₦airaland Forum

TEDHorsePower:
It is hard to label because everywhere in Owerri are in shambles

Oga, if u can take these pics, there is nothing hard in labeling them. U can even use ur phone to label them before uploading them to Nairaland.

Label them with the dates u took them. We have neutral people that can truthfully verify the pictures.
Please we are waiting.

TEDHorsePower:
Ihedioha may not achieve much because it was as if Okoroawusa wasted 8yrs, just look at Owerri for instance where okoroawusa claimed that he focused for 8yrs

Let him start to achieve the little he can and stop the blame game biko

Abogwara:
Most Imolites already know the names but Nairaland doesn't allow photo pasting hence difficulty in labeling but I will try.

Upload ur pictures first. You can come to comment section and do a thing like dis.

Picture 1......VXYX Road. Picture taken on May 2019

Picture 2.......YZXY Road. Picture taken on Jan 2011


We will verify ur claim and respond back to u.

TEDHorsePower:
How can he rebuild what's in shambles? Okoroawusa did leave anything behind, he squandered resources and wasted the loans he took on molding statues.

Pics: Owerri

Oga, I think we should be more wiser than these. I also beliv we should talk with facts. Can u authoritatively tell us that Rochas did not leave anything worthy behind him both financially and otherwise? Let's assume u are called up as a witness in a law court. Can u boldly repeat what u just said up there?

That apart, u said, and I quote:

How can he rebuild what's in shambles?

. Why did Emeka struggled to become an elected governor of a state he kept saying that was/is in a total decay? What was he thinking he was coming to do? Why was his political campaign slogan REBUILD IMO? Was that to scam Imo ppl?

Oga, this is the time to REBUILD IMO. Let him do that

Mind you, I never supported Rochas in many of his activities in that state, but Ihedioha is making this man seem to have bn the best option than Emeka himself.

TEDHorsePower:
Owerri and Aba are competing in bad roads and filth shame on you lol

See Owerri

Oga, label all these ur pictures. I mean tag Road/Street names the roads on picture and tell us when the pictures were taken. Also go around to take other major roads in Owerri. Try to do this with a balanced conscience.

Emeka, Rebuild Imo State.

I read how the ex-governor organized a program that will facilitate smooth handover and other things as required from an out-going governor to an incoming governor. Emeka Ihedioha avoided all the programmes just to use to fight Okorocha.

I am not a fan to this Okorocha, but Ihedioha is making me tend to sympathize with him and tend to beliv he may finally be better than Emeka.

HORROR IN TH KIDNAPPER'S DEN

It took me a long time of reflections to put this piece together. First, let me thank my husband for the emotional support, the counselling and for his belief in the creator of heaven and earth which we call God or Allah.
The journey began in Auchi. We had travelled to Akure on a Monday, stayed with my husband’s relations in the outskirt of this ancient town. In the evening of Monday, we visited the palace for dinner, my husband being a close friend to son of the King.
On Tuesday, we left for Ibadan, via the Akure-Ilesa road. Our plan was that after attending the wedding in Auchi, we would travel with (my husband) to Lagos, stay for few weeks before returning abroad where I had lived with my husband and children for more than a decade. We were in the car of a close family friend, an accountant who gave his time and energy for our comfort.

We were five in the car, myself, my husband, our daughter, a lady who is my husband’s niece who had joined us in Akure with the hope of travelling with us to Lagos.
The driver accountant maintained a normal speed. He drove professionally. That gave me a lot of comfort and I felt I could find time to sleep a bit. My daughter was next to me, just 9. She was coming to Nigeria with me for the second time.
Shortly after the Ijare junction, the driver felt the wagon’s tires ruptured and decided to pack the car with the hope of changing the tires.

It was like a film. In a jiffy, motley crowd of armed men in military uniform came out of the bush. They fired at the boot of the car. Ahead of us, five of them came out of the bush, another two came from the rear. My daughter screamed: “Mummy, daddy, what’s going on”. There was no time to say a word. They marched us through into the bush, firing into the sky. They hit me on my chest, hit my daughter on her head, blood oozed. At this time, it was better to kill me. I shouted at one of the armed men. His response was hell. He went straight for my private part, tore my dress with his gun. The others ripped my dresses. I was left with my undies. My husband and my daughter started crying. Two of them dug their teeth into my breasts.
While attending a secondary school in Adamawa, I had lived with some Fulani, so I understand a few Fulani words. I started pleading, at least for my daughter. To my shock, at gun point, they removed the dress of my little girl, one of them carried her on his head as my baby struggled, shouting “Daddy, mummy, what’s going on. Help me.”

I could not help myself. We were marched for 9 hours. I was half Unclad. My daughter was totally Unclad. A felt her tears was like a stream of blood on her cheek. Our phones had been seized. We ended up in an ungoverned region in the thick of the forest. We met a well organized group.
There were some kidnapped victims, I saw two women, two ladies and three men. There were some people with their legs chained to trees. They were as if half dead. We were separated. I was separated from my husband. My daughter was taken away. I only heard her scream intermittently. I did not know what they were doing to her.
These men, now about two dozen had a full kitchen, they had a huge camp and a traditional medical team. But the camps appear isolated from each other. We heard noises afar indicating it might be nuclear settlements of camps. Right in my presence, I saw them pack the remains of a woman. They took her and buried her few meters away from us. She had tribal marks.
I cannot describe the agony of 6 days in captivity in this little piece. I cannot talk about how they asked my husband to choose between myself being raped or that his daughter be raped. My husband broke down in uncontrollable tears. One of them hit him saying “Yoruba bastard, you dey cry. Idiot.”
They now gave him the option that he should be raped by one homosexual among them. My husband is a devout Muslim. He told them homosexual and rape of any kind was against Islam. They hit him with the butt of AK 47: “What do you know about Islam?”
You can imagine, you are being asked to choose between being raped by a homosexual, your daughter, just nine years old, or your wife being raped? They gave the forth option, if you fail to choose, they would rape my daughter, rape my husband and rape me.
I made myself the sacrificial lamb. My husband begged, saying they should name their price. One of them asked him to bend down. Three beastly criminals sat on his back, jumping until he was too weak to stand. I was not allowed to put on any additional cloth on my body for 24 hours. The rain fell once. I became the relic and a sexual museum for the armed men who in turn addressed me and asked questions about my financial standing. New Fulani men joined the camp. They organized military training for the new Fulani men that came, teaching them how to shoot and walk through circles of glowing fire.
We were not released until after 6 days. We had to walk the same zik-zag journey back to the main road, our eyes blindfolded. During the negotiation to pay, they said the money was not for them alone that they had to settle “those who send us”. For me, I see a thriving, organized crime supported by powerful political interests.
Now, I do not think we were released to freedom after paying a whopping 8 million naira. I do not think we can ever be free, we can never be free, from the anguish, the psychological trauma, the nightmares we suffered, the occasional fits of our daughter, her waking up midnight behaving strangely, her asking the same question over and over: “Mummy, mummy, why?. Why.?” I do not have any answer.
In my life, I have never passed through a torture chamber like this. I do not think any society should let this happen. I do not know the fate of those we met, and about 7 other people brought during the 6 days we were in captivity. What I saw was a nation that has collapsed but pretends she lives, a people on life support. Crime is not restricted to Fulani people alone. We have Yoruba criminals. But I don’t Yoruba criminals are not as beastly. These elements are savages. I can’t imagine Yoruba thieves going to Sokoto or Maiduguri to kidnap Fulani people and keep them in their own bushes. It gives me mental torture that this is happening and some fools are even trying to justify or look for excuses.
Well, as a devout Muslim, myself and my family have taken solace in Allah, not the Nigerian police, not the Army, not the governments. We have taken our faith the way it came. I thank God that we have successfully returned to where we live, thousands of miles from Nigeria. We thank God that we have made a vow: Never shall me, any of my children or husband in our lifetime visit Nigeria. Our remains any time we die, will also not be buried in Nigeria. It was a suggestion by my daughter which we all adopted.
I pity the country. I pity her people who continuously walk like the living dead. I pity those who parade themselves as leaders, because they know nothing about what is going on and the abyss the country sunk already.

