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PROLOGUE The room had no windows, only cold steel walls and the low hum of hidden machines working through the night. The air felt tight, like it had been sealed in and forgotten. At the head of the table stood Major General Funsho Abbey. Still. Controlled. His eyes rested on a thick intelligence file stamped in red, as though the answers he needed were buried somewhere inside it. Across from him sat Colonel Ademola Kuti. He was younger, but not inexperienced. Still, something about this meeting had unsettled him from the moment he walked in. His posture stayed straight, but his fingers betrayed him—light taps against the table, then stillness, then taps again. He finally spoke. “Sir… you can’t be serious about this.” Funsho didn’t look up right away. He turned a page slowly, deliberately, as if the paper itself deserved respect. Kuti pressed on, voice tighter now. “That man is a high risk operator we don’t recover from I agree it seems bleak due to the fact the FBI and CIA walked away. But the president is still in active dialogue to resolve the agreement between us and the USA" He leaned forward slightly, frustration creeping through his discipline. “And when was the last time Bureaucracy saved the day, face it, we’ve been left alone on this, this is as messy as it will get and no one wants to stick their hand into it," "Exactly, so we do what others do," "(laughs), You still realize you're talking to Major General funsho Abbey? When was the last time I played the game by their rules, they want me to fail, you should have seen the head bursting commentary and flattery about my bravado and all just to hang me dry in the meeting room before the minister, but I won't fail," “Sir, he is a killer, he killed a rescued victim and his mother, a young boy and his mother for no reason whatsoever, his mission, need I remind you!" Kuti frowned. Funsho’s voice stayed calm. “And right now, I am offering a chance at redemption, I believe He’s the only reason those five people still have a chance of coming home alive.” The words landed heavy. Kuti shook his head once, slow. “With respect, sir… that sounds like desperation.” He exhaled, trying to steady himself. “You’re talking about a man who has been locked away for eleven years. No field contact. No oversight. Nothing. Just silence.” His hand tapped the file again. “How do we even know what he’s become in there?” A brief silence followed. Then Funsho gave a short breath—not quite a laugh, but close enough to feel colder than one. “You think we’ve been guessing?” He slid the file across the table. Kuti didn’t touch it. Not yet. Funsho continued. “three hundred and eighty-nine chess matches recorded under observation over the past eleven years.” A pause. “thirty four losses only.” Kuti’s eyes narrowed slightly despite himself. Funsho didn’t stop. Now the room felt different. Heavier. Like the air itself had shifted. Funsho leaned in slightly. “That doesn’t come from a man who’s broken.” Kuti exhaled slowly, the resistance in him starting to crack—but not disappear. “Even if that’s true,” he said carefully, “brilliance doesn’t mean stability. He’s still dangerous.” That was when Funsho’s tone changed. “Good.” Just one word. Kuti blinked. Funsho straightened. “Because what we’re dealing with is not something you approach safely, we have lost four strike teams already, this is it, my answer and so damn me if it all goes to blazes!" |
The Ransomer: Mission Impossible Part One: The Vanguard Death row was never supposed to be a recruitment center. Yet when five high-profile guests vanish from what should have been a secret private gatherings in the country, the military finds itself facing an impossible situation threatening to blow up the media. The kidnappers are not ordinary terrorists. They are organized, well-funded, highly disciplined, and disturbingly informed. Assigned to recover the hostages is Major General Funsho Abbey, a brilliant young officer whose meteoric rise through the military has earned him admiration, envy, and dangerous attention. Calculating, ambitious, and relentless, Funsho quickly realizes that conventional methods will not be enough. Desperate for an advantage, he turns to the one man the military swore never to trust again. BabaJide Williams Jnr. Once regarded as one of the most gifted military minds of his generation, Williams was a legendary architect of extraction and recovery operations. His name became synonymous with missions deemed impossible across Africa Then something happened. A crime stained his legacy forever. Convicted of a double murder and sentenced to death Presented with the details of the hostage crisis, Williams immediately sees what others have missed, MOTIVE OF THE CRIME When Funsho offers him a deal, Williams makes a demand He does not want freedom. He wants his death sentence reduced to life imprisonment. And he wants to be a part of the mission personally. Reluctantly, Funsho agrees. What begins as a hostage recovery mission soon spirals into a deadly game of deception. As Williams and Funsho race against time, they uncover a labyrinth of lies stretching from terrorist camps to government offices, from military barracks to powerful figures hidden behind polished smiles and patriotic speeches. Every ally becomes a suspect. Every victory reveals another layer of the conspiracy. And somewhere within the list of five kidnapped guests lies a secret worth killing for. The Ransomer: Mission Impossible — Part One: The Vanguard is a gripping military thriller packed with explosive action, psychological warfare, political intrigue, shocking betrayals, and a mystery that grows darker with every revelation. As the countdown begins and the walls close in, the line between hero and villain blurs, setting the stage for a mission where failure is not an option—and trust may be the deadliest mistake of all.
