time you finish reading this, you understand Nigeria, then I have failed in my explanation. Because Nigeria is not to be understood, it is to be endured.

If Nigeria were a novel, it would be a tragicomedy. But let me attempt the impossible and explain Nigeria using four angles: Class, Politics, Religion, and Region. These fantastic four (or rather, unfantastic four) have shaped Nigeria into the shapeless wonder that it is today.

1. Class.

Everywhere in the world, there are two major classes: the rich and the poor. Nigeria took it personally and added subcategories.

The rich have their layers: old money (those who inherited corruption) and new money (those who just discovered corruption, the ones who shout “DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?” at police checkpoints). The poor, instead of forming one strong unit, have divided themselves further. There’s the iPhone gang vs. the Android warriors. The "My child is in a private school" brigade vs. "Public schools are just fine" committee. The Toyota drivers vs. the Lexus elite, forgetting that it’s the same manufacturer.

At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter what class you belong to. The government is coming for you all equally like a debt collector with no conscience.

2. Politics...

To be a successful politician in Nigeria, you must meet certain criteria. First, you need a highly suspicious past; maybe a missing school certificate, an age that fluctuates like the exchange rate, or, if you’re feeling ambitious, a criminal record file with the FBI that is bigger than a PHD dissertation. If you can combine all these, congratulations. You’re qualified to run for office.

But here’s the real trick....how to win the people's hearts. It’s surprisingly easy.

If you, as a politician, decide to pay salaries on time, build roads, and govern well with a listening ear, just forget about a second term. They will cast you out like the evil spirit that is holding down their destiny. Why? Because Nigerians are suspicious of good governance. They believe a leader who makes life too easy is up to something.

Instead, be wicked. Make their lives difficult. Let the economy suffocate them like carbon monoxide. That’s when they will respect you. It's like when you meet a new innocent-looking girl, and you think being her Romeo will make her love you, instead she is looking for a man to turn and twist her for hardcore BDSM. Nigerians like their leaders toxic. And you can afford to be toxic because you don't even need them or their taxes or their productivity. There is no incentive for things to work because as long as activities are going on Niger Delta, your monthly FAAC is secure.

And if things get tough, don’t panic, you still have two powerful wildcards: Religion and Region.

3. Religion

Nigeria is a highly religious country. Half the population is Christian, the other half is Muslim. But the greatest irony is if you commit a crime, don’t bother getting a lawyer. Just make sure your victim and judge attend the same church or mosque as you. Case almost dismissed.

As a politician, this is where you shine. On Sunday, you go to the biggest church in town, wear your starched white agbada, and pose for pictures while kneeling dramatically with your hands raised, (Bonus point: Rub aboniki in your eyes) before the altar. Social media will do the rest, by evening, people will be calling you "God’s chosen leader." Whereas the only person that chose you is your political godfather.

But that's not all.... Know how to tell a story. Tell the people your great-great-great grandparents were muslim, even christened yourself a muslim name. Remember you need a very controversial past.

Then on Friday, you switch it up like a magician. Go to the mosque, hold a fat brown envelope, and bow so low your forehead kisses the ground.

4. Region/tribe.

Now, this is where Nigeria really shines in an unshining way.

South is predominantly Christian, while the North is mainly Muslim. But within the South, the Yorubas and Igbos are busy suspecting each other like two rival housewives, instead of realizing the Hausa in the North are siphoning half of the nation's wealth with a straw the size of an elephant trunk. And somehow, despite all the money that has passed through the North, it remains the poverty headquarters of the country.

If racism is the stench of rotten eggs, then tribalism in Nigeria is the smell of a corpse that has been decomposing since 1967. And Nigerian politicians love it. Why struggle to be the people's enemy when you can make them enemies of themselves? Divide and conquer 101.

The only place unity exists in this country is on the coat of arms. And the only way to make sense of this crime scene called country is to book a flight, fly down to Lagos, and then by the third day, you don't know whether to criticize or to sympathize, but you know you want out because truly nothing makes sense.

mariovito:
Good analogy and conclusion

😏😏

Have you heard the gist about Ada?

Ada was like every other Nigerian girl, but the difference was that....