I pity Yoruba people, oh, I pity you. I pity my people. For me the issue is not about President Buhari. Democracy can produce anything, even the worst in the society.

What I worry about is the conspiracy of silence by the people themselves, the ignorance, the treachery and the illusion that one day, things will get better through another election.


Since I was born in Nigeria, each year had led from bad to worse and on and on. I do not have a solution to what is going on, but I think very soon, hell will let loose upon the earth as long as there is no law and order and anarchy and the rule of brutes is the order of the day.
Once again, there cannot be anything more comforting than my husband who saw what I went through but has been able to encourage me and even encouraged me to write this little piece after months of agony and sociological imbalance. Good night Nigerians.

Copied from a forum of Nigerian Women in Diaspora

HORROR IN TH KIDNAPPER'S DEN

It took me a long time of reflections to put this piece together. First, let me thank my husband for the emotional support, the counselling and for his belief in the creator of heaven and earth which we call God or Allah.
The journey began in Auchi. We had travelled to Akure on a Monday, stayed with my husband’s relations in the outskirt of this ancient town. In the evening of Monday, we visited the palace for dinner, my husband being a close friend to son of the King.
On Tuesday, we left for Ibadan, via the Akure-Ilesa road. Our plan was that after attending the wedding in Auchi, we would travel with (my husband) to Lagos, stay for few weeks before returning abroad where I had lived with my husband and children for more than a decade. We were in the car of a close family friend, an accountant who gave his time and energy for our comfort.

We were five in the car, myself, my husband, our daughter, a lady who is my husband’s niece who had joined us in Akure with the hope of travelling with us to Lagos.
The driver accountant maintained a normal speed. He drove professionally. That gave me a lot of comfort and I felt I could find time to sleep a bit. My daughter was next to me, just 9. She was coming to Nigeria with me for the second time.
Shortly after the Ijare junction, the driver felt the wagon’s tires ruptured and decided to pack the car with the hope of changing the tires.

It was like a film. In a jiffy, motley crowd of armed men in military uniform came out of the bush. They fired at the boot of the car. Ahead of us, five of them came out of the bush, another two came from the rear. My daughter screamed: “Mummy, daddy, what’s going on”. There was no time to say a word. They marched us through into the bush, firing into the sky. They hit me on my chest, hit my daughter on her head, blood oozed. At this time, it was better to kill me. I shouted at one of the armed men. His response was hell. He went straight for my private part, tore my dress with his gun. The others ripped my dresses. I was left with my undies. My husband and my daughter started crying. Two of them dug their teeth into my breasts.
While attending a secondary school in Adamawa, I had lived with some Fulani, so I understand a few Fulani words. I started pleading, at least for my daughter. To my shock, at gun point, they removed the dress of my little girl, one of them carried her on his head as my baby struggled, shouting “Daddy, mummy, what’s going on. Help me.”

I could not help myself. We were marched for 9 hours. I was half naked. My daughter was totally naked. A felt her tears was like a stream of blood on her cheek. Our phones had been seized. We ended up in an ungoverned region in the thick of the forest. We met a well organized group.
There were some kidnapped victims, I saw two women, two ladies and three men. There were some people with their legs chained to trees. They were as if half dead. We were separated. I was separated from my husband. My daughter was taken away. I only heard her scream intermittently. I did not know what they were doing to her.
These men, now about two dozen had a full kitchen, they had a huge camp and a traditional medical team. But the camps appear isolated from each other. We heard noises afar indicating it might be nuclear settlements of camps. Right in my presence, I saw them pack the remains of a woman. They took her and buried her few meters away from us. She had tribal marks.
I cannot describe the agony of 6 days in captivity in this little piece. I cannot talk about how they asked my husband to choose between myself being raped or that his daughter be raped. My husband broke down in uncontrollable tears. One of them hit him saying “Yoruba bastard, you dey cry. Idiot.”
They now gave him the option that he should be raped by one homosexual among them. My husband is a devout Muslim. He told them homosexual and rape of any kind was against Islam. They hit him with the butt of AK 47: “What do you know about Islam?”
You can imagine, you are being asked to choose between being raped by a homosexual, your daughter, just nine years old, or your wife being raped? They gave the forth option, if you fail to choose, they would rape my daughter, rape my husband and rape me.
I made myself the sacrificial lamb. My husband begged, saying they should name their price. One of them asked him to bend down. Three beastly criminals sat on his back, jumping until he was too weak to stand. I was not allowed to put on any additional cloth on my body for 24 hours. The rain fell once. I became the relic and a sexual museum for the armed men who in turn addressed me and asked questions about my financial standing. New Fulani men joined the camp. They organized military training for the new Fulani men that came, teaching them how to shoot and walk through circles of glowing fire.
We were not released until after 6 days. We had to walk the same zik-zag journey back to the main road, our eyes blindfolded. During the negotiation to pay, they said the money was not for them alone that they had to settle “those who send us”. For me, I see a thriving, organized crime supported by powerful political interests.
Now, I do not think we were released to freedom after paying a whopping 8 million naira. I do not think we can ever be free, we can never be free, from the anguish, the psychological trauma, the nightmares we suffered, the occasional fits of our daughter, her waking up midnight behaving strangely, her asking the same question over and over: “Mummy, mummy, why?. Why.?” I do not have any answer.
In my life, I have never passed through a torture chamber like this. I do not think any society should let this happen. I do not know the fate of those we met, and about 7 other people brought during the 6 days we were in captivity. What I saw was a nation that has collapsed but pretends she lives, a people on life support. Crime is not restricted to Fulani people alone. We have Yoruba criminals. But I don’t Yoruba criminals are not as beastly. These elements are savages. I can’t imagine Yoruba thieves going to Sokoto or Maiduguri to kidnap Fulani people and keep them in their own bushes. It gives me mental torture that this is happening and some fools are even trying to justify or look for excuses.
Well, as a devout Muslim, myself and my family have taken solace in Allah, not the Nigerian police, not the Army, not the governments. We have taken our faith the way it came. I thank God that we have successfully returned to where we live, thousands of miles from Nigeria. We thank God that we have made a vow: Never shall me, any of my children or husband in our lifetime visit Nigeria. Our remains any time we die, will also not be buried in Nigeria. It was a suggestion by my daughter which we all adopted.
I pity the country. I pity her people who continuously walk like the living dead. I pity those who parade themselves as leaders, because they know nothing about what is going on and the abyss the country sunk already.