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nairalanda1:I have no words to say to you sir, i sincerely hope you don't scar people with such ill advice. |
Reference:Absolutely. The real issue is not whether government needs more revenue, but whether citizens can absorb more taxes without worsening the cost-of-living crisis. Fuel and telecommunications are no longer luxury items; they are essential drivers of economic activity. Taxing them further risks fueling inflation, increasing business costs, and placing additional pressure on households already struggling with high prices. |
FuglyGurl:The IMF's recommendation may look attractive on paper, but Nigerians must examine what it means in practice and the dangers it carries. The IMF says taxing fuel, telecom services, and increasing VAT could raise government revenue by about 4.6% of GDP over time. The obvious question is revenue for what, and at whose expense? Nigeria has already removed fuel subsidies, resulting in petrol prices increasing by several hundred percent in many areas. Transport costs surged. Food prices followed. Inflation remains one of the highest in decades. Now the same citizens who absorbed the shock of subsidy removal are being told that fuel products should face additional taxation. If fuel is taxed further, who ultimately pays? Not oil companies. Not government officials. The final cost will be transferred to transport operators, businesses, farmers, traders, and ultimately the ordinary Nigerian consumer. The telecom proposal raises equally serious concerns. In today's Nigeria, mobile phones and internet access are no longer luxuries. They are tools for business, education, banking, communication, job searches, and even government services. A telecom excise duty effectively becomes a tax on economic participation itself. The IMF projects significant revenue gains, but where is the evidence that previous revenue increases have translated into equivalent improvements in citizens' lives? Since subsidy removal, government revenues and FAAC allocations to states have risen substantially. Yet Nigerians are entitled to ask: Have public hospitals improved proportionately? Have public schools improved proportionately? Has insecurity reduced proportionately? Has electricity supply improved proportionately? Have roads improved proportionately? Has corruption reduced proportionately? Before demanding more taxes, government must explain what happened to the additional revenues already generated. Even more revealing is the IMF's own admission that administrative reforms alone could generate roughly 3.1% of GDP through better tax collection, compliance, electronic invoicing, database integration, and enforcement. So therefore If improved administration can generate almost as much revenue as new taxes, why is the conversation focused on taxing struggling citizens rather than fixing leakages, waste, tax evasion, and inefficiency? |
Racoon:With due respect, it is alarming for a Minister of Defence to suggest that "only God can end insecurity" when his primary responsibility is to help formulate and execute the policies that end insecurity. Faith is important, but governments are elected to govern, not to outsource security to divine intervention. Countries across Africa and the world have faced security crises and achieved significant results through strategy, intelligence, technology, accountability, and political will. Rwanda emerged from one of the worst genocides in modern history and rebuilt a stable security architecture. Colombia spent decades battling insurgents and criminal networks but drastically reduced violence through coordinated military, intelligence, and economic reforms. Even Nigeria itself significantly degraded Boko Haram's territorial control between 2015 and 2017 through sustained military operations and regional cooperation. The question Nigerians should ask is simple if only God can end insecurity, why does Nigeria allocate trillions of naira annually to defence and security agencies rather than send it to religious bodies? Why purchase military hardware? Why recruit soldiers? Why appoint ministers, service chiefs, and intelligence heads? Government exists precisely because security challenges require human solutions backed by policy and resources. The Minister's comments also contradict repeated government claims that thousands of terrorists have been neutralised, thousands arrested, and significant gains recorded. If security agencies are making progress through deliberate action, then clearly insecurity is not something that only God can solve. Furthermore, dismissing criticism as opposition politics misses the point. Parents whose children were abducted in Oyo and Borno are not interested in political arguments. Farmers displaced from their land are not thinking about party affiliation. Communities under attack want protection, not explanations. No serious nation defeats insecurity through prayers alone. Prayer may strengthen resolve, but intelligence gathering, border control, surveillance technology, prosecution of terror financiers, police reform, military effectiveness, and accountable leadership are what ultimately determine outcomes. James 2:14-24 says Faith without works is dead. I am sorry to say, this minister needs a reorientation about his job's responsibilities. |
A. P. O. R. E SURELY, THEY GATHERED Surely, they gathered. That much was certain. Because in this land, people do not lack gatherings. They only lack direction. So he went. One man walking from circle to circle. Hope in his chest like a fragile drum. “Surely, they are discussing important matters.” He told himself this at the first gathering. A group of elders sat beneath a mango tree. Stillness around them. Wrinkles like maps of wisdom. Voices slow, deliberate. Ah. This must be it. He approached with respect. Slow steps. Open ears. Ready heart. He sat. He listened. He waited for nation-changing discourse. Instead— “That yam… last year refused to grow well.” Silence. He blinked. Another elder nodded deeply. “This year, I will not repeat the same mistake.” The man froze. He wanted to speak. To scream. To remind them. Insecurity is rising. Economy trembling. Youth unemployed. Future unstable. But the only insecurity here… was yam insecurity. He stood slowly. Left quietly. “Surely… they are not done.” Next, he went to the market women. Voices loud. Energy alive. Colourful wrappers like moving flags of life. He smiled. This must be different. Women always know what is happening. They always carry truth in their mouths. He approached again. Hope returning. He listened. “That comedian is not even funny again.” “Bring that one that dances well.” “Did you see her wig yesterday?” He paused. Looked around. Somewhere in the nation, prices were rising. Somewhere, families were breaking under pressure. Somewhere, children were dropping out of school. Here? Entertainment selection committee. He walked away again. Slower now. Heavier. “Surely… the youths will understand.” He went to the youths. Phones everywhere. Faces glowing blue. Thumbs scrolling like prayers without meaning. He stood among them. “This is it,” he whispered. “Energy. Fire. Revolution.” He listened. “Did you see that video?” “Who is dating who now?” “That celebrity is finished.” Laughter. Noise. Reactions. Not anger. Not urgency. Not vision. Just updates. He looked at them. Long. Silent. “We are drowning,” he wanted to say. “And you are watching memes about swimming.” But he said nothing. He left again. Now confusion entered his footsteps. He went to married men. They were gathered too. But not to solve anything. “My wife did this…” “My wife did that…” “Marriage is war oh.” He sighed. No national problem survived this conversation. Only domestic frustration. He moved again. Faster now. Almost running. Surely politicians. Surely leaders. Surely voices of direction. He arrived. Suits. Smiles. Handshake politics. Phones ringing. Photographs being taken. Hope rose again. This must be the center. He sat quietly. Waiting. Listening. “2027 is coming.” “We must position well.” “That contract must be secured.” He blinked. He waited for mention of the people. Of hunger. Of safety. Of roads. Of schools. Of hospitals. Nothing. Only positioning. He stood. Slowly. Not angry anymore. Just empty. And he walked again. “Surely… the imams will speak.” “Surely… the pastors will say something.” He entered places of worship. Hands raised. Voices loud. Powerful sermons. But outside the sermons— same pattern. “Breakthrough.” “Enemy.” “Blessing.” No mention of broken systems. No mention of broken roads. No mention of broken minds. He left again. Now he was tired. Not of walking. But of hope. He stood in the middle of nowhere. Watching everyone gather everywhere. Yes. They gathered. But not here. Not in reality. Not in urgency. Not in truth. They gathered in noise, not meaning. In talk, not action. In presence, not responsibility. He looked up. And laughed softly. Not joy. Not humour. Something worse. Understanding. Because finally he realized: The problem was not that nobody gathered. It was that everyone gathered… but no one arrived. And so he walked on. Still hoping. Still waiting. Still alone in the middle of everyone.
