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Watch It! That Poor Beggar In Your Neighbourhood May Be Working For Some ‘Big Man’

By TrueLifeTori
Apr 22, 2017, 08:27 Am61322
The late American hotelier and founder of the Hilton Hotels chain, Conrad Nicholson Hilton, once said, “Charity is a supreme virtue, and the great channel through which the mercy of God is passed onto mankind.”

Most of us apparently understand this concept and many often truly want to be charitable to needy members of the society. The confusion, however, is that we no longer know who is truly in need. Across our cities, there is a steadily increasing number of Smart Alecs who live off the misfortune of those poor, needy ones, especially those living with various forms of disabilities.

Our reporter’s experience yesterday morning attests to this. At the ever-busy Maza-Maza bus terminal in Lagos, a convergence point for many travellers to far-flung regions of the country, this cripple on a makeshift wooden board fitted with rollers was being harassed by a tout (agbero).

“Commot for road make passengers enter bus, or else I go bundle you commot for here,” the agbero said in a croaky voice as he hauled a heavy Ghana-must-go bag into the trunk of an 18-seater bus. “You think say because your oga don settle you can do anyhow.”

READ ALSO: http://truelifetori.com/my-kindness-to-a-total-stranger-put-me-into-a-huge-debt-and-nearly-landed-me-in-big-wahala/

The cripple, who could not have been more than 20 years of age, quietly wheeled himself out of the way to avoid trouble with the agbero. Even a lunatic in Lagos knows you don’t argue with these folks who always seem high on something.

“Beggar get oga?” our reporter who, on her way to an assignment stopped by to buy recharge card, asked jokingly. It was more out of curiosity.

“Dey there now,” said the agbero offhandedly. But looking up and seeing the beautiful face of the enquirer, he attempted to switch to good English. “One man come here to drop him and others very early in the morning and come to carry them back in the evening. Me I sleep for this park so I dey see him. They are his ATM, while we dey here dey hustle from morning to night.”

Our reporter wanted to find out more, but the agbero was not willing to say more but subtly threatened the cripple to talk or be thrown out of the park.

Isa, as he called himself, admitted he has a master whom he works for, but would not say his name nor his location. The master, according to Isa, is from Bauchi State, North-East Nigeria. All he does is to bring cripples from Bauchi to Lagos, offer them accommodation and protection, provide them with necessary tools and send them out on the daily business of begging for alms.

“We dey five for this park. Our master dey drive us come park early in the morning and by evening, that kind 9 o’clock, he go come carry us back. From the money wey we dey make every day, our master pay us small, give some to our papa or mama for village, then he go keep everything,” he said.

TrueLifeTori also gathered that the so-called master, who operates mostly in the shadows, surfaces occasionally to “settle” the park managers so that his “employees” will be allowed to continue their business unhindered.
http://truelifetori.com/share-tori/

Watch It! That Poor Beggar In Your Neighbourhood May Be Working For Some ‘Big Man’

By TrueLifeTori

The late American hotelier and founder of the Hilton Hotels chain, Conrad Nicholson Hilton, once said, “Charity is a supreme virtue, and the great channel through which the mercy of God is passed onto mankind.”

Most of us apparently understand this concept and many often truly want to be charitable to needy members of the society. The confusion, however, is that we no longer know who is truly in need. Across our cities, there is a steadily increasing number of Smart Alecs who live off the misfortune of those poor, needy ones, especially those living with various forms of disabilities.

Our reporter’s experience yesterday morning attests to this. At the ever-busy Maza-Maza bus terminal in Lagos, a convergence point for many travellers to far-flung regions of the country, this cripple on a makeshift wooden board fitted with rollers was being harassed by a tout (agbero).

“Commot for road make passengers enter bus, or else I go bundle you commot for here,” the agbero said in a croaky voice as he hauled a heavy Ghana-must-go bag into the trunk of an 18-seater bus. “You think say because your oga don settle you can do anyhow.”

READ ALSO: http://truelifetori.com/my-kindness-to-a-total-stranger-put-me-into-a-huge-debt-and-nearly-landed-me-in-big-wahala/

The cripple, who could not have been more than 20 years of age, quietly wheeled himself out of the way to avoid trouble with the agbero. Even a lunatic in Lagos knows you don’t argue with these folks who always seem high on something.

“Beggar get oga?” our reporter who, on her way to an assignment stopped by to buy recharge card, asked jokingly. It was more out of curiosity.

“Dey there now,” said the agbero offhandedly. But looking up and seeing the beautiful face of the enquirer, he attempted to switch to good English. “One man come here to drop him and others very early in the morning and come to carry them back in the evening. Me I sleep for this park so I dey see him. They are his ATM, while we dey here dey hustle from morning to night.”

Our reporter wanted to find out more, but the agbero was not willing to say more but subtly threatened the cripple to talk or be thrown out of the park.

Isa, as he called himself, admitted he has a master whom he works for, but would not say his name nor his location. The master, according to Isa, is from Bauchi State, North-East Nigeria. All he does is to bring cripples from Bauchi to Lagos, offer them accommodation and protection, provide them with necessary tools and send them out on the daily business of begging for alms.