I pity Yoruba people, oh, I pity you. I pity my people. For me the issue is not about President Buhari. Democracy can produce anything, even the worst in the society.

What I worry about is the conspiracy of silence by the people themselves, the ignorance, the treachery and the illusion that one day, things will get better through another election.


Since I was born in Nigeria, each year had led from bad to worse and on and on. I do not have a solution to what is going on, but I think very soon, hell will let loose upon the earth as long as there is no law and order and anarchy and the rule of brutes is the order of the day.
Once again, there cannot be anything more comforting than my husband who saw what I went through but has been able to encourage me and even encouraged me to write this little piece after months of agony and sociological imbalance. Good night Nigerians.

Copied from a forum of Nigerian Women in Diaspora

HORROR IN TH KIDNAPPER'S DEN

It took me a long time of reflections to put this piece together. First, let me thank my husband for the emotional support, the counselling and for his belief in the creator of heaven and earth which we call God or Allah.
The journey began in Auchi. We had travelled to Akure on a Monday, stayed with my husband’s relations in the outskirt of this ancient town. In the evening of Monday, we visited the palace for dinner, my husband being a close friend to son of the King.
On Tuesday, we left for Ibadan, via the Akure-Ilesa road. Our plan was that after attending the wedding in Auchi, we would travel with (my husband) to Lagos, stay for few weeks before returning abroad where I had lived with my husband and children for more than a decade. We were in the car of a close family friend, an accountant who gave his time and energy for our comfort.

We were five in the car, myself, my husband, our daughter, a lady who is my husband’s niece who had joined us in Akure with the hope of travelling with us to Lagos.
The driver accountant maintained a normal speed. He drove professionally. That gave me a lot of comfort and I felt I could find time to sleep a bit. My daughter was next to me, just 9. She was coming to Nigeria with me for the second time.
Shortly after the Ijare junction, the driver felt the wagon’s tires ruptured and decided to pack the car with the hope of changing the tires.

It was like a film. In a jiffy, motley crowd of armed men in military uniform came out of the bush. They fired at the boot of the car. Ahead of us, five of them came out of the bush, another two came from the rear. My daughter screamed: “Mummy, daddy, what’s going on”. There was no time to say a word. They marched us through into the bush, firing into the sky. They hit me on my chest, hit my daughter on her head, blood oozed. At this time, it was better to kill me. I shouted at one of the armed men. His response was hell. He went straight for my private part, tore my dress with his gun. The others ripped my dresses. I was left with my undies. My husband and my daughter started crying. Two of them dug their teeth into my breasts.
While attending a secondary school in Adamawa, I had lived with some Fulani, so I understand a few Fulani words. I started pleading, at least for my daughter. To my shock, at gun point, they removed the dress of my little girl, one of them carried her on his head as my baby struggled, shouting “Daddy, mummy, what’s going on. Help me.”

I could not help myself. We were marched for 9 hours. I was half naked. My daughter was totally naked. A felt her tears was like a stream of blood on her cheek. Our phones had been seized. We ended up in an ungoverned region in the thick of the forest. We met a well organized group.
There were some kidnapped victims, I saw two women, two ladies and three men. There were some people with their legs chained to trees. They were as if half dead. We were separated. I was separated from my husband. My daughter was taken away. I only heard her scream intermittently. I did not know what they were doing to her.
These men, now about two dozen had a full kitchen, they had a huge camp and a traditional medical team. But the camps appear isolated from each other. We heard noises afar indicating it might be nuclear settlements of camps. Right in my presence, I saw them pack the remains of a woman. They took her and buried her few meters away from us. She had tribal marks.
I cannot describe the agony of 6 days in captivity in this little piece. I cannot talk about how they asked my husband to choose between myself being raped or that his daughter be raped. My husband broke down in uncontrollable tears. One of them hit him saying “Yoruba bastard, you dey cry. Idiot.”
They now gave him the option that he should be raped by one homosexual among them. My husband is a devout Muslim. He told them homosexual and rape of any kind was against Islam. They hit him with the butt of AK 47: “What do you know about Islam?”
You can imagine, you are being asked to choose between being raped by a homosexual, your daughter, just nine years old, or your wife being raped? They gave the forth option, if you fail to choose, they would rape my daughter, rape my husband and rape me.
I made myself the sacrificial lamb. My husband begged, saying they should name their price. One of them asked him to bend down. Three beastly criminals sat on his back, jumping until he was too weak to stand. I was not allowed to put on any additional cloth on my body for 24 hours. The rain fell once. I became the relic and a sexual museum for the armed men who in turn addressed me and asked questions about my financial standing. New Fulani men joined the camp. They organized military training for the new Fulani men that came, teaching them how to shoot and walk through circles of glowing fire.
We were not released until after 6 days. We had to walk the same zik-zag journey back to the main road, our eyes blindfolded. During the negotiation to pay, they said the money was not for them alone that they had to settle “those who send us”. For me, I see a thriving, organized crime supported by powerful political interests.
Now, I do not think we were released to freedom after paying a whopping 8 million naira. I do not think we can ever be free, we can never be free, from the anguish, the psychological trauma, the nightmares we suffered, the occasional fits of our daughter, her waking up midnight behaving strangely, her asking the same question over and over: “Mummy, mummy, why?. Why.?” I do not have any answer.
In my life, I have never passed through a torture chamber like this. I do not think any society should let this happen. I do not know the fate of those we met, and about 7 other people brought during the 6 days we were in captivity. What I saw was a nation that has collapsed but pretends she lives, a people on life support. Crime is not restricted to Fulani people alone. We have Yoruba criminals. But I don’t Yoruba criminals are not as beastly. These elements are savages. I can’t imagine Yoruba thieves going to Sokoto or Maiduguri to kidnap Fulani people and keep them in their own bushes. It gives me mental torture that this is happening and some fools are even trying to justify or look for excuses.
Well, as a devout Muslim, myself and my family have taken solace in Allah, not the Nigerian police, not the Army, not the governments. We have taken our faith the way it came. I thank God that we have successfully returned to where we live, thousands of miles from Nigeria. We thank God that we have made a vow: Never shall me, any of my children or husband in our lifetime visit Nigeria. Our remains any time we die, will also not be buried in Nigeria. It was a suggestion by my daughter which we all adopted.
I pity the country. I pity her people who continuously walk like the living dead. I pity those who parade themselves as leaders, because they know nothing about what is going on and the abyss the country sunk already.