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Odewaleadesoye:Bayo Onanuga's statement is heavy on insults but remarkably light on evidence. When Obi left office in 2014, Anambra was widely reported as one of Nigeria's least-indebted states, with tens of billions of naira in savings, investments, and cash reserves left for his successor. Even critics rarely dispute that he handed over significant financial assets and left the state without the crippling debt burden that characterises many governments today. On education, Obi's administration returned schools to missionary ownership while investing heavily in infrastructure, classrooms, laboratories, buses, and learning materials. During his tenure, Anambra moved from being ranked among the lower-performing states to becoming one of Nigeria's strongest performers in WAEC and NECO examinations. These outcomes did not happen by accident. On healthcare, his government upgraded hospitals, equipped health facilities, and expanded access to primary healthcare. On infrastructure, roads, bridges, and urban renewal projects were executed across the state. Whether one supports Obi politically or not, these projects are matters of public record. The security argument is equally selective. Obi governed between 2006 and 2014, long before the current wave of separatist violence, unknown gunmen, and widespread insecurity in the South-East. In fact, Anambra was frequently cited as one of the safer states in the region during much of his tenure. If insecurity under a governor automatically defines failure, then the same standard must be applied consistently to every administration at every level today especially today. The "copy-and-paste politician" accusation is perhaps the weakest argument of all. Every successful nation borrows ideas. Singapore learned from the West. China adopted global economic models. Rwanda studied Singapore's reforms. Good leadership is not about inventing every idea from scratch; it is about identifying what works and adapting it effectively. Facts are stubborn things. Political insults do not erase public records. Dear Mr Bayo Onanuga. If You must argue, bring your evidence and not your dictionary. |
What court do we take the judges to? What do we do when those in power are those who need to be called to order? |
CRIMES OF MY TEACHER There are crimes. And then there are crimes. The kind that alter destinies. The kind that destroy reputations. The kind history remembers. This is the story of one such crime. And the criminal still walks free. It began on a Tuesday. A dangerous day. The sort of day where evil wakes up early and irons its clothes. I should have known. Three days earlier, I had corrected my teacher in class. Respectfully. Politely. Academically. At least that is how I remember it. The teacher remembers it differently. "Sir," I had said. "The answer is actually seven." The class laughed. Just a little. Just enough. The teacher smiled. A terrible smile. The smile of a man writing your name in an invisible notebook. The smile of a man saying: "Your time will come." I should have apologized immediately. Perhaps fallen to my knees. Perhaps relocated schools. Instead, I remained. And now I understand. The revenge was already in motion. The incident occurred shortly after lunch. The classroom was peaceful. Pens scratched. Books turned. Brains suffered. Then it happened. A smell. No. Not a smell. A declaration of biological warfare. The atmosphere changed. Children stopped writing. Birds outside became suspicious. A gecko abandoned the wall. Someone shouted. "Who did that?!" Panic erupted. Hands covered noses. Desks moved. Accusations flew. I immediately joined the investigation. Because I am a responsible citizen. The evidence had to be examined. First suspect: Musa. Previous offender. Three confirmed incidents. One warning letter. A strong candidate. But Musa was eating groundnuts. Groundnuts create opportunities. Not disasters. I crossed him off. Second suspect: Emeka. A repeat offender. A veteran. A respected elder in the field. But Emeka looked genuinely horrified. No. This was not his work. This was bigger. Professional. Calculated. Then my eyes drifted across the room. And landed on him. The teacher. He sat quietly. Too quietly. Observing. Watching. Waiting. A man comfortable in chaos. The first rule of crime is simple: watch the person who benefits. And who benefited? The teacher. Because suddenly he stood. Adjusted his glasses. And pointed directly at me. Me. Of all people. Me. "Stand up." My heart collapsed. "Sir?" "Stand up." I obeyed. The class watched. My crush watched. Even the lizards watched. Then came the accusation. "You are responsible." Silence. The kind of silence usually reserved for funerals and report cards. I nearly fainted. Me? Certainly, I have a history. Let us be honest. I am not innocent in general. I have committed atmospheric offenses before. Minor incidents. Youthful mistakes. But this? No. This was industrial. Military-grade. Beyond my capabilities. I stared at the teacher. And then I saw it. The smile. Tiny. Almost invisible. But there. The smile of a man watching his revenge succeed. Everything became clear. The motive? Revenge. The opportunity? Perfect. The authority? Unlimited. The classroom froze as I desperately defended myself. "Sir, it wasn't me!" The teacher nodded sympathetically. Too sympathetically. Like a politician visiting flood victims. "I understand." No. He did not understand. He understood too much. Because he was the culprit. I began reconstructing the evidence. Where was the teacher moments before the incident? Breakfast Beans and Egg Near the window. Strategic position. Who had remained strangely calm during the disaster? The teacher. Who had immediately identified a suspect? The teacher. Too quickly. Far too quickly. No investigation. No witnesses. No trial. Only judgment. The perfect crime. Because nobody suspects authority. Nobody suspects the principal when chalk goes missing. Nobody suspects the referee. Nobody suspects the judge. And nobody— absolutely nobody— suspects the teacher. The case was over before it began. Sentence was passed immediately. A flogging. Not by the teacher. That would have been merciful. No. The teacher selected my crush with a hidden smile. My crush. The same person whose name I had practiced writing beside mine. The same person I planned to impress academically. Now she held the cane. The teacher spoke with holy authority. Like a bishop delivering divine judgment. But I could see the truth. Only I saw it. Behind the smile. Behind the glasses. Behind the grammar lessons. Sat the criminal mastermind himself. May history remember my suffering, even if the school never did.