“We dey five for this park. Our master dey drive us come park early in the morning and by evening, that kind 9 o’clock, he go come carry us back. From the money wey we dey make every day, our master pay us small, give some to our papa or mama for village, then he go keep everything,” he said.

TrueLifeTori also gathered that the so-called master, who operates mostly in the shadows, surfaces occasionally to “settle” the park managers so that his “employees” will be allowed to continue their business unhindered.

Watch It! That Poor Beggar In Your Neighbourhood May Be Working For Some ‘Big Man’

By TrueLifeTori

The late American hotelier and founder of the Hilton Hotels chain, Conrad Nicholson Hilton, once said, “Charity is a supreme virtue, and the great channel through which the mercy of God is passed onto mankind.”

Most of us apparently understand this concept and many often truly want to be charitable to needy members of the society. The confusion, however, is that we no longer know who is truly in need. Across our cities, there is a steadily increasing number of Smart Alecs who live off the misfortune of those poor, needy ones, especially those living with various forms of disabilities.

Our reporter’s experience yesterday morning attests to this. At the ever-busy Maza-Maza bus terminal in Lagos, a convergence point for many travellers to far-flung regions of the country, this cripple on a makeshift wooden board fitted with rollers was being harassed by a tout (agbero).

“Commot for road make passengers enter bus, or else I go bundle you commot for here,” the agbero said in a croaky voice as he hauled a heavy Ghana-must-go bag into the trunk of an 18-seater bus. “You think say because your oga don settle you can do anyhow.”

READ ALSO: http://truelifetori.com/my-kindness-to-a-total-stranger-put-me-into-a-huge-debt-and-nearly-landed-me-in-big-wahala/

The cripple, who could not have been more than 20 years of age, quietly wheeled himself out of the way to avoid trouble with the agbero. Even a lunatic in Lagos knows you don’t argue with these folks who always seem high on something.

“Beggar get oga?” our reporter who, on her way to an assignment stopped by to buy recharge card, asked jokingly. It was more out of curiosity.

“Dey there now,” said the agbero offhandedly. But looking up and seeing the beautiful face of the enquirer, he attempted to switch to good English. “One man come here to drop him and others very early in the morning and come to carry them back in the evening. Me I sleep for this park so I dey see him. They are his ATM, while we dey here dey hustle from morning to night.”

Our reporter wanted to find out more, but the agbero was not willing to say more but subtly threatened the cripple to talk or be thrown out of the park.

Isa, as he called himself, admitted he has a master whom he works for, but would not say his name nor his location. The master, according to Isa, is from Bauchi State, North-East Nigeria. All he does is to bring cripples from Bauchi to Lagos, offer them accommodation and protection, provide them with necessary tools and send them out on the daily business of begging for alms.

“We dey five for this park. Our master dey drive us come park early in the morning and by evening, that kind 9 o’clock, he go come carry us back. From the money wey we dey make every day, our master pay us small, give some to our papa or mama for village, then he go keep everything,” he said.

TrueLifeTori also gathered that the so-called master, who operates mostly in the shadows, surfaces occasionally to “settle” the park managers so that his “employees” will be allowed to continue their business unhindered.

DO YOU HAVE A TOUCHING STORY TO SHARE? Visit: http://truelifetori.com/share-tori/

Watch It! That Poor Beggar In Your Neighbourhood May Be Working For Some ‘Big Man’

By TrueLifeTori

The late American hotelier and founder of the Hilton Hotels chain, Conrad Nicholson Hilton, once said, “Charity is a supreme virtue, and the great channel through which the mercy of God is passed onto mankind.”

Most of us apparently understand this concept and many often truly want to be charitable to needy members of the society. The confusion, however, is that we no longer know who is truly in need. Across our cities, there is a steadily increasing number of Smart Alecs who live off the misfortune of those poor, needy ones, especially those living with various forms of disabilities.

Our reporter’s experience yesterday morning attests to this. At the ever-busy Maza-Maza bus terminal in Lagos, a convergence point for many travellers to far-flung regions of the country, this cripple on a makeshift wooden board fitted with rollers was being harassed by a tout (agbero).

“Commot for road make passengers enter bus, or else I go bundle you commot for here,” the agbero said in a croaky voice as he hauled a heavy Ghana-must-go bag into the trunk of an 18-seater bus. “You think say because your oga don settle you can do anyhow.”

READ ALSO: http://truelifetori.com/my-kindness-to-a-total-stranger-put-me-into-a-huge-debt-and-nearly-landed-me-in-big-wahala/

The cripple, who could not have been more than 20 years of age, quietly wheeled himself out of the way to avoid trouble with the agbero. Even a lunatic in Lagos knows you don’t argue with these folks who always seem high on something.

“Beggar get oga?” our reporter who, on her way to an assignment stopped by to buy recharge card, asked jokingly. It was more out of curiosity.

“Dey there now,” said the agbero offhandedly. But looking up and seeing the beautiful face of the enquirer, he attempted to switch to good English. “One man come here to drop him and others very early in the morning and come to carry them back in the evening. Me I sleep for this park so I dey see him. They are his ATM, while we dey here dey hustle from morning to night.”