I pity Yoruba people, oh, I pity you. I pity my people. For me the issue is not about President Buhari. Democracy can produce anything, even the worst in the society.

What I worry about is the conspiracy of silence by the people themselves, the ignorance, the treachery and the illusion that one day, things will get better through another election.


Since I was born in Nigeria, each year had led from bad to worse and on and on. I do not have a solution to what is going on, but I think very soon, hell will let loose upon the earth as long as there is no law and order and anarchy and the rule of brutes is the order of the day.
Once again, there cannot be anything more comforting than my husband who saw what I went through but has been able to encourage me and even encouraged me to write this little piece after months of agony and sociological imbalance. Good night Nigerians.

Copied from a forum of Nigerian Women in Diaspora

HORROR IN TH KIDNAPPER'S DEN

It took me a long time of reflections to put this piece together. First, let me thank my husband for the emotional support, the counselling and for his belief in the creator of heaven and earth which we call God or Allah.
The journey began in Auchi. We had travelled to Akure on a Monday, stayed with my husband’s relations in the outskirt of this ancient town. In the evening of Monday, we visited the palace for dinner, my husband being a close friend to son of the King.
On Tuesday, we left for Ibadan, via the Akure-Ilesa road. Our plan was that after attending the wedding in Auchi, we would travel with (my husband) to Lagos, stay for few weeks before returning abroad where I had lived with my husband and children for more than a decade. We were in the car of a close family friend, an accountant who gave his time and energy for our comfort.

We were five in the car, myself, my husband, our daughter, a lady who is my husband’s niece who had joined us in Akure with the hope of travelling with us to Lagos.
The driver accountant maintained a normal speed. He drove professionally. That gave me a lot of comfort and I felt I could find time to sleep a bit. My daughter was next to me, just 9. She was coming to Nigeria with me for the second time.
Shortly after the Ijare junction, the driver felt the wagon’s tires ruptured and decided to pack the car with the hope of changing the tires.

It was like a film. In a jiffy, motley crowd of armed men in military uniform came out of the bush. They fired at the boot of the car. Ahead of us, five of them came out of the bush, another two came from the rear. My daughter screamed: “Mummy, daddy, what’s going on”. There was no time to say a word. They marched us through into the bush, firing into the sky. They hit me on my chest, hit my daughter on her head, blood oozed. At this time, it was better to kill me. I shouted at one of the armed men. His response was hell. He went straight for my private part, tore my dress with his gun. The others ripped my dresses. I was left with my undies. My husband and my daughter started crying. Two of them dug their teeth into my breasts.
While attending a secondary school in Adamawa, I had lived with some Fulani, so I understand a few Fulani words. I started pleading, at least for my daughter. To my shock, at gun point, they removed the dress of my little girl, one of them carried her on his head as my baby struggled, shouting “Daddy, mummy, what’s going on. Help me.”

I could not help myself. We were marched for 9 hours. I was half naked. My daughter was totally naked. A felt her tears was like a stream of blood on her cheek. Our phones had been seized. We ended up in an ungoverned region in the thick of the forest. We met a well organized group.
There were some kidnapped victims, I saw two women, two ladies and three men. There were some people with their legs chained to trees. They were as if half dead. We were separated. I was separated from my husband. My daughter was taken away. I only heard her scream intermittently. I did not know what they were doing to her.
These men, now about two dozen had a full kitchen, they had a huge camp and a traditional medical team. But the camps appear isolated from each other. We heard noises afar indicating it might be nuclear settlements of camps. Right in my presence, I saw them pack the remains of a woman. They took her and buried her few meters away from us. She had tribal marks.
I cannot describe the agony of 6 days in captivity in this little piece. I cannot talk about how they asked my husband to choose between myself being raped or that his daughter be raped. My husband broke down in uncontrollable tears. One of them hit him saying “Yoruba bastard, you dey cry. Idiot.”
They now gave him the option that he should be raped by one homosexual among them. My husband is a devout Muslim. He told them homosexual and rape of any kind was against Islam. They hit him with the butt of AK 47: “What do you know about Islam?”
You can imagine, you are being asked to choose between being raped by a homosexual, your daughter, just nine years old, or your wife being raped? They gave the forth option, if you fail to choose, they would rape my daughter, rape my husband and rape me.
I made myself the sacrificial lamb. My husband begged, saying they should name their price. One of them asked him to bend down. Three beastly criminals sat on his back, jumping until he was too weak to stand. I was not allowed to put on any additional cloth on my body for 24 hours. The rain fell once. I became the relic and a sexual museum for the armed men who in turn addressed me and asked questions about my financial standing. New Fulani men joined the camp. They organized military training for the new Fulani men that came, teaching them how to shoot and walk through circles of glowing fire.
We were not released until after 6 days. We had to walk the same zik-zag journey back to the main road, our eyes blindfolded. During the negotiation to pay, they said the money was not for them alone that they had to settle “those who send us”. For me, I see a thriving, organized crime supported by powerful political interests.
Now, I do not think we were released to freedom after paying a whopping 8 million naira. I do not think we can ever be free, we can never be free, from the anguish, the psychological trauma, the nightmares we suffered, the occasional fits of our daughter, her waking up midnight behaving strangely, her asking the same question over and over: “Mummy, mummy, why?. Why.?” I do not have any answer.
In my life, I have never passed through a torture chamber like this. I do not think any society should let this happen. I do not know the fate of those we met, and about 7 other people brought during the 6 days we were in captivity. What I saw was a nation that has collapsed but pretends she lives, a people on life support. Crime is not restricted to Fulani people alone. We have Yoruba criminals. But I don’t Yoruba criminals are not as beastly. These elements are savages. I can’t imagine Yoruba thieves going to Sokoto or Maiduguri to kidnap Fulani people and keep them in their own bushes. It gives me mental torture that this is happening and some fools are even trying to justify or look for excuses.
Well, as a devout Muslim, myself and my family have taken solace in Allah, not the Nigerian police, not the Army, not the governments. We have taken our faith the way it came. I thank God that we have successfully returned to where we live, thousands of miles from Nigeria. We thank God that we have made a vow: Never shall me, any of my children or husband in our lifetime visit Nigeria. Our remains any time we die, will also not be buried in Nigeria. It was a suggestion by my daughter which we all adopted.
I pity the country. I pity her people who continuously walk like the living dead. I pity those who parade themselves as leaders, because they know nothing about what is going on and the abyss the country sunk already.