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The allegation that Peter Obi demolished mosques in Anambra has been repeatedly fact-checked over the years, and no credible evidence has been produced showing that he ordered or authorised the demolition of any mosque. Northern groups resident in Anambra and former officials who served during his administration have publicly disputed the claim. If the allegation is true, where are the demolition orders, official records, court cases, dates, and locations? Serious accusations require evidence, not political talking points. Without proof, it remains an unsubstantiated claim rather than an established fact. |
Working on the edits, new parts coming up, thanks for reading |
Problem is simple, Gas is been sold out side the shores of Nigeria and there is not enough left for Those within the country at the moment. I am guessing Iran and Israel war is to be blamed. |
A Piece Of Reality Presents YOUR WEDDING GUEST OF DISHONOR There she is. Do you see her? No, not the bride. Not the groom. Not the parents smiling for photographs. The woman sitting three rows behind, smiling with her teeth but not her heart. That is your wedding guest of dishonor. She arrived early. Not because she cared. Because she needed enough time to inspect the venue properly. She walked in slowly. Eyes moving like immigration officers. The decorations? Not good enough. The flowers? Too much. The chairs? Too few. The colors? Trying too hard. She came to celebrate nobody. She came to investigate everybody. Look at her notebook. You cannot see it. But it exists. Every wedding guest of dishonor carries one. Mental notes. Mental accusations. Mental disappointments. She has already judged the bride seventeen times. And the groom twenty-three. "Look at him." "That's who she married?" "After all that noise?" Then she smiles. "Oh, they look lovely together." Liar. The groom has not even finished greeting guests. Yet she has already calculated his salary. Assessed his shoes. Measured his confidence. Estimated the lifespan of the marriage. She predicts divorce before dessert arrives. The bride walks past. Radiant. Happy. Glowing. The guest of dishonor smiles wider. "Beautiful dress." Translation "I've seen better." "Such a lovely ceremony." Translation: "Mine would have been grander." "So happy for you." Translation: "This should have been me." And there it is. The secret. The poison hidden beneath the powder. The wound beneath the smile. Jealousy. Old. Resentful. Hungry jealousy. The kind that attends weddings not to celebrate love— but to count blessings that belong to other people. She watches everything better than CCTV. Who greeted her first. Who didn't. Who looked expensive. Who looked poor. Who gained weight. Who lost hair. Nobody escapes her judgment. Not even the cake. Especially the cake. The food arrives. Ah. The food. Wedding guest of dishonor lives for this moment. One spoon enters her mouth. She nods. Smiles. Compliments the caterer. Then turns to the nearest victim. "Is it only me or does this rice taste confused?" Within minutes she has launched a full investigation. The chicken is too small. The drinks are too warm. The jollof lacks ambition. The meat lacks direction. Nothing survives. Not because the food is bad. Because happiness is happening nearby. And she cannot forgive it. What does she bring as a gift? A woman capable of criticizing a million-naira wedding has contributed ₦500 worth of encouragement. Remarkable. Yet she expects gratitude. And photographs. Several photographs. Proof she attended. Proof she was important. Proof she existed. The wedding was beautiful. The guests were happy. The couple were joyful. And she hated every second of it. Now she returns home. Armed with stories. False stories. Exaggerated stories. Manufactured stories. Tomorrow her friends will gather. And she will begin. An entire successful wedding will be rewritten by one unsuccessful heart. And that is the tragedy. Because somewhere beneath the criticism... beneath the gossip... beneath the mockery... beneath the arrogance... Lives a woman who wanted what she saw. She will remain exactly where she arrived—sitting in the ruins of her own bitterness, mistaking envy for wisdom and criticism for importance.
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You fit dey gear 1 and I fit dey gear 5, the mata way dey ground na where we all dey go? |
The problems you have in your relationship are almost and closely the same you have with God almighty. your Creator. |
There is a saying in my place Before you jump into a burning house to rescue someone, ask first who set the fire. |
A PIECE OF REALITY PRESENTS IF YOU DARE TO SAVE ME Do not save me. I am not saying this to be dramatic. I am saying this because experience has made me honest. If you dare to save me, I will ruin you. You think I am joking. Most people do. At first. You see a wounded man. A broken woman. A troubled friend. An addict. A victim. A soul crying from the bottom of a pit. You hear my story. And something noble awakens inside you. You roll up your sleeves. You gather your strength. You decide to rescue me. Ah. Another volunteer has arrived. Welcome. Please sit down. You won't be here long. You think I have not met people like you before? I collect saviors the way rich men collect wristwatches. Teachers tried. Pastors tried. Friends tried. Lovers tried. Family tried. Even strangers with good intentions tried. Look around. Do you see them? Neither do I. They all left eventually. Some angry. Some exhausted. Some poorer. Some broken. One or two became worse than I was. Because saving me is easy. Keeping me saved? That is where the funeral begins. You see— I love my chains. Not openly. Not consciously. Not honestly. But I know every link by name. Every excuse. Every habit. Every self-inflicted wound. Pain has become furniture. I know where everything is. I know where to sit. Where to cry. Where to complain. Where to point fingers. And most importantly— I know where responsibility is not. Responsibility terrifies me. If I blame my parents— I am safe. If I blame society— I am safe. If I blame government— I am safe. If I blame my enemies— I am safe. But the day I blame myself? The day I admit I helped build this prison? That day I must pick up a hammer. And I hate hard work. So I prefer victimhood. People underestimate how comfortable misery can become. Misery feeds me. Misery explains me. Misery introduces me to people. Without my suffering— who am I? That question is dangerous. So I avoid it. You will arrive full of hope. You always do. You will tell me: "You can change." And I will cry. Not because I believe you. Because tears are cheaper than effort. You will spend hours listening. Days encouraging. Months supporting. I will nod. Agree. Promise. Swear. Then do absolutely nothing. I am remarkably talented at almost changing. I nearly