WriterX's Posts
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 Forum Games › Re: Pick Any Two Doors, Which Doors Are You Picking? by WriterX(m): 7:58am On Sep 23, 2025 |
epainos:So you would prefer to watch millions suffer and die just so you can be in your hideout , may i also inform you that prying into peoples mind is in fact an issue of eroding one free will You all think its about you and what you can do. I am proud of the path I take on this question, If i had the power i would seek control. Everything every institute , every form of academic pursuit or so called idea behind purposeful living is a form of control. What you see What you hear What you feel What you do You want to live a peaceful life avoiding all the mouse traps life throws at you, thats your one piece of reality. Real people who understand the consequences of sitting idle and only caring about what you want take a stance. You are really surprising shall..honestly i want to believe you are just trolling. Like who in their right mindset ... Oga rest, you have nothing to say. Dont bother quoting or mentioning me, i wont see it and i wont respond. What a waste of my time |
| Forum Games › Re: Pick Any Two Doors, Which Doors Are You Picking? by WriterX(m): 7:05am On Sep 23, 2025 |
epainos:If you think about it, mind reading only gives you access to information. You know what someone feels, what they plan, maybe even if they’re lying to you. That’s useful, yes — but it’s passive. It doesn’t change the outcome. Knowing that someone plans to betray you tomorrow doesn’t stop them; it just lets you prepare or walk away. It’s like watching a storm coming on the weather channel — you can grab an umbrella, but you can’t stop the rain. Control, on the other hand, changes reality instantly. If you can control someone, you don’t need to know their motives, their loyalties, or their fears. You can bend their actions to match your goals. That’s why, in stories like X-Men, whenever Professor X is being manipulated or controlled, it’s so terrifying. It’s not the fact that his thoughts are being read that’s dangerous — it’s that someone else is steering his will, using his power against the world. Reading his mind is knowledge; controlling him is apocalypse. Even in everyday life, information without influence is limited. Imagine you’re in a negotiation. Reading the other side’s mind lets you know their bottom line, but you still have to persuade them, bargain, and hope they don’t change their mind. Control skips the whole dance — you make them sign the deal right there. It’s the difference between knowing the lock combination and simply having the master key. Of course, this also explains why control is more feared, and yes, more “evil.” Because while mind reading leaves people their freedom, control strips it away. But if the question is strictly about power, about which ability actually shifts outcomes in your favor, then control is unquestionably stronger. Reading minds equips you to react. Control lets you decide. So May I ask You, If you knew Adolf Hitler Was going to become a terror and murder so many people and cause a world war would it have stopped millions of families from been massacred or would just a word from you change the history? Think about it and make peace with your answer. Have a great day! |
| Forum Games › Re: Pick Any Two Doors, Which Doors Are You Picking? by WriterX(m): 4:40pm On Sep 22, 2025 |
epainos:Mind reading is not going to work as you think it is. First there is always conflict of what one thinks about. There are no certainty, because one is thinking doesnt mean they would do it. Plus mind reading varies as a sort of super power. You can have like professor X telepathy or shin from sakamoto. Imagine you have to be monitoring the person constantly to know what they are doing so they dont change their mind and do something else. Oh well, its up for debate 1 Like |
| Forum Games › Re: Pick Any Two Doors, Which Doors Are You Picking? by WriterX(m): 4:32pm On Sep 22, 2025 |
I will simply pick one : control anybody Imagine you have all the money in the world and i can still buy what you buy for billions for One naira and refuse anyone to sell anything to you. Time travel has to be specific so i dont know what i am going back or to do. What powers do i have. Whether i can read the minds of people or not. It wouldn't matter. If i cant stop them from doing what they want. I can have the worlds powerful men to do whatever i want and thats all I need. Everything there seems to have a catch or no specifics so I am cool with this. Remindse of this scene in Game of thrones...Where cecil talked about power and knowledge.. Choose power over money at all times, money can only take you as far as power wants you to go. 1 Like |
| Literature › Re: Discontinued. by WriterX(op): 11:46am On Sep 22, 2025 |
Episode Six Part Six – Streets of IronClover Morning crept into IronClover not with sunlight, but with smoke. The sky above the city was a furnace haze, streaked with the black plumes of factories and the faint silver outlines of airships drifting like whales across the clouds. Down below, the streets roared awake. Steam coaches hissed and rattled across brass-plated tracks, gears churning as drivers snapped reins and cursed at the traffic. Newsboys darted between the wheels, their shrill cries slicing through the fog. “Extra! Extra! Hanns Murder Mystery — No Leads!” “The Council Demands Justice!” “Is IronClover Safe?” The words echoed off iron bridges and glass towers, lodging themselves into the thoughts of every passerby. Shoppers on cobbled lanes paused to listen; machinists in leather aprons wiped soot from their brows to shake their heads; aristocrats in silk coats frowned as if scandal clung to their boots. IronClover thrived on scandal. It fed the gears as much as coal. The Hanns murder was no longer just a tragedy—it was an entertainment, a warning, a weapon of politics and gossip alike. Fog rolled between gaslamps and brass statues, blurring the line between day and night. Somewhere, a clocktower hammered the hour with hollow chimes, while the markets swelled with the clang of tools and the hiss of hot pipes. Yet beneath all that noise, the city seemed to breathe differently since the night of the attack. Every rumor was a cog turning in its restless heart. Every whisper, a spark on its brass skin. The Hanns mystery had become IronClover’s newest obsession—feeding fear, fascination, and the uneasy sense that something unnatural moved within its veins. |