I pity Yoruba people, oh, I pity you. I pity my people. For me the issue is not about President Buhari. Democracy can produce anything, even the worst in the society.

What I worry about is the conspiracy of silence by the people themselves, the ignorance, the treachery and the illusion that one day, things will get better through another election.


Since I was born in Nigeria, each year had led from bad to worse and on and on. I do not have a solution to what is going on, but I think very soon, hell will let loose upon the earth as long as there is no law and order and anarchy and the rule of brutes is the order of the day.
Once again, there cannot be anything more comforting than my husband who saw what I went through but has been able to encourage me and even encouraged me to write this little piece after months of agony and sociological imbalance. Good night Nigerians.

Copied from a forum of Nigerian Women in Diaspora

HORROR IN TH KIDNAPPER'S DEN

It took me a long time of reflections to put this piece together. First, let me thank my husband for the emotional support, the counselling and for his belief in the creator of heaven and earth which we call God or Allah.
The journey began in Auchi. We had travelled to Akure on a Monday, stayed with my husband’s relations in the outskirt of this ancient town. In the evening of Monday, we visited the palace for dinner, my husband being a close friend to son of the King.
On Tuesday, we left for Ibadan, via the Akure-Ilesa road. Our plan was that after attending the wedding in Auchi, we would travel with (my husband) to Lagos, stay for few weeks before returning abroad where I had lived with my husband and children for more than a decade. We were in the car of a close family friend, an accountant who gave his time and energy for our comfort.

We were five in the car, myself, my husband, our daughter, a lady who is my husband’s niece who had joined us in Akure with the hope of travelling with us to Lagos.
The driver accountant maintained a normal speed. He drove professionally. That gave me a lot of comfort and I felt I could find time to sleep a bit. My daughter was next to me, just 9. She was coming to Nigeria with me for the second time.
Shortly after the Ijare junction, the driver felt the wagon’s tires ruptured and decided to pack the car with the hope of changing the tires.

It was like a film. In a jiffy, motley crowd of armed men in military uniform came out of the bush. They fired at the boot of the car. Ahead of us, five of them came out of the bush, another two came from the rear. My daughter screamed: “Mummy, daddy, what’s going on”. There was no time to say a word. They marched us through into the bush, firing into the sky. They hit me on my chest, hit my daughter on her head, blood oozed. At this time, it was better to kill me. I shouted at one of the armed men. His response was hell. He went straight for my private part, tore my dress with his gun. The others ripped my dresses. I was left with my undies. My husband and my daughter started crying. Two of them dug their teeth into my breasts.
While attending a secondary school in Adamawa, I had lived with some Fulani, so I understand a few Fulani words. I started pleading, at least for my daughter. To my shock, at gun point, they removed the dress of my little girl, one of them carried her on his head as my baby struggled, shouting “Daddy, mummy, what’s going on. Help me.”

I could not help myself. We were marched for 9 hours. I was half naked. My daughter was totally naked. A felt her tears was like a stream of blood on her cheek. Our phones had been seized. We ended up in an ungoverned region in the thick of the forest. We met a well organized group.
There were some kidnapped victims, I saw two women, two ladies and three men. There were some people with their legs chained to trees. They were as if half dead. We were separated. I was separated from my husband. My daughter was taken away. I only heard her scream intermittently. I did not know what they were doing to her.
These men, now about two dozen had a full kitchen, they had a huge camp and a traditional medical team. But the camps appear isolated from each other. We heard noises afar indicating it might be nuclear settlements of camps. Right in my presence, I saw them pack the remains of a woman. They took her and buried her few meters away from us. She had tribal marks.
I cannot describe the agony of 6 days in captivity in this little piece. I cannot talk about how they asked my husband to choose between myself being raped or that his daughter be raped. My husband broke down in uncontrollable tears. One of them hit him saying “Yoruba bastard, you dey cry. Idiot.”
They now gave him the option that he should be raped by one homosexual among them. My husband is a devout Muslim. He told them homosexual and rape of any kind was against Islam. They hit him with the butt of AK 47: “What do you know about Islam?”
You can imagine, you are being asked to choose between being raped by a homosexual, your daughter, just nine years old, or your wife being raped? They gave the forth option, if you fail to choose, they would rape my daughter, rape my husband and rape me.
I made myself the sacrificial lamb. My husband begged, saying they should name their price. One of them asked him to bend down. Three beastly criminals sat on his back, jumping until he was too weak to stand. I was not allowed to put on any additional cloth on my body for 24 hours. The rain fell once. I became the relic and a sexual museum for the armed men who in turn addressed me and asked questions about my financial standing. New Fulani men joined the camp. They organized military training for the new Fulani men that came, teaching them how to shoot and walk through circles of glowing fire.
We were not released until after 6 days. We had to walk the same zik-zag journey back to the main road, our eyes blindfolded. During the negotiation to pay, they said the money was not for them alone that they had to settle “those who send us”. For me, I see a thriving, organized crime supported by powerful political interests.
Now, I do not think we were released to freedom after paying a whopping 8 million naira. I do not think we can ever be free, we can never be free, from the anguish, the psychological trauma, the nightmares we suffered, the occasional fits of our daughter, her waking up midnight behaving strangely, her asking the same question over and over: “Mummy, mummy, why?. Why.?” I do not have any answer.
In my life, I have never passed through a torture chamber like this. I do not think any society should let this happen. I do not know the fate of those we met, and about 7 other people brought during the 6 days we were in captivity. What I saw was a nation that has collapsed but pretends she lives, a people on life support. Crime is not restricted to Fulani people alone. We have Yoruba criminals. But I don’t Yoruba criminals are not as beastly. These elements are savages. I can’t imagine Yoruba thieves going to Sokoto or Maiduguri to kidnap Fulani people and keep them in their own bushes. It gives me mental torture that this is happening and some fools are even trying to justify or look for excuses.
Well, as a devout Muslim, myself and my family have taken solace in Allah, not the Nigerian police, not the Army, not the governments. We have taken our faith the way it came. I thank God that we have successfully returned to where we live, thousands of miles from Nigeria. We thank God that we have made a vow: Never shall me, any of my children or husband in our lifetime visit Nigeria. Our remains any time we die, will also not be buried in Nigeria. It was a suggestion by my daughter which we all adopted.
I pity the country. I pity her people who continuously walk like the living dead. I pity those who parade themselves as leaders, because they know nothing about what is going on and the abyss the country sunk already.

I pity Yoruba people, oh, I pity you. I pity my people. For me the issue is not about President Buhari. Democracy can produce anything, even the worst in the society.

What I worry about is the conspiracy of silence by the people themselves, the ignorance, the treachery and the illusion that one day, things will get better through another election.