She could stretch money like a rubber band. Not because she wanted to, but because she had no choice. Her monthly take-home was 200k, and she was raising three children. By force, she had become "pajawiri" financial expert, her budget so tight that even air had to take permission before entering.

Every month, her brain would light up like streetlights whenever she received the alert. It wasn't a soft life, but it was moving. Everything was balanced, on a knife edge.

Then one day, Ada saw an opportunity at work. A tiny loophole that made it possible for her to "corner" (read: embezzle) 1M per month.

Maybe it was God answering her prayers. Maybe it was temptation. But Ada didn’t waste time debating. She helped herself, every single month.

As expected, it was as if she had applied makeup to her lifestyle.

Her kids switched to a bougie school. The landlord who used to frown at her now smiled because rent was dropping early. Her wardrobe went from a “God no go shame us” before to an “instagram aesthetics” after. She wasn't a pilot, but she was in cloud 9.

This went on for five years. Until one fateful Monday, new management came in and audited the accounts. They blocked all loopholes.

Now, Ada is back to her original 200k salary. But there’s a huge problem, her lifestyle now has a 1M-monthly deficit that must be filled.

Ada’s story isn’t unique...

Okay, fine, she’s imaginary, but the struggle is very real especially for addicts.

You see, addiction is not a one-way story. It’s not just about "bad habits", it’s about the brain rewiring itself.

Every time you do something your body wants...like eat when you are hungry, receive a credit alert when you are broke, or get a like notification on your post, the brain rewards the body by releasing a small dose of dopamine. The small dose of dopamine is Ada's 200k, but addiction is like discovering a cheat code that hijacks the brain into releasing excess dopamine over and over again.

That’s why addicts struggle to stop. It’s not just willpower, it’s the withdrawal syndrome that comes with it. Their brains, now used to the one-million-lifestyle, suddenly start shouting, “We die here” when the supply is cut off.

And that is why addiction is deeper than just “self-control” or moral advice.

Whether it’s food, drugs, betting, or even social media, once the brain adapts to an upgraded dopamine level, going back feels like suffering.

So, if you see someone battling addiction, before you say “just stop na”, remember Ada. She too, thought she could stop. Until she couldn’t.

Samantha125:
How is it not advisable? And I thought donating blood is voluntary without any monetary exchange.

Do people in Nigeria sell their blood?

It's not advisable because you should only donate once in 120 days. But commercial donors don't adhere to that rule, and try to donate as much as possible for the money.

Samantha125:
My friends and I used to donate our blood almost every year back in varsity.

I personally donated so that I could get those free snacks and drinks because even though I could afford buying myself those snacks and drinks, nothing is as good as free food...

Lol. People still donate blood for money. Not advisable though.

Imagine waking up one cool morning, feeling like a nice person. You decide, “Today, I shall do good” So, off you go to the blood bank, chest out, shoulders high, ready to donate blood.

Only for them to tell you, “Oga, abeg shift.”

Okay, maybe not like that. But there are many reasons why they might politely tell you to carry your good intentions elsewhere. And no, it’s not always because you have one or two infections.

First thing, your age.

This is especially true for those who look 15 but are actually pushing 30 (or vice versa). Some centers might hand you a questionnaire that includes...Sexual history. Recent. Travel history. Drug use. Tattoos.

Please, don’t lie. It’s not JAMB. Nobody will flog you. It’s confidential (we listen, we don't judge), and the goal is to keep both you and the patients safe.

Next are your vital signs...

Your body temperature, weight, and blood pressure must be within a healthy range. If your temperature is high enough to boil water, or your weight is so light, the wind could win the fight, you may be the one that needs blood.

Now, let’s talk about your blood.

You may feel good and think you are a walking reservoir of blood. But that decision is not up to you. In fact, it's not up to the lab scientists, that's why they take a small sample of your blood, run it through the machine, and wait for the result.

And then...The Screening Stage

This is where things get serious. They’ll test for HIV, Hepatitis B, Hepatitis C, and Syphilis. If your results show any red flags, no need to panic. It’s confidential, and honestly, that might just be your signal to take care of yourself instead of donating.

(And yes, we know some people come to “donate” just to check if their treatment is working. We see you.)