Our reporter wanted to find out more, but the agbero was not willing to say more but subtly threatened the cripple to talk or be thrown out of the park.

Isa, as he called himself, admitted he has a master whom he works for, but would not say his name nor his location. The master, according to Isa, is from Bauchi State, North-East Nigeria. All he does is to bring cripples from Bauchi to Lagos, offer them accommodation and protection, provide them with necessary tools and send them out on the daily business of begging for alms.

“We dey five for this park. Our master dey drive us come park early in the morning and by evening, that kind 9 o’clock, he go come carry us back. From the money wey we dey make every day, our master pay us small, give some to our papa or mama for village, then he go keep everything,” he said.

TrueLifeTori also gathered that the so-called master, who operates mostly in the shadows, surfaces occasionally to “settle” the park managers so that his “employees” will be allowed to continue their business unhindered.

DO YOU HAVE A TOUCHING STORY TO SHARE? Visit: http://truelifetori.com/share-tori/

Everyday Tori Watch it! That poor beggar in your neighbourhood may be working for some ‘big man’


The late American hotelier and founder of the Hilton Hotels chain, Conrad Nicholson Hilton, once said, “Charity is a supreme virtue, and the great channel through which the mercy of God is passed onto mankind.”

Most of us apparently understand this concept and many often truly want to be charitable to needy members of the society. The confusion, however, is that we no longer know who is truly in need. Across our cities, there is a steadily increasing number of Smart Alecs who live off the misfortune of those poor, needy ones, especially those living with various forms of disabilities.

Our reporter’s experience yesterday morning attests to this. At the ever-busy Maza-Maza bus terminal in Lagos, a convergence point for many travellers to far-flung regions of the country, this cripple on a makeshift wooden board fitted with rollers was being harassed by a tout (agbero).

“Commot for road make passengers enter bus, or else I go bundle you commot for here,” the agbero said in a croaky voice as he hauled a heavy Ghana-must-go bag into the trunk of an 18-seater bus. “You think say because your oga don settle you can do anyhow.”

READ ALSO: http://truelifetori.com/my-kindness-to-a-total-stranger-put-me-into-a-huge-debt-and-nearly-landed-me-in-big-wahala/

The cripple, who could not have been more than 20 years of age, quietly wheeled himself out of the way to avoid trouble with the agbero. Even a lunatic in Lagos knows you don’t argue with these folks who always seem high on something.

“Beggar get oga?” our reporter who, on her way to an assignment stopped by to buy recharge card, asked jokingly. It was more out of curiosity.

“Dey there now,” said the agbero offhandedly. But looking up and seeing the beautiful face of the enquirer, he attempted to switch to good English. “One man come here to drop him and others very early in the morning and come to carry them back in the evening. Me I sleep for this park so I dey see him. They are his ATM, while we dey here dey hustle from morning to night.”

Our reporter wanted to find out more, but the agbero was not willing to say more but subtly threatened the cripple to talk or be thrown out of the park.

Isa, as he called himself, admitted he has a master whom he works for, but would not say his name nor his location. The master, according to Isa, is from Bauchi State, North-East Nigeria. All he does is to bring cripples from Bauchi to Lagos, offer them accommodation and protection, provide them with necessary tools and send them out on the daily business of begging for alms.

“We dey five for this park. Our master dey drive us come park early in the morning and by evening, that kind 9 o’clock, he go come carry us back. From the money wey we dey make every day, our master pay us small, give some to our papa or mama for village, then he go keep everything,” he said.

TrueLifeTori also gathered that the so-called master, who operates mostly in the shadows, surfaces occasionally to “settle” the park managers so that his “employees” will be allowed to continue their business unhindered.

DO YOU HAVE A TOUCHING STORY TO SHARE? Visit: http://truelifetori.com/share-tori/

My Husband Denied Me And Our Children For The Sake Of Money, Now He’s Nowhere To Be Found

By TrueLifeTori

Justin and I got married in May 2007. To the glory of God, we did not have any issues with child-bearing. Our son, Ebube, came exactly 10 months after, followed by Amara, our first daughter, in 2011, and our last daughter, Chidalu, in 2013.

Five of us lived happily in a rented two-bedroom apartment in the Ikotun area of Lagos.

We were not rich, but we were also not poor. Justin worked as a reporter in one of the major national dailies in Lagos covering the travel and tourism sector. As such, he was always on the move, especially on foreign trips, leaving me in charge of the household. He would sometimes travel for as long as one week at a stretch. In fact, it was part of why he never wanted me to work in a bank. I studied Banking and Finance at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka and desperately wanted to build a career in banking, but he said bankers don’t have time for their families.

“Both of us can’t be far from home at the same time. My job takes me out all the time. One person needs to be closer home to take care of the children,” he argued.

And so, I took up a teaching appointment in a neighbourhood school, where I taught Economics in the senior secondary section. The pay was meagre, but it was convenient because our children attended nursery and primary school in the same school. I drove them to school every morning in my husband’s old Peugeot 406 salon car and returned with them after school.