quit. Nearly started. Nearly improved. Nearly healed. Nearly became better. My life is a museum of unfinished beginnings. And when your patience starts to crack— I will blame you too. You did not understand me. You gave up too quickly. You were never truly there. Suddenly you become another villain in my collection. It is a beautiful system. Terrible. But beautiful. The addict inside me understands it perfectly. Whether the addiction is alcohol. Drugs. Attention. Self-pity. Chaos. Toxic relationships. The substance changes. The pattern remains. I need the wound. Because without the wound— what excuse remains? I need the wound more than I need the cure. Do you know how frightening freedom is to a prisoner who has decorated his cell? The door opens. The sunlight enters. And instead of running— he complains about the brightness. That is me. And perhaps— if I am honest— that is many of us. We say we want rescue. What we actually want is sympathy. Rescue requires movement. Sympathy only requires storytelling. One demands change. The other rewards stagnation. Guess which one I mastered? So hear me clearly. If you dare to save me— do not come with pity. I have enough pity to supply a small nation. Do not come with excuses. I manufacture those already. I am a factory of explanations. Do not come carrying me. I will make your back my permanent address. And do not jump into my ocean believing your love alone can make me swim. I have drowned stronger people than you. Because nobody can save someone committed to sinking. Nobody. Not until one terrifying day— when the victim grows tired of being victim. When the addict becomes bored of addiction. When the liar becomes exhausted by lies. When the drowning man finally hates the water more than he fears the shore. Only then does rescue become possible. Until then— your ropes are decorations. Your advice is music. Your concern is weather. I will thank you. Ignore you. Blame you. And repeat myself. So if you dare to save me— understand the rules first. You are not fighting my circumstances. You are fighting my cooperation with them. You are not fighting my chains. You are fighting my affection for them. And that is a war many rescuers lose. Because the darkest secret of all is this: The prison door has been open for years. I simply keep closing it behind me. So save me if you must. Try. Pray. Hope. Persist. But remember— the sea is not what drowns most rescuers. It is the stubborn drowning man who refuses to let go of the depths. And if that man is me— then understand this final warning: I am not waiting for a savior. I am waiting for someone to blame when I refuse to save myself.
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yungbanks:Although this is discontinued for now, this is one of my many projects at Hand. If you love the supernatural, mystery, murder mystery, vampires, fan of CASTLEVANIA, LORD OF MYSTERY. Then you will enjoy this. HOW TO SAVE A VAMPIRE https://www.nairaland.com/8523309/discontinued |
yungbanks:Glad to hear that, I appreciate the response |
A Piece Of Reality Presents UNCRUSH MY CRUSH There should be laws against this. Serious laws. Constitutional laws. International laws. Perhaps even United Nations resolutions. Because what happened to me was cruel. Unnecessary. Emotionally irresponsible. My crush confessed her love to me. I know. Imagine! Take a moment. I too needed time to process the tragedy. People keep congratulating me. Idiots. They do not understand the gravity of the situation. A crush is a delicate thing. A beautiful thing. A harmless thing. A crush is supposed to stay over there. Far away. Untouchable. Perfect. Like the moon. Or government promises. Now look what she has done. She ruined everything. Before this disaster, life was beautiful. I had a system. A routine. A calling. Every morning I would check her social media. Not in a creepy way. In a scientific way. Research. Data collection. If she posted one picture or video— I zoomed responsibly. If she smiled— I wrote poetry mentally. If she sneezed— I thanked heaven for creating respiratory systems. She was magnificent. Her eyes? Please. Those were not eyes. Those were twin galaxies negotiating peace treaties. Her smile? A national treasure. The type museums should insure. Her skin? I still don't have proper words. I once saw sunlight land on her cheek. The sunlight looked grateful. Her voice? Even my network provider sounded sweeter after hearing her speak. Everything made sense then. She was perfect because she was distant. That is the secret of a crush nobody talks about. Distance is makeup. Distance is Photoshop. Distance is special effects. The farther away people are— the more magical they become. Then this woman decided to become human. One terrible afternoon she cornered me. Smiling. Nervous. Holding my future hostage. And then she said it. “I like you too.” Immediately everything broke. The stars vanished. The galaxies disappeared. The angels resigned. I blinked. Looked again. And suddenly— I could see flaws. Flaws! The woman who once floated across my imagination now stood before me chewing the inside of her cheek. Chewing. She laughed. And I noticed one slightly crooked tooth. A CROOKED TOOTH. Where did it come from? Had it always been there? Is this the real at all? I began panicking. Because reality had entered my fantasy without permission. Do you understand the betrayal? A crush is supposed to remain hypothetical. Now she was asking practical questions. “Have you eaten?” Imagine, my crush, wanting to care about me, the crusher? Sacrilege! This relationship was never supposed to leave my head. Now suddenly there were expectations. Conversations. Possibilities. The fantasy was collapsing under the weight of reality. And The Worst Part? She was Kind. Funny. Intelligent. Patient. And somehow that made everything worse. For three days. I sat in silence. Thinking. Grieving. Not for her. For the fantasy. Do you know how much work goes into a proper crush? Months of observation. Weeks of overthinking. Years of unnecessary emotional gymnastics. The different playlists depending on her mood and posts. The imagined conversations. The fake arguments you win in the shower. All gone. Destroyed. And now— if I wanted another crush— I would have to start over. Find somebody new. Follow them online. Accidentally like an old post. Panic. Unlike it. Relike it. Wonder if they noticed. Do people understand how exhausting this economy is? Why are crushes confessing these days? What happened to tradition? That they are supposed to pretend We don't exist and glory in my sufferings. What happened to letting us suffer quietly? What happened to admiring people from safe emotional distances? Why must everybody insist on becoming real? For weeks I was angry. Then one evening, while staring dramatically into the sunset, a terrible thought entered my mind. What if she didn't ruin anything? What if I did? What if the fantasy was never her? What if it was me? Me? No, certainly not! My imagination. My projections. My perfect version of somebody who never existed. Is Perfectly Normal although perhaps this is How and what it means to be a Real Person Still. I am not fully recovered. Sometimes I see her smile and remember the old fantasy. The galaxies. The sunlight. The divine perfection. Then she sees me and says Hello to me and I say Hi back And then I realize my crush has been uncrushed