At the end of the day, all these steps aren’t to waste your time or break your spirit. It’s about making sure the person receiving the blood gets the best quality possible.

So, before you head out to donate, eat well, stay healthy, and make sure your blood is as premium as your heart.

Now, who’s ready to donate blood?

MaxInDHouse:
When i earned something i don't loose it i'm not interested in whatever you think afterwards i earned that comment and i will forever make use of it so you can go back and delete it that's your own cup of coffee!

You are a worst than a slowpoke. At least some morons don't have low self-esteem. Imagine saying "earned" as if you earned an Olympic gold medal. So comments are your life achievements? You are sick and you have no one to tell you.

Every Sunday, Nigerians march to church, and somewhere between the praise and offering, an intercessory prayer for the country sneaks in.

It has become a tradition like fuel scarcity in December.

We pray with passion. We pray with sweat. We pray like Nigeria’s transformation is just one more prayer point away.

"Oh Lord, touch the hearts of our leaders" "Father, turn Nigeria into Canada (minus the cold)" "Jehovah overdo, arise and scatter bad governance"

The way some people scream, you’d think all that is standing between Nigeria and greatness is volume.

But let’s imagine for a moment that God, in His less busy hours, actually listens. After all, what God cannot do doesn't exist

He sighs, shakes His head at our wahala, and decides to act. He calls one of those awkward-looking angels, you know, the type that always has to start with "Be not afraid" because their appearance alone can give a grown man hypertension.

This angel lands in Nigeria, stretches out his hand, and poof!, the president, VP, governors, senators, all of them, gone. Peacefully or forcefully, it doesn’t matter. Every single politician that made you hiss last week is wiped off the system.

Then, on national TV (hopefully not NTA), the angel makes an announcement:

"Nigerians, you now have a clean slate. Choose your leaders wisely."

And what happens next?

Somehow, as if by jazz, someone even worse will find their way into power. You don't have to be an Einstein to figure that one out.

Because the problem isn’t just the leaders, it’s the system. The system keeps serving them to us like an overpriced plate of rice with one miserable piece of meat.

A system with weak institutions—institutions with teeth but no bite. A system where people loudly pray for change but secretly wish for their turn to eat national cake like a hungry lion eyeing a sick gazelle.

Reform doesn’t start from the head. It starts from the road that leads to the head.

And this is why, time and time again, election after election, Nigerians always end up with leaders that make them ask, "Did we vote or did we just swear for ourselves?"

If the paths to power remain broken, another "wicked" (because Nigerians must add an insult when describing politicians) person will simply stroll into Aso Rock and continue from where the last one stopped.

And don’t just take my word for it. Read Why Nations Fail by Nobel-winning economist Daron Acemoglu. He describes places like Nigeria as having extractive institutions. Institutions designed not to serve the people, but to drain them dry like wet cloth in the sun.

And if there’s one institution that needs urgent reform in this country, it’s...

The Judiciary.

Have you ever wondered why politicians fight tooth and nail to weaken the spine of the judiciary?

They bribe judges, blackmail them, and, if necessary, assault them because a strong judiciary is bad for business. How will they steal in peace if someone is waiting to jail them?

Every Nigerian politician's playbook starts with crippling the courts. A weak judiciary means they can loot in broad daylight while the law just stands there, confused, like an NYSC corper at their first PPA.

And the worst part?

A powerless judiciary watches helplessly as Nigeria’s most valuable resources—worth billions of dollars—are exported to countries with functioning institutions in exchange for millions that disappear before they even reach the budget. A level of foolishness so intense, that even a further maths teacher would need a calculator to understand it.

So maybe next Sunday, when Nigerians go to church, the intercessory prayer should shift a little. Instead of asking for "good leaders", maybe it’s time to pray for "strong institutions" instead. And maybe our village people are not actually in our villages with calabash and our pictures, they are in Abuja with pen and papers to sign the next document to extract the little we have left.

Because if the judiciary remains weak, then the next agbado economist is just around the corner, warming up and waiting for substitution.

And the paradox of it all?