Because of his numerous overseas travels, his relatives thought he was a very rich man and some of them often came to him asking for financial assistance, and they never believed him whenever he told them he didn’t have money.

“These overseas trips, you see, I don’t pay for them. They are sponsored by companies in the sector I report. They pay the visa fee and tickets, cater for hotel accommodation and give us daily stipend for feeding and other expenses. At the end of these trips, sometimes you return home with something, sometimes you don’t,” he would tell them.

Justin was a good man by human estimation; he was not stingy and sometimes gave assistance to his relatives from even the little he had. But he had one weakness – women.

READ ALSO:http://truelifetori.com/i-killed-my-girlfriend-and-covered-it-now-her-spirit-wont-let-me-have-peace/

Some of his colleagues who came around once in a while would sometimes joke about his romantic escapades, especially during his numerous overseas trips, but he always told me to ignore them. And I did. After all, between my husband and his friends, who was I supposed to believe?

“Just be careful, and always remember that the kids and I love you,” I always told him.

I knew he had a soft spot for women even before we got married, even though he never shoved it in my face. And I always believed that someday something would happen that would make him turn a new leaf.

Then something happened. The newspaper my husband was working for began to struggle and could no longer pay staff salaries. By December of 2015, they were owed as much as nine months’ salary arrears. He began to desperately look for alternatives but none was forthcoming.

Then again, luck smiled on him. His former boss in Lagos was appointed the managing director of the state-owned newspaper in our home state in the South-Eastern part of the country. He invited my husband over to come and work with him as the deputy editor, an offer he grabbed with both hands and immediately began making arrangements to relocate to down there.

“Let me go and test the waters. If everything falls in place, I will come back and pick all of you,” he assured me.

I had no reservations about it. Our children and I were used to being without him for days; we would surely cope.

I was glad that he was moving closer home. It would be an opportunity to put one or two things in place. I was also happy that he was moving to a state-owned newspaper which, like many government-owned companies in Nigeria, was not necessarily profit-driven. The company was always guaranteed of subventions from government for staff salaries and for printing, whether it makes money or not.

Little did I know then that the movement down to the East would spell doom and erode the joy we had always known as a family.

When he arrived the state capital, Dr Chike, his former boss, gave him a room in his boys’ quarters pending when he would get a place in town. We spoke on phone daily and he always updated me with developments. He told me the boys’ quarters was manageable, that his oga’s wife was nice to him, always ensuring that he had a meal in the house at least once a day, which was usually dinner because he usually left the house early to nose around for news.

When he got a place in town, he called to tell me. Situation began to improve gradually because he began to earn regular salary. As for the other perks he used to get as a journalist working in Lagos, they were no longer coming. The newspaper was state-based and so was not popular. He sent us money occasionally and visited us in Lagos twice in 2016.

In late 2016, he called to tell me about Sharon, a project facilitator from Holland whom he had met during one of his trips.

“She’s in Nigeria to do a project with our state government and has agreed that I will work with her on the project. Honey, this is our chance,” my husband told me.

“Glory to God who giveth all things,” I said.

Sharon bought a car, a Toyota Highlander jeep, and registered it in my husband’s name. He became her tour guide, leading her wherever she wanted to go, especially to meetings with top government officials.

Soon, the project kicked off in earnest and money began to flow. My husband increased the monthly allowance he always sent to us. In June 2016, he called me to say he had completed the five-bedroom bungalow he started on a plot of land he bought in the state capital immediately after our wedding. I was euphoric and began to contemplate final relocation to the East so that our family would be complete again. When I raised the issues, he told me to hold on awhile.

“Hold on a little, dear. Let’s look at end of the year. That’s the ideal time so that when you’re returning home for Christmas, you know it’s final,” he told me.

I shared the good news with our children and they were excited. We began to make arrangements. I told my children’s respective teachers to begin to prepare their testimonials in readiness for our journey home. We began to buy some things we would need for our journey.

I was shocked when in August last year one of my husband’s relatives, Onuwa, whom I wasn’t even close to, called me to say she heard that my husband was living with a pregnant oyibo woman in his newly-completed house in the state capital and that the rumour was that the pregnancy was his.

I didn’t bother to call him. Luckily, our school was on long vacation. So the next day I simply picked our three children, packed a few things and took the next available bus to our state capital.

My husband was horrified when he saw us. Our children rushed to greet him shouting, “Daddy, Daddy!”

“Who are these people?” Sharon, who had been alerted by noise, asked as she came out of one of the rooms. She was heavily pregnant and felt very relaxed, like a woman in her husband’s home.

“Honey, meet my younger sister, Helen, and her kids, Ebube, Amara and Chidalu,” he said.

“Oh, wow! Welcome,” Sharon said and came close to shake my hands. In that moment of wild rage, I pushed her hard and she fell into the couch nearby.

For the first time in our nine-year marriage, my husband descended on me and pounded me into a pulp, right in front of this strange woman and our children.

“You want to spoil my show, abi?” he said in Igbo so that Sharon would not understand. “This woman is my mugu. She vomited the money I used to complete this house, the money I’ve been sending you, and she is ready to vomit even more if I play card. But I see you are enjoying the want and misery that we have been living in all these years?”