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Hi, is any one following this? |
Gotocourt: ![]() Just what I was about to say, I grew up with alot of kids too. I just started laughing when I saw that. |
DoWhatThouWilt:Oh I so much love when I have to chew all of this word for word and point for Point. ![]() See, After reading this testimonial, I realize that as usual Bayo Onanuga’s article is less a factual defence of the Tinubu administration and more a political public relations essay built on selective statistics, exaggerated claims, emotional language, and dangerous detachment from the suffering of ordinary Nigerians. Now a proper breakdown exposes serious contradictions and propaganda framing hidden beneath the grand language which I must say I credit him for, he never disappoints ironically. First, the claim that Tinubu “took the bullet for Nigeria” attempts to romanticise policies whose immediate effects pushed millions deeper into poverty. Fuel subsidy removal and naira flotation may have been economically inevitable reforms, but presenting them as heroic sacrifices while citizens faced record inflation, collapsing purchasing power, transport hikes, food crises, and business closures is politically insensitive. Nigerians did not merely experience “temporary discomfort”; according to the National Bureau of Statistics, food inflation crossed historic levels, with staple foods becoming unaffordable for many families. A government does not “take bullets” when citizens are the ones absorbing the economic pain daily. Second, Onanuga claims opposition complaints lack “empirical proof,” yet the evidence of hardship is overwhelming and official. The World Bank itself warned that millions more Nigerians fell into poverty following the reforms. The naira lost massive value within months of flotation. Multinationals including GSK, Procter & Gamble, and others either scaled down or exited due to forex instability and operating conditions. To dismiss widespread hardship as mere opposition propaganda is not analysis — it is denial. Third, this wonderfully written article repeatedly celebrates increased FAAC allocations to states without addressing the obvious question if states are receiving far more money, why are many Nigerians still seeing worsening living conditions, unpaid workers in some states, rising debt burdens, and little improvement in healthcare, education, or security? Increased allocations caused by subsidy removal are meaningless if inflation simultaneously wipes out the purchasing power of citizens. Giving states more money while people grow poorer is not automatic evidence of economic success. Fourth, Onanuga boasts about stock market growth as proof of prosperity, but stock market expansion does not automatically translate into improved living conditions for ordinary Nigerians. I repeat this again, the Nigerian economy cannot be judged solely through investor optimism while millions struggle with food costs, electricity tariffs, rent, and insecurity. Economic success that exists only on trading floors while households suffer is incomplete and deeply unequal. Fifth, the article glorifies mega road projects like Lagos-Calabar and Sokoto-Badagry while ignoring legitimate criticisms surrounding transparency, procurement concerns, displacement fears, borrowing implications, and project prioritisation during an economic crisis. Infrastructure is important, but citizens are asking why a government facing severe insecurity, unemployment, and hunger appears more obsessed with monumental projects and political optics than immediate social relief. Sixth, Onanuga attempts to shift blame for electricity failures entirely onto DisCos, despite the federal government remaining the central regulator and policy authority in the power sector. Nigerians still experience grid collapses, unstable supply, rising tariffs, and estimated billing controversies despite repeated promises. If the administration wants credit for reforms, it must also accept responsibility for failures under its watch. Seventh, the article’s attempt to portray criticism as blindness or bitterness exposes intolerance toward dissent. In a democracy, criticism of government policy is not sabotage. Citizens do not become enemies because they question inflation, insecurity, debt, or governance priorities. A spokesman confident in government performance should answer critics with transparent data and measurable outcomes, not insults, emotional slogans, and hero worship at its peak. Most troubling is the security section. Onanuga admits Nigerians are still being killed and kidnapped despite enormous defence spending and foreign support, yet still frames the administration as heroic. This raises painful questions if the government truly has the intelligence, weapons, partnerships, and funding it claims, why do attacks continue spreading into new regions? Why are schools, highways, and villages still vulnerable? Why do citizens increasingly rely on vigilantes and self-help for protection? The article also dangerously personalises governance by presenting Tinubu as a lone saviour “taking bullets” for Nigeria. Democracies are built on institutions, accountability, and collective governance — not personality cults. Leaders are elected to solve problems, not to be mythologised while citizens suffer. Ultimately, the biggest weakness in Onanuga’s piece is the complete disconnect between official celebration and public reality. The government may point to reforms, projections, and investor confidence, but ordinary Nigerians judge governance through daily survival: food prices, security, electricity, jobs, healthcare, and stability. Until those realities improve meaningfully, no amount of polished propaganda or heroic storytelling will erase the anger, frustration, and hardship many Nigerians continue to experience. Dear Bayo Onanuga, You served yourself a cold dish on this one. |