The power to fix the judiciary is in the hands of the one person who benefits the most from its weakness: the GCFR himself.

owerrezeorba:
Dude!!!! You are Genius
I enjoyed reading everything up there,

Xilsbridalhouse:
AI again? This is really scary but God is bigger than these things and will sort you out.

God or not, AI has come to stay. It's up to individuals to evolve or wither.

Greenlandz:
My question is, can I gain widespread audience and subsequently attract potential music promoters/Sponsors by making songs on YouTube?

Long walk to freedom.

Xilsbridalhouse:
If this piece is originally yours, then I hope you are making money from writing.

I don’t read long epistles, Infact started reading from the second paragraph, but you got me glued, and I had to start from the top, just to savor every detail.

Well done, only if this is your piece though.

You even made me a writer reading your write-up

Almost nobody is paying for writing again. AI decimated that industry already.

There was this viral meme about Ronaldo being banned from YouTube because he has too many fans. The logic was that YouTube wouldn’t be able to pay him because his subscriber count would be too high.

And boom...

One day, Ronaldo opened a channel.

Before anyone could say Siuuuuuu, he was already breaking records like it was a penalty kick against a nervous goalkeeper. Fastest channel to hit 1M subs, then 10M, then 50M, and now sitting pretty at 75M. And guess what? YouTube is still standing tall, like an iroko tree laughing in the face of a storm.

Now, Ronaldo is a billionaire, so pretty sure he won’t be losing sleep over YouTube’s monthly AdSense check. But if he ever feels generous, I’m more than happy to drop my account details. No stress.

So, what happened?

Well, you see...

That meme was wrong. Like "2 + 2 = 3" wrong. Because YouTube doesn’t pay creators from its own pockets. In fact, Ronaldo showing up was like a jackpot for YouTube, not a financial disaster.

But before we get there, let’s start from the beginning.

How YouTube Makes Money

Google owns YouTube, so their monetization models are cousins. The key difference is that you can pay to remove the ads on YouTube. Your best bet on Google is to use Adblockers.

YouTube makes money in two major ways:

1️⃣ The “Advertisers, Come Take My Money” Model

Advertisers line up like fans at a stadium entrance, throwing money at YouTube to show you their very important ads, like that one where a guy in a suit tells you why you urgently need to buy insurance.

YouTube happily takes their money, runs some algorithmic magic to ensure the ads reach the right people and boom! That’s why you see those 1-million-second unskippable ads right when you’re about to find out who the murderer was.

2️⃣ The “We Know Ads Are Annoying, So Pay Us” Model

After torturing us with ads, YouTube slides into our DMs like: "Hey, we know those ads are annoying. But guess what? If you pay us $10/month, they will disappear like your salary."

And just like that, YouTube is getting paid on both sides. Collecting from advertisers and then collecting again from users who are running away from those same ads. If that’s not business genius, I don’t know what is.

Now, this raises the question: how do YouTubers make money?

No, YouTubers don’t get a cut from your data subscription. That money goes straight to your network provider, who will still text you at 11 PM to say you have "DOUBLE DATA."

Instead, creators can make money through AdSense, sponsorships, affiliate marketing, dropshipping, and other hustles. But let’s focus on AdSense since that’s what affects Ronaldo’s channel.

Here’s the deal: When a YouTuber signs up for AdSense, YouTube says:

"No problem. But we will share the money, 32% for us, 68% for you."

So, for every $1 an advertiser pays, the YouTuber gets $0.68. It ain't much but it's honest work.

But wait, there’s more...

When you pay YouTube for a Premium subscription (to remove ads), do they share that money with creators? LOL, yes. YouTube is a cheerful giver. But the sharing formula is a mystery. So keep watching before your favorite creator applies to McDonalds.

But the more people that watch a video, the more money the video will generate. There is more nuance to it though. All videos are equal, but some videos are more equal. But some videos are like the location of the audience (US audience will generate more $$$ than audience from Congo), the type of video (tech videos rank above skit videos), the length of the video (the longer the better), etc.

That’s why your favorite YouTubers will sacrifice their whole village before getting straight to the point. Don't blame them. They have bills to pay. And you have time to waste.

Now, Back to Ronaldo

The original meme assumed YouTube was some struggling company borrowing money from the World Bank to pay creators. So if Ronaldo and his football army ever created a channel, YouTube would go bankrupt.