Since I was born in Nigeria, each year had led from bad to worse and on and on. I do not have a solution to what is going on, but I think very soon, hell will let loose upon the earth as long as there is no law and order and anarchy and the rule of brutes is the order of the day.
Once again, there cannot be anything more comforting than my husband who saw what I went through but has been able to encourage me and even encouraged me to write this little piece after months of agony and sociological imbalance. Good night Nigerians.

Copied from a forum of Nigerian Women in Diaspora

HORROR IN TH KIDNAPPER'S DEN

It took me a long time of reflections to put this piece together. First, let me thank my husband for the emotional support, the counselling and for his belief in the creator of heaven and earth which we call God or Allah.
The journey began in Auchi. We had travelled to Akure on a Monday, stayed with my husband’s relations in the outskirt of this ancient town. In the evening of Monday, we visited the palace for dinner, my husband being a close friend to son of the King.
On Tuesday, we left for Ibadan, via the Akure-Ilesa road. Our plan was that after attending the wedding in Auchi, we would travel with (my husband) to Lagos, stay for few weeks before returning abroad where I had lived with my husband and children for more than a decade. We were in the car of a close family friend, an accountant who gave his time and energy for our comfort.

We were five in the car, myself, my husband, our daughter, a lady who is my husband’s niece who had joined us in Akure with the hope of travelling with us to Lagos.
The driver accountant maintained a normal speed. He drove professionally. That gave me a lot of comfort and I felt I could find time to sleep a bit. My daughter was next to me, just 9. She was coming to Nigeria with me for the second time.
Shortly after the Ijare junction, the driver felt the wagon’s tires ruptured and decided to pack the car with the hope of changing the tires.

It was like a film. In a jiffy, motley crowd of armed men in military uniform came out of the bush. They fired at the boot of the car. Ahead of us, five of them came out of the bush, another two came from the rear. My daughter screamed: “Mummy, daddy, what’s going on”. There was no time to say a word. They marched us through into the bush, firing into the sky. They hit me on my chest, hit my daughter on her head, blood oozed. At this time, it was better to kill me. I shouted at one of the armed men. His response was hell. He went straight for my private part, tore my dress with his gun. The others ripped my dresses. I was left with my undies. My husband and my daughter started crying. Two of them dug their teeth into my breasts.
While attending a secondary school in Adamawa, I had lived with some Fulani, so I understand a few Fulani words. I started pleading, at least for my daughter. To my shock, at gun point, they removed the dress of my little girl, one of them carried her on his head as my baby struggled, shouting “Daddy, mummy, what’s going on. Help me.”

I could not help myself. We were marched for 9 hours. I was half naked. My daughter was totally naked. A felt her tears was like a stream of blood on her cheek. Our phones had been seized. We ended up in an ungoverned region in the thick of the forest. We met a well organized group.
There were some kidnapped victims, I saw two women, two ladies and three men. There were some people with their legs chained to trees. They were as if half dead. We were separated. I was separated from my husband. My daughter was taken away. I only heard her scream intermittently. I did not know what they were doing to her.
These men, now about two dozen had a full kitchen, they had a huge camp and a traditional medical team. But the camps appear isolated from each other. We heard noises afar indicating it might be nuclear settlements of camps. Right in my presence, I saw them pack the remains of a woman. They took her and buried her few meters away from us. She had tribal marks.
I cannot describe the agony of 6 days in captivity in this little piece. I cannot talk about how they asked my husband to choose between myself being raped or that his daughter be raped. My husband broke down in uncontrollable tears. One of them hit him saying “Yoruba bastard, you dey cry. Idiot.”
They now gave him the option that he should be raped by one homosexual among them. My husband is a devout Muslim. He told them homosexual and rape of any kind was against Islam. They hit him with the butt of AK 47: “What do you know about Islam?”
You can imagine, you are being asked to choose between being raped by a homosexual, your daughter, just nine years old, or your wife being raped? They gave the forth option, if you fail to choose, they would rape my daughter, rape my husband and rape me.
I made myself the sacrificial lamb. My husband begged, saying they should name their price. One of them asked him to bend down. Three beastly criminals sat on his back, jumping until he was too weak to stand. I was not allowed to put on any additional cloth on my body for 24 hours. The rain fell once. I became the relic and a sexual museum for the armed men who in turn addressed me and asked questions about my financial standing. New Fulani men joined the camp. They organized military training for the new Fulani men that came, teaching them how to shoot and walk through circles of glowing fire.
We were not released until after 6 days. We had to walk the same zik-zag journey back to the main road, our eyes blindfolded. During the negotiation to pay, they said the money was not for them alone that they had to settle “those who send us”. For me, I see a thriving, organized crime supported by powerful political interests.
Now, I do not think we were released to freedom after paying a whopping 8 million naira. I do not think we can ever be free, we can never be free, from the anguish, the psychological trauma, the nightmares we suffered, the occasional fits of our daughter, her waking up midnight behaving strangely, her asking the same question over and over: “Mummy, mummy, why?. Why.?” I do not have any answer.
In my life, I have never passed through a torture chamber like this. I do not think any society should let this happen. I do not know the fate of those we met, and about 7 other people brought during the 6 days we were in captivity. What I saw was a nation that has collapsed but pretends she lives, a people on life support. Crime is not restricted to Fulani people alone. We have Yoruba criminals. But I don’t Yoruba criminals are not as beastly. These elements are savages. I can’t imagine Yoruba thieves going to Sokoto or Maiduguri to kidnap Fulani people and keep them in their own bushes. It gives me mental torture that this is happening and some fools are even trying to justify or look for excuses.
Well, as a devout Muslim, myself and my family have taken solace in Allah, not the Nigerian police, not the Army, not the governments. We have taken our faith the way it came. I thank God that we have successfully returned to where we live, thousands of miles from Nigeria. We thank God that we have made a vow: Never shall me, any of my children or husband in our lifetime visit Nigeria. Our remains any time we die, will also not be buried in Nigeria. It was a suggestion by my daughter which we all adopted.
I pity the country. I pity her people who continuously walk like the living dead. I pity those who parade themselves as leaders, because they know nothing about what is going on and the abyss the country sunk already.

I pity Yoruba people, oh, I pity you. I pity my people. For me the issue is not about President Buhari. Democracy can produce anything, even the worst in the society.

What I worry about is the conspiracy of silence by the people themselves, the ignorance, the treachery and the illusion that one day, things will get better through another election.


Since I was born in Nigeria, each year had led from bad to worse and on and on. I do not have a solution to what is going on, but I think very soon, hell will let loose upon the earth as long as there is no law and order and anarchy and the rule of brutes is the order of the day.
Once again, there cannot be anything more comforting than my husband who saw what I went through but has been able to encourage me and even encouraged me to write this little piece after months of agony and sociological imbalance. Good night Nigerians.