Cutezt:With No disrespect to The president, The most troubling part of this viral remarkwas not just the awkward delivery, but what it revealed about the government’s communication during a deadly national crisis. At a time when Nigerians want clarity, urgency, and concrete solutions to banditry, terrorism, and kidnappings, the presidency responded with a vague biblical analogy many found disconnected from reality. The moral message about the value of human life was understandable, but leadership communication in times of crisis must be clear, direct, and reassuring. Nigerians were not asking for symbolism or theology; they wanted to hear practical plans to stop killings, secure communities, and restore confidence. The backlash online was not simply mockery. Many citizens felt the statement lacked the seriousness and empathy expected during a period of widespread fear and insecurity. This reaction also reflects a growing frustration with repeated government assurances while attacks and abductions continue across the country despite increased security spending. In a security crisis, symbolism cannot replace strategy, and unclear communication only deepens public doubt and anxiety. Thank You. |
sleek214:I need address of your dealer, I go to order double of what you are having ![]() |
Continued Hill and Billy stumbled through the sleeping streets of Copper Stone like two kings returning from war. Except there was no glory in them. Only liquor. Their voices thundered through the narrow cobbled roads as they sang terribly into the cold night air, bottles swinging wildly in their hands. “OH THE MINES ARE COLD AND THE WOMEN ARE MEAN—” Billy forgot the next line halfway through and simply shouted instead. “BUT THE ALE IS GOOD!” Hill nearly collapsed laughing. Their boots clacked loudly against the endless cobblestones that twisted between rows of cramped brick homes. The roads shimmered faintly beneath the lantern glow, slick from evening rain and stained by years of soot drifting from the factories. Copper Stone was tired of miners. Especially drunk ones. The coal industry had once made the town rich. Now it only kept the town alive enough to continue suffering. Every year more mines closed. More tunnels were abandoned. Workers disappeared faster than replacements arrived. Less pay. More deaths. More misery. Most men spent their evenings too exhausted to speak. Not Hill and Billy. Not tonight. A window suddenly flew open above them. “SHUT YOUR DAMN MOUTHS!” an old woman screamed. Billy tipped his imaginary hat politely. “Good evening, Mrs. Grent!” “I’LL KILL YOU BOTH!” Hill burst into delighted laughter. “She still loves us.” Another window cracked open farther down. A tired man holding a crying baby glared murderously into the street. “Some people are trying to sleep!” Billy pointed at the child. “Teach him the song!” The man slammed the window shut so hard the glass rattled. Hill and Billy laughed even harder. To them, the night was alive. The cold air. The drink. The freedom before another miserable dawn underground. Tomorrow they would return to the mines like always—backs bent, lungs blackened, fingers numb from digging through endless dark earth. But tonight? Tonight they were legends. Billy climbed onto a wooden crate beside the road and raised his bottle dramatically. “To Hill!” Hill pointed proudly to himself. “The ugliest miner in Copper Stone!” Billy nodded. “A true achievement!” Hill bowed deeply and nearly fell face-first into the mud. Their laughter echoed through the sleeping town again. Somewhere nearby, dogs barked. Babies cried. Tired wives cursed beneath their breath. But the drunks did not care. The world was far too miserable to spend sober.
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Chapter One The night in Copper Stone carried the smell of coal smoke and wet stone. Fog drifted lazily through the narrow streets while the town’s factory chimneys breathed dark clouds into the sky like giant sleeping beasts. Dim lanterns hung beside old brick buildings, their weak amber glow trembling against the mist. Two men staggered down the cobbled road. Hill and Billy. Old coal miners. Old drunks. Old fools. Their heavy boots scraped against the stones as they wobbled shoulder to shoulder, bottles hanging loosely from their hands. Their clothes were blackened with coal dust that never truly washed away, and their laughter echoed far louder than the sleeping town deserved. Billy sang first, his voice rough and broken. “WHEN I WAS YOUNG THE GIRLS ALL SCREAMED—” Hill burst into laughter before joining badly. “NOW THEY RUN WHEN I TAKE OFF MY SHIRT!” The two men howled at their own joke. Billy nearly tripped into a drainage gutter. Hill caught him with a grunt. “Easy there, you dead goat.” “I ain’t drunk,” Billy slurred proudly. Hill stared at him. “You kissed a lamp post ten minutes ago.” Billy pointed accusingly. “She looked lonely.” Another explosion of laughter rolled between them as they stumbled deeper into the streets. Copper Stone slept around them. Windows dark. Doors locked. The long veins of cobblestone roads stretched endlessly through the town, glistening faintly from earlier rain. Water dripped from rooftops. Somewhere far away, machinery groaned from the night mills. Hill raised his bottle toward the sky. “To miners!” “To bad decisions!” Billy replied. “To women with low standards!” Billy nodded solemnly. “The backbone of society.” Again they roared. Their voices bounced through the empty streets before fading into the fog. Then— Hill stopped walking. Billy staggered two more steps before turning. “What?” Hill frowned. “There it is again.” Billy blinked drunkenly. “What’s again?” Hill looked behind them. Nothing. Only fog. Only silence. Then he laughed nervously and waved it away. “Thought I heard footsteps.” Billy smirked. “That’s your guilt catching up.” “I ain’t done nothing guilty.” Billy leaned close. “You stole my sausage pie in '82.” Hill looked offended. “That was survival.” The two men continued walking. |
ANOTHER NIGHT FOR THE THIEF The first thing you must understand is this: I am not a brave thief. Please. Let us not lie to ourselves. People think thieves are fearless creatures. Men of darkness. Sons of midnight. Predators of sleeping households. Lie. Complete lie. I am terrified of almost everything. Even now— as I crouch behind one old woman’s fence by 2:13 AM— my knees are shaking like generator with bad plug. And what am I here for? Not gold. Not money. Not television. .... Fowl. ... Yes, You heard me right, Fowl! One unfortunate chicken that does not even know destiny is pursuing it tonight. I blame the owner honestly. Why will somebody’s chicken be this healthy during economic hardship? The thing is practically glowing. In 2026 Every evening the woman posts pictures online: “My Christmas chicken.” “My special breeder.” “My organic poultry business.” Madam, temptation is also a form of invitation. Now look at me. Outside your house. Fighting for my life spiritually. The night is not friendly. That is another thing movies lied about. Night has too many noises. Too many opinions. Every shadow looks alive. Every moving leaf resembles armed vigilante. Even ordinary cat can suddenly become messenger of death. I heard “kpo!” and nearly confessed my sins immediately. Only for it to be mango falling. I wiped sweat from my neck