Reality check? Wrong.

Ronaldo didn’t kill YouTube. He boosted it. More people joined the platform, more eyeballs saw ads, more Premium users signed up, and YouTube made more money than ever.

A win-win situation for YouTube. Maybe the house always wins after all.

It’s another Sunday, which means another day to explain to my mom why I didn’t go to church. She hasn’t called yet, but trust me, she is just letting me marinate in my guilt before striking.

This time, I’m going to use “ slightly under the weather” excuse. It’s vague enough to avoid follow-up questions but serious enough to earn me seven days of peace before the next interrogation.

But before I face her inevitable call, my mind is already wandering, hands clasped behind my back, pacing through the wide, dusty desert of thoughts, about why people actually go to church.

Okay, yes, God said we should worship Him. Agreed. But are people still going to church for God, or is it another weekly hunt for hope?

Now, this question is like an orphan with no home.

There’s no right or wrong answer because, whatever you say, someone will pull out a needle of counterarguments and pop your balloon of logic.

Still, the question deserves a good airing out, maybe some ideas to unravel from this tangled skein of thought.

I haven’t been to church in, like, four years? So, maybe things have changed. But given the state of the economy, I doubt it’s for the better. If anything, I suspect church services are now seasoned with an extra pinch of prosperity sermons and hope.

Lost your job? "Look up to God for another!" Hate your life? "God is about to change your story!" Broke? "A mighty financial breakthrough is coming, Amen?" Meanwhile, the country’s economy is gasping for air like an asthmatic sprint champion, but hey, “fast for 100 days, and your miracle will come” (Disclaimer: Results may vary. Please consult your doctor before embarking on extreme hunger.)

It’s almost like sick patients trusting doctors for a miracle cure, they’ll swallow anything, even if it’s just colorful chalk in a pill.

Faith, in times of adversity, becomes a salve for wounds both visible and invisible.

Of course, I don't want my mom would hear all this because she will immediately conclude I’m either an atheist or the harbinger of Anti-Christ. Next thing I know, I'm drinking holy oil and bathing with holy water for the next 3 days.

Neither is true, by the way. I believe in a Creator, yes, Creator, not necessarily “God.”

I just don’t buy into the idea that everything started with a random cosmic “Big Bang,” as if the universe was born because two galaxies decided to fist-bump.

But back to my Sunday ritual. When next week rolls around, I’ll probably tell my mom another lie.

Maybe something about how there was no electricity to iron my clothes. She’ll frown, sigh, and pray for my “return to the flock,”

But I’ll let her keep going to church. It genuinely makes her happy, and let’s be honest, there’s nothing better than seeing your mom's face shining like morning sun with joy.

So, if a weekly dose of sermons, hymns, and holy promises puts that smile on her face, who am I to judge? I may not have gone to church in years, but hey, I’m not completely heartless.




Lalasticlala
nlfpmod
mynd44
Dominique

How did she end up with 40 body counts? Because no way she dated 40 men before you. Was she into hookups or she was animashaun? Either way, her red flag is brighter than China's flag.

I don't have problems with these billionaires, who am I in the grand scheme of things? My problem is with people taking sides in the billionaires fight. Because at the end of it, whoever wins, we lose.

EmperorIsaac:
The same honor they give to their dads, even more, is what I demand from all of them. The moment I see any behavior, incompatible with parental-style reverence, I walk away. Therefore, most times, they don't even get to the level where they can disrespect me directly, as it becomes instantly clear that they are crossing the line whenever they attempt to challenge the laid down unspoken rules. I've heard some of them say to me, "I don't know why I'm afraid of you...I fear that one day, you will just block me!" And, I smiled!

Alphaest male. 🙌

But your draconian rule na die oo.

MTN no want urgent 2k again. Na porn addicts I pity.

imagrg:
Set standards for most men are:
She has big nyash,
She has a fine face.
Then they get disappointed when they do the thrust and find out that they are merely digging and pouring into a borehole!

Too many dodoyo for the street

nnamdi640:
This is what I was talking about before another guy interrupted me in one particular whatapp group I belong by saying body count is what matters not virginity, I was shocked to hear such from a fellow guy.