Copied from a forum of Nigerian Women in Diaspora

HORROR IN TH KIDNAPPER'S DEN

It took me a long time of reflections to put this piece together. First, let me thank my husband for the emotional support, the counselling and for his belief in the creator of heaven and earth which we call God or Allah.
The journey began in Auchi. We had travelled to Akure on a Monday, stayed with my husband’s relations in the outskirt of this ancient town. In the evening of Monday, we visited the palace for dinner, my husband being a close friend to son of the King.
On Tuesday, we left for Ibadan, via the Akure-Ilesa road. Our plan was that after attending the wedding in Auchi, we would travel with (my husband) to Lagos, stay for few weeks before returning abroad where I had lived with my husband and children for more than a decade. We were in the car of a close family friend, an accountant who gave his time and energy for our comfort.

We were five in the car, myself, my husband, our daughter, a lady who is my husband’s niece who had joined us in Akure with the hope of travelling with us to Lagos.
The driver accountant maintained a normal speed. He drove professionally. That gave me a lot of comfort and I felt I could find time to sleep a bit. My daughter was next to me, just 9. She was coming to Nigeria with me for the second time.
Shortly after the Ijare junction, the driver felt the wagon’s tires ruptured and decided to pack the car with the hope of changing the tires.

It was like a film. In a jiffy, motley crowd of armed men in military uniform came out of the bush. They fired at the boot of the car. Ahead of us, five of them came out of the bush, another two came from the rear. My daughter screamed: “Mummy, daddy, what’s going on”. There was no time to say a word. They marched us through into the bush, firing into the sky. They hit me on my chest, hit my daughter on her head, blood oozed. At this time, it was better to kill me. I shouted at one of the armed men. His response was hell. He went straight for my private part, tore my dress with his gun. The others ripped my dresses. I was left with my undies. My husband and my daughter started crying. Two of them dug their teeth into my breasts.
While attending a secondary school in Adamawa, I had lived with some Fulani, so I understand a few Fulani words. I started pleading, at least for my daughter. To my shock, at gun point, they removed the dress of my little girl, one of them carried her on his head as my baby struggled, shouting “Daddy, mummy, what’s going on. Help me.”

I could not help myself. We were marched for 9 hours. I was half naked. My daughter was totally naked. A felt her tears was like a stream of blood on her cheek. Our phones had been seized. We ended up in an ungoverned region in the thick of the forest. We met a well organized group.
There were some kidnapped victims, I saw two women, two ladies and three men. There were some people with their legs chained to trees. They were as if half dead. We were separated. I was separated from my husband. My daughter was taken away. I only heard her scream intermittently. I did not know what they were doing to her.
These men, now about two dozen had a full kitchen, they had a huge camp and a traditional medical team. But the camps appear isolated from each other. We heard noises afar indicating it might be nuclear settlements of camps. Right in my presence, I saw them pack the remains of a woman. They took her and buried her few meters away from us. She had tribal marks.
I cannot describe the agony of 6 days in captivity in this little piece. I cannot talk about how they asked my husband to choose between myself being raped or that his daughter be raped. My husband broke down in uncontrollable tears. One of them hit him saying “Yoruba bastard, you dey cry. Idiot.”
They now gave him the option that he should be raped by one homosexual among them. My husband is a devout Muslim. He told them homosexual and rape of any kind was against Islam. They hit him with the butt of AK 47: “What do you know about Islam?”
You can imagine, you are being asked to choose between being raped by a homosexual, your daughter, just nine years old, or your wife being raped? They gave the forth option, if you fail to choose, they would rape my daughter, rape my husband and rape me.
I made myself the sacrificial lamb. My husband begged, saying they should name their price. One of them asked him to bend down. Three beastly criminals sat on his back, jumping until he was too weak to stand. I was not allowed to put on any additional cloth on my body for 24 hours. The rain fell once. I became the relic and a sexual museum for the armed men who in turn addressed me and asked questions about my financial standing. New Fulani men joined the camp. They organized military training for the new Fulani men that came, teaching them how to shoot and walk through circles of glowing fire.
We were not released until after 6 days. We had to walk the same zik-zag journey back to the main road, our eyes blindfolded. During the negotiation to pay, they said the money was not for them alone that they had to settle “those who send us”. For me, I see a thriving, organized crime supported by powerful political interests.
Now, I do not think we were released to freedom after paying a whopping 8 million naira. I do not think we can ever be free, we can never be free, from the anguish, the psychological trauma, the nightmares we suffered, the occasional fits of our daughter, her waking up midnight behaving strangely, her asking the same question over and over: “Mummy, mummy, why?. Why.?” I do not have any answer.
In my life, I have never passed through a torture chamber like this. I do not think any society should let this happen. I do not know the fate of those we met, and about 7 other people brought during the 6 days we were in captivity. What I saw was a nation that has collapsed but pretends she lives, a people on life support. Crime is not restricted to Fulani people alone. We have Yoruba criminals. But I don’t Yoruba criminals are not as beastly. These elements are savages. I can’t imagine Yoruba thieves going to Sokoto or Maiduguri to kidnap Fulani people and keep them in their own bushes. It gives me mental torture that this is happening and some fools are even trying to justify or look for excuses.
Well, as a devout Muslim, myself and my family have taken solace in Allah, not the Nigerian police, not the Army, not the governments. We have taken our faith the way it came. I thank God that we have successfully returned to where we live, thousands of miles from Nigeria. We thank God that we have made a vow: Never shall me, any of my children or husband in our lifetime visit Nigeria. Our remains any time we die, will also not be buried in Nigeria. It was a suggestion by my daughter which we all adopted.
I pity the country. I pity her people who continuously walk like the living dead. I pity those who parade themselves as leaders, because they know nothing about what is going on and the abyss the country sunk already.

I pity Yoruba people, oh, I pity you. I pity my people. For me the issue is not about President Buhari. Democracy can produce anything, even the worst in the society.

What I worry about is the conspiracy of silence by the people themselves, the ignorance, the treachery and the illusion that one day, things will get better through another election.


Since I was born in Nigeria, each year had led from bad to worse and on and on. I do not have a solution to what is going on, but I think very soon, hell will let loose upon the earth as long as there is no law and order and anarchy and the rule of brutes is the order of the day.
Once again, there cannot be anything more comforting than my husband who saw what I went through but has been able to encourage me and even encouraged me to write this little piece after months of agony and sociological imbalance. Good night Nigerians.

Copied from a forum of Nigerian Women in Diaspora

I thought this new governor already knew that Imo was in total decay which informed his political campaign slogan....REBUILD IMO.
Why is he telling us what he told us during his campaign.
We have passed that campaign stage. This is the time to do those things u promised during ur campaing.
Emeka, start REBUILDING IMO STATE and stop campaigning.

Abouwaza:
Then do the needful and handover properly nah
Nawa oo

“They were handed over both assets and liabilities and taken round the key projects. They were satisfied. And the Principal Secretary to the former governor has also been there. He received the governor in Government House, took him round and also handed over to him any other thing left to be handed over.”