I lay there in a heap, wondering what had come over my husband. Was it poverty or greed or love for women that drove him into such an extreme behaviour?

I wept all night and couldn’t sleep. Our children managed to sleep amid sobs. My husband didn’t come anywhere near us but slept in the same room with Sharon. Early in the morning I heard some noise from their section of the house, I heard doors open and close, and then there was silence.

When the day broke, I managed to get up and move around, and to my greatest amazement, they were gone. It’s been six months now and no word from my husband. My children keep asking me, “Where is our daddy?” What do I tell them?

My Husband Denied Me And Our Children For The Sake Of Money, Now He’s Nowhere To Be Found

By TrueLifeTori

Justin and I got married in May 2007. To the glory of God, we did not have any issues with child-bearing. Our son, Ebube, came exactly 10 months after, followed by Amara, our first daughter, in 2011, and our last daughter, Chidalu, in 2013.

Five of us lived happily in a rented two-bedroom apartment in the Ikotun area of Lagos.

We were not rich, but we were also not poor. Justin worked as a reporter in one of the major national dailies in Lagos covering the travel and tourism sector. As such, he was always on the move, especially on foreign trips, leaving me in charge of the household. He would sometimes travel for as long as one week at a stretch. In fact, it was part of why he never wanted me to work in a bank. I studied Banking and Finance at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka and desperately wanted to build a career in banking, but he said bankers don’t have time for their families.

“Both of us can’t be far from home at the same time. My job takes me out all the time. One person needs to be closer home to take care of the children,” he argued.

And so, I took up a teaching appointment in a neighbourhood school, where I taught Economics in the senior secondary section. The pay was meagre, but it was convenient because our children attended nursery and primary school in the same school. I drove them to school every morning in my husband’s old Peugeot 406 salon car and returned with them after school.

Because of his numerous overseas travels, his relatives thought he was a very rich man and some of them often came to him asking for financial assistance, and they never believed him whenever he told them he didn’t have money.

“These overseas trips, you see, I don’t pay for them. They are sponsored by companies in the sector I report. They pay the visa fee and tickets, cater for hotel accommodation and give us daily stipend for feeding and other expenses. At the end of these trips, sometimes you return home with something, sometimes you don’t,” he would tell them.

Justin was a good man by human estimation; he was not stingy and sometimes gave assistance to his relatives from even the little he had. But he had one weakness – women.

READ ALSO:http://truelifetori.com/i-killed-my-girlfriend-and-covered-it-now-her-spirit-wont-let-me-have-peace/

Some of his colleagues who came around once in a while would sometimes joke about his romantic escapades, especially during his numerous overseas trips, but he always told me to ignore them. And I did. After all, between my husband and his friends, who was I supposed to believe?

“Just be careful, and always remember that the kids and I love you,” I always told him.

I knew he had a soft spot for women even before we got married, even though he never shoved it in my face. And I always believed that someday something would happen that would make him turn a new leaf.

Then something happened. The newspaper my husband was working for began to struggle and could no longer pay staff salaries. By December of 2015, they were owed as much as nine months’ salary arrears. He began to desperately look for alternatives but none was forthcoming.

Then again, luck smiled on him. His former boss in Lagos was appointed the managing director of the state-owned newspaper in our home state in the South-Eastern part of the country. He invited my husband over to come and work with him as the deputy editor, an offer he grabbed with both hands and immediately began making arrangements to relocate to down there.

“Let me go and test the waters. If everything falls in place, I will come back and pick all of you,” he assured me.

I had no reservations about it. Our children and I were used to being without him for days; we would surely cope.

I was glad that he was moving closer home. It would be an opportunity to put one or two things in place. I was also happy that he was moving to a state-owned newspaper which, like many government-owned companies in Nigeria, was not necessarily profit-driven. The company was always guaranteed of subventions from government for staff salaries and for printing, whether it makes money or not.

Little did I know then that the movement down to the East would spell doom and erode the joy we had always known as a family.

When he arrived the state capital, Dr Chike, his former boss, gave him a room in his boys’ quarters pending when he would get a place in town. We spoke on phone daily and he always updated me with developments. He told me the boys’ quarters was manageable, that his oga’s wife was nice to him, always ensuring that he had a meal in the house at least once a day, which was usually dinner because he usually left the house early to nose around for news.

When he got a place in town, he called to tell me. Situation began to improve gradually because he began to earn regular salary. As for the other perks he used to get as a journalist working in Lagos, they were no longer coming. The newspaper was state-based and so was not popular. He sent us money occasionally and visited us in Lagos twice in 2016.

In late 2016, he called to tell me about Sharon, a project facilitator from Holland whom he had met during one of his trips.

“She’s in Nigeria to do a project with our state government and has agreed that I will work with her on the project. Honey, this is our chance,” my husband told me.

“Glory to God who giveth all things,” I said.

Sharon bought a car, a Toyota Highlander jeep, and registered it in my husband’s name. He became her tour guide, leading her wherever she wanted to go, especially to meetings with top government officials.