He's gonna learn.

In the beginning, God created Adam and Eve.

And even though I wasn’t there, I like to imagine it was supposed to be man and woman vs. the world, a proper "Bonnie and Clyde" situation, minus the guns and getaway cars.

Fast forward 10,000 years, and what do we have now?

Man vs. Woman.

Just last week, I saw a tweet from a man suffering from a midlife crisis: "Men need to be as ruthless as women."

I knew immediately that this was about relationships because when it comes to wars, business, and full-blown wickedness, history has shown that men take the trophy.

But somehow, in the relationship department, women have built a reputation for ruthlessness, and men are just waking up to the game.

You see, Gender dynamics are complex and as fluid as water, capable of flowing in any direction.

That's why one direction I love to look at is the evolution angle.

What do I mean?

Remember "Survival of the fittest?" Well, in gender dynamics, it’s survival of the sharpest. Bless you, Charles Darwin.

Women’s so-called ruthlessness is not wickedness, it’s evolution. And it's largely not their fault. Just humans doing human things.

Think about it...Women are weaker vessels. (The Bible said it, not me).

Actually, if you have ever been in an emergency you will know that's true, and if you still have doubts, go and watch Titanic.

But they have to be strong where it matters.

They have to choose one husband from tens (or even hundreds, depending on her beauty and maybe BBL levels) suitors. And this choice is serious business.

Deep down, she knows that her survival (and that of her future children) depends largely on the man she picks. So she must set standards.

The woman considers things like height (because who wants short children?), maybe it’s attractiveness or degree. But most importantly, money must be involved.

It’s up to men to meet these standards or remain in the talking stage till thy kingdom comes.

This ruthless selection skill is passed down from mother to daughter, ensuring that every generation of women is more ruthless than the last.

But What About Men?

Did men not have standards too?

They did. Some still do. But most have dropped their standards like Naira rates.

And if we’re being honest, evolution is to blame again.

Back then, our forefathers only had one big standard:
"Are you a virgin?". Seems they knew about Okafor's law even before Okafor was born.

In fact, some cultures even provided a white bedsheet on the wedding night as a litmus test. (I once watched a film where the man agreed to cut himself to stain the bedsheet to save the woman from shame).

Then science came and said, "The hymen can be broken by many non-sexual activities."

Then feminism came and said, "Not all women bleed on their first time."

Then men said, "Okay, let’s lower the standard before we develop high blood pressure."

That’s how "Are you a virgin?" transformed into "What’s your body count?"

But there are two counters: the lady’s mind and the lady’s mouth. And more often than not, they do not align.

It didn’t take long for men to catch on. And since body count is not essential for their survival, men lowered their standards again.

This time, they threw the whole question idea out of the window. They simply went with the flow, "Huh, she has good character" hoped for the best, and maybe a DNA result.

But Women? Even More Ruthless.

Women, on the other hand, have only raised their standards it's as if they are competing with the inflation rates.

Maybe that tweet is a sign that men are finally waking up, and realizing they need to raise their standards, instead of raising children that don’t resemble them.

It’ll be interesting to see what the future holds.

But if Mr Darwin is right, men may never become as "ruthless" as women.

After all, we now see some men asking women "How many children do you have?"

These men are willing to start a lifetime game at 1-0 or maybe 2-0 down even before the first whistle.

Olachase:
My own imagination

1, What if the one that created the earth decided to pay it a visit

2, what if the the earth mistakenly move closer to the sun 🤧🤧

3, what if the sun exploded

1. I'm sure he will be disappointed. Maybe order a Noah 2.0.

2. That won't be good. We will all die from the extreme heat. The earth is at a perfect distance from the sun. Both should keep rotating on their axis like that

3. If you live long enough for the next 5 billion years, you will get your answer.

SporaD8:
Lols! You're a clown!
I actually thought you'd be left-handed.
Any which way, whenever you have more of your weird thought episode, tag me.

Roger that.

SporaD8:
C'mon, no jokes! You strike me like a leftist.
Those are the people that think outside the herds mentality.

No jokes fr. I'm just a chill dude with no political tag