“Even before May 29, 2019, when he was sworn in as governor, he had made up his mind to invest heavily on blackmail against his predecessor. For instance, with the inauguration time-table, he was to meet with the governor then, Owelle Okorocha on May 2, 2019, but he called to say that he was travelling. He skipped that important meeting.”


“Again, May 5, 2019, was slated for his tour of selected projects with the governor then but he also avoided that. May 6 to May 20, 2019, was scheduled for Ministerial handover and Account reconciliation but he was never seen. He avoided close contact with the man he was coming to replace. Even the Joint Inauguration Church Service fixed for May 25, 2019, at Heroes Square.”

” He altered the whole programme to avoid being on the same page with Owelle Okorocha for a smooth handover. And we have today, seen the reasons for all those pranks.”

Did u read these quoted paragraphs?

babecode:
If God gives money, why do i have to give mine to the church. The church should God directly.

Oh! when the church needs money they come to the people, but when the people need money, they direct them to pray to God.

Watch The Video

https://all-gists..com/2019/06/nigerian-man-put-paper-inside-offering-envelope-on-sunday.html

He is an ignorant man. He is not a Christian and lacks the wisdom of God and His words.
There is never a place that Bible says that God gives money.
What Bible says is that God will give u the wisdom to make wealth. It also says His blessings/favor makes one rich and add no sorrow.

So when God gives you the wisdom to make wealth or bless you so that people will patronize ur business, what will be wrong if u bring out a little out of the whole he blessed u to support His work.

May God forgive you.

WHich financial status is he talking about. Before he took over the seat as the governor, he kept alleging that there no single money in the Imo Government coffers. He alleged that the ex-governor has spent all Imo money.

So, he already knew the financial status of Imo State even before he took over the seat. Why asking of what he already knew.

Victni:
@Gistvic.com

A Nigerian lady on twitter, @Haybelzephyr advises men who have struggled so hard and no money to get married because some women holds the key to success. Gistvic Reports.

IS THIS REALLY TRUE??

She wrote:


See More:

Source: https://www.gistvic.com/2019/06/dear-men-if-you-have-hustled-so-hard.html

He who FINDS a WIFE, finds a GOOD thing and obtains FAVOUR from GOD

dingbang:
Out of the 36 state Governors in Nigeria, it's only ihedioha that's complaining a lot.

He has nothing to offer. I think he has APC blood in him, though a PDP governor.
This is hw APC leaders behave. They will keep complaining and blaming others for their incompetence.
Before u kw it, 4yrs will elapse and this man will keep blaming Rochas.

They'll dig and lay their cables today, road construction companies will damage and uproot the cables tomorrow. Next day they'll come back and damage the new road in order to lay the cables again. The circle will continue like dat.

This BBNaija has started behaving like TStv.

This was how TStv started before they fine into extinct. Are u sure BBN is not heading towards that direction too.

Ok, let's give them benefit of doubt for the last time.

That woman is not a Christian.
Secondly she is not even wise as a human being.

As a rational being, condemning such a thing means that there are so many other things she should not eat or even touch.
She should also stop drinking water
Did she know the processes the car she drive or enters, the aeroplane go through.
She is not a wise person.

As a Christian she think she is, I don't think if she has ever read the below portion from the Bible:


Acts 10:10-15 New International Version (NIV)

10 He became hungry and wanted something to eat, and while the meal was being prepared, he fell into a trance.
11 He saw heaven opened and something like a large sheet being let down to earth by its four corners.
12 It contained all kinds of four-footed animals, as well as reptiles and birds.
13 Then a voice told him, “Get up, Peter. Kill and eat.”
14 “Surely not, Lord!” Peter replied. “I have never eaten anything impure or unclean.”
15 The voice spoke to him a second time, “Do not call anything impure that God has made clean.”

BeijinDossier:
One of the toilets at the government house. I wonder how things got this bad

Take a look at that toilet again.
The tilling, The kind of door it has and the kind of WC there.
I can tell u authoritatively that that toilet may be one of the oldest abandoned/unused toilet far from the government house. The toilet may have even bn like dat b4 Rochas came in.

Rochas has a good taste and cannot allow such a decay close to him.

Udopasa:
Why not show us the whole of the government house? Why must you choose to show us some places that we can not independently verify to be the government house?

What is the mission of Ihedioha? To build, to destroy or to shame?

This man is really starting badly. This is a ploy by the new Governor to loot the government house.
Look at the kind of pictures this man is showing here.
I am not from Imo State. I am not Rochas fan but I don't want to beliv the above pictures.

The new governor will put up an inflated procurement quotation to replace and fix the government house. This money will go to his personal purse. That was the purpose of those pictures shown so that when the quotation will be made public, people will tend to beliv it cos they had seen the decay in the government house.

Imo, u guys are still very far from getting it right.

If say na one Pastor buy dat one now, the whole Social Media go catch fire.

It is not good for a President to be humble and modest. Na only Pastors that dat kind humility were meant for.

NaijaOlosho:
Mr Adili Chibuike EjikeMr Adili Chibuike Ejike

Please when will the remaining 9 Hausa and Yorubas on death row be set free to return to Nigeria?
Have u heard anything about them. I'm so worried ooo.

mu2sa2:
What's his name again? Chibuike? Ok!

Please when will the remaining 9 Hausa and Yorubas on death row be set free to return to Nigeria?
Have u heard anything about them. I'm so worried ooo.

Kingwizzy16:
Good for them





BTW what is in this our president bag and why that color

That was Aisha's handbag.
Aisha wanted to travel that day. He begged her not to travel but she insisted.
He had to seize the handbag that contained most of her traveling documents to deter her from traveling dat day.
If he happens to drop that bag, Aisha will pick and run away.

Na so Goliath come dey form until he met David. Na just stone wey come floor am.

gnykelly:
not just any structure... public property.

My brother can u imagine?
Imo is yet to get it right.

But the governor denied ordering the demolition.

His Special Adviser, Steve Osuji, said the governor is not aware of the demolition of any structure and never gave such directive.

According to him, the new governor is in the Government House trying to settle down in his office.

Lie. How can he deny this. The demolition was done with full military backup that refused journalists from recording the demolition.

If he is not aware, what did he do to arrest the people that demolished that structure?

The woman is a dunce. Hw could she be so cheap.
U were on transit, stopped at a park in order to enter anoda vehicle to take u to ur final destination. U followed a stranger to her hotel room to bath your kids. Meanwhile ur husband asked u to wait for him to get money. U couldn't wait for him to come back and u followed the stranger. Ur mumu too much.


Another side of the story. Are u sure the husband does not plan for the trafficking. People are something else these days. The way he defended the wife is suspicious. Very anyhow people everywhere theses days.