Soon, the project kicked off in earnest and money began to flow. My husband increased the monthly allowance he always sent to us. In June 2016, he called me to say he had completed the five-bedroom bungalow he started on a plot of land he bought in the state capital immediately after our wedding. I was euphoric and began to contemplate final relocation to the East so that our family would be complete again. When I raised the issues, he told me to hold on awhile.

“Hold on a little, dear. Let’s look at end of the year. That’s the ideal time so that when you’re returning home for Christmas, you know it’s final,” he told me.

I shared the good news with our children and they were excited. We began to make arrangements. I told my children’s respective teachers to begin to prepare their testimonials in readiness for our journey home. We began to buy some things we would need for our journey.

I was shocked when in August last year one of my husband’s relatives, Onuwa, whom I wasn’t even close to, called me to say she heard that my husband was living with a pregnant oyibo woman in his newly-completed house in the state capital and that the rumour was that the pregnancy was his.

I didn’t bother to call him. Luckily, our school was on long vacation. So the next day I simply picked our three children, packed a few things and took the next available bus to our state capital.

My husband was horrified when he saw us. Our children rushed to greet him shouting, “Daddy, Daddy!”

“Who are these people?” Sharon, who had been alerted by noise, asked as she came out of one of the rooms. She was heavily pregnant and felt very relaxed, like a woman in her husband’s home.

“Honey, meet my younger sister, Helen, and her kids, Ebube, Amara and Chidalu,” he said.

“Oh, wow! Welcome,” Sharon said and came close to shake my hands. In that moment of wild rage, I pushed her hard and she fell into the couch nearby.

For the first time in our nine-year marriage, my husband descended on me and pounded me into a pulp, right in front of this strange woman and our children.

“You want to spoil my show, abi?” he said in Igbo so that Sharon would not understand. “This woman is my mugu. She vomited the money I used to complete this house, the money I’ve been sending you, and she is ready to vomit even more if I play card. But I see you are enjoying the want and misery that we have been living in all these years?”

I lay there in a heap, wondering what had come over my husband. Was it poverty or greed or love for women that drove him into such an extreme behaviour?

I wept all night and couldn’t sleep. Our children managed to sleep amid sobs. My husband didn’t come anywhere near us but slept in the same room with Sharon. Early in the morning I heard some noise from their section of the house, I heard doors open and close, and then there was silence.

When the day broke, I managed to get up and move around, and to my greatest amazement, they were gone. It’s been six months now and no word from my husband. My children keep asking me, “Where is our daddy?” What do I tell them?

I Loved And Married Him With All My Heart, I Never Knew I Was Merely His Ticket To America