carefully. Because even my own sweat sounds suspicious tonight. I moved one step. Stopped. Listened. Moved again. Stopped. Listened harder. Then suddenly— dog barked three streets away. I almost fainted. Why are dogs so committed to security work? People think stealing is easy. They have never seen darkness from criminal perspective. It is usually a High Blood Pressure Career Choice with a touch of Paranoia You begin imagining things. “What if owner is awake?” “What if village people exposed me spiritually?” “What if chicken itself starts screaming?” Ah! The screaming part terrifies me most. Because chickens are wicked under pressure. One small touch— the entire compound will wake up like choir rehearsal. Still— hunger pushed me forward. I have not eaten meat in weeks. Not proper meat. So tonight was supposed to change my destiny. I had prepared well too. Wore dark clothes. Rubbed dust on slippers for silent movement. Even prayed before leaving house. Short prayer though. You must not confuse God. “Lord… you know my heart.” That was enough. I reached the chicken cage at last. And there it was. Sleeping peacefully. Unaware. Fat. Beautiful. This chicken had the confidence of somebody protected by government. I stretched my hand slowly— then froze. Because suddenly… I remembered prison. Not prison itself. Prison food. Then I imagined villagers catching me. Tying tire around my neck. Children recording me with phones. My mother hearing: “Your son stole fowl.” Ah! That shame alone can kill person before beating starts. I stepped back immediately. Breathing hard. This was my ninth attempt in eight months. Ninth. At this point, even poverty is disappointed in me. I took another step toward the cage— and suddenly the chicken opened one eye. Just one. We stared at each other. Long. Silently. And I swear on everything— that chicken looked wiser than me. The foolishness of my life entered my body instantly. Here I was. A grown man. Sweating in darkness. Negotiating morally with poultry. Then the chicken shifted slightly. Just small movement. But enough to explain my uneventful life experience. I ran. Not walked. Not retreated strategically. Ran. Fence scratched my leg. Slipper nearly escaped. I did not care. Survival first. Crime later. Now I sit outside my room again. Hungry. Defeated. Ashamed. Maybe I am not truly thief material. Because after all these months— I have stolen absolutely nothing except fear and exercise. Still… tomorrow evening, when hunger returns and I see somebody’s fat chicken online again… who knows?
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Happy Children's Day To You All ![]() |
A. P. O. R. E A PIECE OF REALITY PRESENTS MY MOTHER’S POT - THE SOUP AND I The first thing you must understand is this I was not hungry. I was in love. There are meats… and then there are revelations. This particular meat was not ordinary goat meat. No. This meat had purpose. This meat had calling. This meat was evangelism in tomato stew. My mother gave me one tiny piece during dinner. Just one. Just enough to destroy my future. The moment it touched my tongue— I forgot multiplication table. Forgot home training. Forgot Moses and all ten commandments at once. Even Judas would have asked for takeaway. I chewed slowly. Painfully. Like a poor man tasting rich people’s happiness for the first time. That meat changed me. I looked at the pot afterwards the way lovers look at each other in Nollywood films during rain scenes. And the worst part? There were still many pieces inside. Floating. Calling me. Mocking me. I could hear them bubbling in the stew like demons speaking in tongues. So immediately after dinner— I began preparation. Because great missions require sacrifice. I intentionally ate little rice. Very little. Mummy even asked: “Why are you not eating?” I smiled wisely. A lion does not fill stomach with grass when destiny is waiting in the pot. I went to bed early too. Not because I was sleepy. Strategy. Operational camouflage. If you sleep early, adults trust you faster. But sleep refused to come. How could it? The meat was downstairs becoming colder every minute. And cold meat is a tragedy no child should witness. I turned left. Turned right. Prayed. Repented in advance. Sinned mentally again. Then I began imagining the future. If I succeeded— I would become legend. Children unborn would hear stories. If I failed? Ah. I imagined mummy waking the whole compound. “This boy has become criminal!” Neighbours gathering outside. Daddy removing belt slowly like the Esakaba boys pulling out a machete. My school hearing about it. Church announcing prayer request. Worst of all— my elder brother would laugh. That alone was enough motivation to succeed. So by 12:17 AM— Operation Meat Liberation officially began. I sat up slowly. Calculated darkness. Measured danger. Listened for snoring patterns. Daddy’s snore meant deep sleep. Mummy’s silence meant uncertainty. I stepped down carefully. One wrong sound and history would reject me. Now… our house has betrayal points. Specific places on the floor that make noise for no reason. Enemies of progress. I had studied them for years. So I moved carefully. Like thief trained by government. Every sound became suspicious. Fan noise? Possible witness. Dog barking outside? Federal investigation. Mosquito near my ear? Spiritual attack. Still— I advanced. Because brave men are not born. They are created by delicious stew. Halfway to the kitchen, I stopped suddenly. What if mummy set trap? What if she counted the meat already? What if this entire thing was character development test? I almost turned back. Almost. Then the aroma touched me again. Warm. Spicy. Emotional. That smell did not enter nose. It entered soul. I reached the pot at last. And there it was. Glorious. Majestic. Shining under moonlight like national treasure. I opened the lid slowly. The stew greeted me like old friend. Then I saw it. The biggest piece. The chairman of all meats. Fat. Perfect. Resting gently in oil like rich man inside jacuzzi. I stretched my hand toward it— then stopped. Because suddenly… I remembered everything they ever taught me. About stealing. About discipline. About honesty. I remembered my teacher saying: “Temptation only has power when you agree.” And right there in the kitchen— with stew perfume surrounding me like village jazz— I defeated myself. I smiled. Ah. So this is maturity. So this is growth. I closed the pot proudly. My demons had fallen. Temptation had lost. War was won. The Storm was over. History would remember this victory. I even imagined future interviews. “How did you overcome?” And I would say calmly: “Character.” Then suddenly— a hand landed on my shoulder. Firm. Cold. Motherly. At that moment, I understood something terrible. The soup was no longer inside the pot. I was the soup now.
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Who really is your competitor? |