By TrueLifeTori.com

Jane Frances did not see it coming when Mark approached her for a relationship. It was at the wedding of two former students of Imo State University in Owerri, South-East Nigeria, where both of them also graduated from.
Although they had known each other way back in their undergraduate days, having been in the same Faculty of Biological Sciences, they were never close. In fact, they never really interacted with each other beyond the courteous hello and hi. She knew nothing about him apart from the fact that he was one year ahead of her and that he once contested and lost the position of the president of the faculty students’ association. Their paths, though, did cross once or twice, especially during those few times she joined in picnics organised by the association leaders, but he never indicated even the faintest interest in her.
So, a proposal from him was the last thing she expected – especially coming more than five years after they left university. And she told him so.
“For some people love may happen at first sight, but for many others it takes some time to be convinced that what you feel is truly love, and in the end it doesn’t matter how long it has taken,” he said in defence.
It sounded sensible, but she was not swept off her feet. She was neither desperate nor in want of love. Indeed, men had been asking for her hand in marriage, especially since her relocation to the United States of America, where, after months of training she got a well-paid job as a caregiver in an old people’s home. Only that none of the suitors was Igbo and she personally wished to marry a man from her ethnic group. A number of her friends who went into the so-called cross-cultural marriage did not have wonderful tales to tell.
Rather, she asked for time to think about it. When she had time to consider it, she reasoned that Mark was not bad as a person. He may not pass as Mr Nigeria, both in physical appearance and in intellectual capacity, but he was okay in his own way. Neither was she really looking for Mr Nigeria; all she needed was a good man who would love, respect and cherish her.
Mark ticked most of her boxes. He was gainfully employed in a commercial bank in Enugu and also ran a side gig preparing business proposals for small businesses seeking loans from banks. He could, therefore, not be considered a gold-digger.
So, she gave him a yes after a few weeks of her return to the US. After all, among all the guys asking for her hand, he was the devil she knew.
They got married in August 2012 in a quiet wedding ceremony in Enugu. After their honeymoon, which they spent visiting exotic sites in Abuja, Uyo and Calabar, she went back to her job in the States while he stayed back in Enugu.
Thereafter, Jane Frances initiated the process of getting her husband to join her in the States. Meanwhile, she made it a point of duty to return to Nigeria twice a year. Each of those times she bore her travel expenses all alone. Mark never offered to reimburse her, and she never really complained. She was equal to task.
During those visits, which she always timed to fall within her fertile period, Jane Frances hoped to conceive. But this was never to be as Mark always found a reason to quarrel with her and frustrate her plans each time until she travelled back in anger. But in her sober moments, she often exonerated him, attributing their frequent altercations to distance.
“I don’t blame him sometimes,” she would reason. “We haven’t really had time to study and understand each other, our likes and dislikes. That’s why we quarrel over little issues.”
She sincerely hoped everything would fall in place when they eventually lived together under the same roof.
That time finally came. In December 2015, Mark joined his wife in the United States. Jane Frances was overjoyed at the thought of sleeping and waking up every day with her man by her side.
On his part, Mark was also euphoric. At the back of his mind, however, he knew it was not because he had come to live together with Jane Frances; it was because his life-long dream of living in America as a legal immigrant had come true.
Few months down the line, there was no end to the couple’s regular squabbles. Mark would not fulfil his marital obligation to his wife. Apart from a few occasions when he reluctantly acceded, he always found a reason not to, especially during her fertile days. As a biological scientist by training, he too understood those calculations very well.
“Baby I’m really very weak tonight. I’ve been badly stressed. Please try to understand,” he said this particular night. “No, I don’t understand you. I don’t want to understand you. We’ve lived apart from each other more than three years since our marriage. We have no child yet. Now that we have the opportunity all you do is give excuses,” she fumed.
“Child, child, child, that’s all you ever care about! You don’t ever care how I feel, do you? I don’t have a job. You think I’m happy just sitting around the house while you pick the bills? I need a job. I want to be able to take care of you!” He screamed. It was a calculated emotional card and it worked.
She calmed him down and promised to intensify the job search by putting in word for him in a few more places.
But he was not appeased. He needed a job, no doubt, but he wanted something much more. He wanted out. His ultimate dream had been realised, so the marriage could go to blazes.
But with this her pacifist attitude, always making peace whenever he stirred up trouble, he was not going to have it on a platter. He needed to do something that would really get at her.
“I know what to do,” he told himself.
A week later, Jane Frances got home from work and found Mark in bed with a white lady. She was furious. He was unapologetic. Bitter verbal exchange followed. He would have gone violent, but he knew the consequences of laying a finger on a lady. This was not Nigeria. Instead, he picked his bag and stormed out in a fit of rage. He never returned. She never bothered.
“It was then I understood his game. All those quarrels during my visits to Nigeria were deliberate; it was all part of the game. He never wanted us to have a baby together so he could move on with no strings attached. Mark never loved me. He only saw me as his visa to America, the land of his dream,” Jane Frances wrote in a Whatsapp message to her friend Chioma last month.
“We’ve been separated now for about 10 months. In February he filed for divorce. I’m still studying the papers and consulting with my lawyer. But I’ve decided to let him have his way. No grudges. My peace of mind is more important to me than anything else,” she wrote.

http://truelifetori.com/i-loved-and-married-him-with-all-my-heart-i-never-knew-i-was-merely-his-ticket-to-america/

My kindness to a total stranger put me into a huge debt and nearly landed me in big wahala


A friend of mine from South-eastern Nigeria bears the name Ogomegbulam. He told me the name loosely translates as “May my good gesture not kill me”. I thought of that name when my kindness to a total stranger nearly landed me in big trouble.

My name is Moses Gaiya. I was born and brought up in Jos, Plateau State, but had to relocate to Lagos in 2010 in search of greener pastures. Those who know Jos know that despite its good climate, the city’s pastures are not green enough – nowhere near as green as Lagos, the land of opportunities.

I was no JJC (Johnnie Just Come) in Lagos because I had visited the city twice before my relocation. I had this close friend in Lagos who let me stay with him until I got enough money to rent an apartment for myself. Being a big believer in putting my best in all I do, I worked so hard, avoided women and liquor, and within one year I had enough money to rent a three-bedroom flat in Mafoluku, away from the Agege area where my friend resided. I went for a three-bedroom flat so there would be enough rooms in case my family wanted to visit.

I had a shop at Ikeja (Computer Village) where I sold electronics and with time, I created a small space for repairs because I noticed that most people only went for new gadgets when the old ones got spoilt beyond repair. My business flourished because I treated my customers nicely.

READ ALSO: http://truelifetori.com/i-finally-felt-the-joy-of-motherhood-after-11-years-of-excruciating-agony-humiliation-and-stigmatisation/

On my way to work every morning, I usually stopped at a newsstand close by to have a glimpse of what was going on in the country and also to enjoy the interesting heated debates which are common around newsstands. Sometimes I participated, at other times I just stood back and watched.

It was during one of those mornings at the stand that I met Derek. Derek was one of those people that you cannot but notice even in a crowd, not because of his looks but his voice. His intonation alone told anyone who cared that he had lived outside Nigeria. He not only spoke like Oyinbo but every word that came out of his mouth made a lot of sense. That day, I ended up staying longer at the stand and we got acquainted before I took my leave.

Subsequently, I saw Derek at the stand virtually every day. He was as constant as the Northern star. Some mornings I got there before him and some days he got there before me, but I always left before him to attend to my business.

Then one morning, I didn’t see Derek at the stand as usual. For the next four days he didn’t show up. When I inquired about him from the regular faces, they had no clue as to his whereabouts or why he was missing at the stand. I was worried.

As fate would have it, three weeks later, I saw Derek around my office. I had closed for the day and was heading towards my car when I sighted him sitting beside a food vendor. I walked up to him, greeted him and asked why he had not shown up at the stand for so long.

“Bruh, life hasn’t been easy,” he told me. “I’ve been putting up with a friend, but the guy just woke up one morning a few weeks ago and decided I’d overstayed my welcome. I’m homeless, man!”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Derek homeless? With all his polished English and fine arguments? But then, things are not always what they seem. Life happens.

Since I was all alone in the house and could do with some company, I thought I could shelter him. What are friends (or acquaintances if you wish) for?

Derek was a jolly good fellow and we had great times together. He told me he worked with a consulting firm in Ikeja, but I never had time to go see there or maybe I never saw the need to. Anytime we talked about life and family, I noticed that Derek was always evasive – he avoided talking about his family even when I pushed him to. When I asked him why, he usually said that some things were better left unsaid.

Two weeks after I took Derek in, my mother came visiting. She was sore with me and said I was insane for accommodating a total stranger.

“Are you stupid? At your age and size, don’t you have common sense, or are you trying to get yourself killed? What do you know about this man? Nothing!” my mother screamed.

I sensed a mixture of fear and anger as she practically ordered me to send Derek away before I got myself into some serious trouble, but I saw no trouble coming. Besides, Derek was a wonderful company.

Not too long after my mother travelled back to Jos, Derek became ill. I took him from one hospital to another, exhausting all I had in the process. I even had to borrow money at some point.

When his condition wasn’t getting any better, I told him it was time to reach out to his family, but he wouldn’t hear of that. Even in deep sleep, Derek would cling unto his phone as if his life depended on it. I tried taking his phone one day while he was asleep, but his grip on it tightened.

When I could no longer pay the bills, Derek was discharged to probably go home and die. It was then that my mother’s words echoed loudly in my ears and my fears tripled.

“What if the worst happens to Derek now? Who would believe my story? And the police? They would just put me behind bars for a crime I didn’t commit,” I asked no one in particular.

To make matters worse, Derek had become an entirely different person, not the jolly good fellow I used to know. I then saw him as wicked and inconsiderate for not even thinking about me or the pressure he was putting me through. His sickness had gulped my savings, and I had borrowed so much because I believed he would pay me back when he regained his health, but at a point no one was willing to lend me anymore. Perhaps word had gone round Computer Village that I owed many people and there was no hope of paying them back anytime soon.

It was at that point that I remembered his church. Without hesitation, I bundled Derek inside my car and drove him to his church. The moment his church accepted him, I heaved a sigh of relief.

With the help of the church, we started calling all the numbers on his phone until one of them said she was his elder sister. She told us she lived in Lagos. When she came to the church that same day in the company of her husband and driver, I was shocked to the marrow. She was rich by all standards and I wondered why Derek would have such a rich sister living large in Lagos and still choose to suffer.

Derek was taken to another hospital far better than the one I had taken him to. I spent about an hour with them, we exchanged contacts and I left. The following day, I called to know how he was doing and was told that he was doing fine. I could not visit that day but promised to visit the following day. I needed some time to attend to my work since Derek was safely in the hands of his family members.

I was preparing to visit the hospital the next day when Derek’s elder sister arrived with someone whom I later got to know was their younger sister. I wasn’t expecting such an unscheduled visit, though I was the one who gave her my address. They told me they had come for Derek’s belongings. It was so abrupt. No pleasantries, no appreciations, nothing.

I was shocked at their behaviour and told them so. They were not nice at all, those people, and so I asked them to pay me back all I had spent taking their brother from one hospital to the other before I would allow them to take his belongings.

“After killing our brother, you still want us to pay you? You must be a heartless man. Count yourself lucky that we have not instituted a lawsuit against you,” the younger woman said emotionlessly.

I was furious, but this was no time to get mad. The news of Derek’s death was shattering enough. Though he wasn’t related to me in any way, I felt it deep in my soul and I wept. To avoid confrontation, I just opened the room and allowed them to move his belongings.

I later learnt from his pastor that Derek died the very night we took him to the hospital and his family took his remains to the village the following morning. Derek was a good person and I miss him greatly. Even though his family showed no gratitude for my kindness towards their brother, I’m just grateful to God for the opportunity to show kindness and that my kindness did not eventually kill me, though it put me in serious debt that I’m yet to come out of. I still ask myself every day, what if Derek had died in my hands?

READ ALSO: http://truelifetori.com/oh-god-please-bring-my-angel-back-to-me-episode-4/

I am not into drinks but i manage to take once in a while. I was in the traffic this morning and decided to buy a pet bottle of coca cola and was shocked when the vendor said it was N150! I did not buy from him but i later discovered after trying to buy from three shops after i alighted from the bus that that was actually the price. The last time i bought coca was three weeks ago and i bought one for N120. What is going on abeg? Me go just begin drink big cola o