| Literature › Re: Discontinued. by WriterX(op): 11:46am On Sep 22, 2025 |
Episode Five Part Five – The Collapse Jonathan didn’t remember pulling away from the door. He only knew that his body was moving, stumbling, crashing against the banister as though every muscle wanted him out, away, down. The revolver clattered once against the railing before he caught it, white-knuckled, terrified of dropping it. The staircase groaned beneath his boots as he half-ran, half-fell, down the steps. His breath tore out in ragged gasps, sobs strangled in his throat. Coward. Coward. The word hammered in his skull with every pounding step. At the bottom, he nearly collided with the standing clock — its pendulum swaying with maddening calm, as if mocking his terror. He pressed against the wall, revolver trembling at his side, trying to breathe but only choking. And then the tears came. Hot. Uncontrolled. His chest ached as he let out a strangled cry, burying his face in his free hand. For three weeks, he had kept it dammed, bottled, contained. Tonight, it broke. Behind him, soft footsteps. Heller. The butler’s tall frame appeared from the corridor, shadow first, then his face: pale, worn, carved with decades of duty. His eyes, dark and unreadable, flicked once to the revolver in Jonathan’s hand, then to the staircase above. He said nothing. Jonathan wiped his face with his sleeve, trying to swallow back the storm, but it was useless. He looked at Heller like a drowning man looks at shore. “They… they’re not them anymore,” Jonathan stammered, voice broken. “Mother, Michael— they sound like them but they’re not. Their eyes… God, Heller, their eyes.” Heller’s expression did not change. He bowed his head, grave and deliberate. “Yes, Master Jonathan.” Jonathan’s lip trembled. “I can’t do it. I thought… I thought I could. The gun… it’s supposed to end it. To end them. But I can’t. I can’t!” His voice cracked on the last word, echoing in the hollow chamber of the hall. Heller stepped forward, slow, measured, the way one approaches a skittish horse. He laid a gloved hand on Jonathan’s shoulder, steadying him. “Then I shall feed them, sir,” he said quietly. “As I have these past weeks.” Jonathan’s head dropped, a bitter tear sliding down his cheek. The revolver shook once in his grip before he lowered it, ashamed. “Please,” he whispered. “Just… don’t let them starve.” Heller inclined his head once more, his voice carrying the weight of an oath: “As you wish, Master Jonathan.” For a moment, silence stretched. Only the pendulum ticked, steady and merciless. Jonathan’s green-apple eyes, bloodshot and weary, stared at the floorboards. He looked young then — too young. A boy standing where a man should, shackled by love, by fear, by guilt. Upstairs, faintly, the scratching started again. Jonathan flinched. He pressed the revolver against his chest as though to keep his heart from tearing itself apart or stop the madness once and for all but he knew he couldn't. |
| Literature › Re: Discontinued. by WriterX(op): 11:45am On Sep 22, 2025 |
Episode Four Part Four – The Glimpse Jonathan’s hand reached the lock. It was cold against his palm, colder than stone, colder than death. For a moment he simply stood there, eyes squeezed shut, every muscle taut. The revolver hung at his side like dead weight. His breath rasped, shallow and uneven. The voices on the other side shifted, softening, coaxing. “Jon… darling. You don’t need the gun tonight. Just open the door. We miss you. We want you,” His brother’s whimper followed, childlike in tone though his brother was nearly grown: “I’m so hungry. Please, Jon. Just a little food. We won’t hurt you. We love you.” Jonathan’s lip trembled. His thumb traced the worn engraving on the revolver’s grip — the Hanns crest, two lions devouring each other. A family symbol of strength. Now it felt like mockery. His body moved before his mind could stop it. Click. The lock yielded. He pulled the door a fraction open. Darkness bled out, thick and choking. The stench hit him first — metallic and rancid, a cocktail of spoiled blood and rotting meat. He gagged, clapping a sleeve over his nose, but his eyes remained fixed forward. In the gloom, something shifted. A silhouette. Familiar. Human. His mother’s figure, slight and graceful, sitting upright on the iron bedframe. Her posture was perfect, as though she’d been waiting, expecting him. “Jon…” she whispered, her voice syrup-sweet. And then he saw her eyes. Twin orbs of molten orange cut through the dark. They gleamed like dying coals, burning with hunger, with madness. They were not his mother’s eyes. They were the eyes of something that wanted to wear her face like a mask. Jonathan’s hand convulsed. The revolver lifted an inch — then faltered. From the shadows behind her came another pair of eyes. Smaller, sharper. His brother. His lips curled back, revealing teeth too long, too white, smeared in dark stains. Jonathan’s breath froze. The room reeked of freshly slaughtered animals — the half-eaten carcass of a hound lay in the corner, ribs exposed, the sound of flies buzzing faintly. His stomach turned. “Come closer,” his mother crooned. “We won’t bite.” A laugh slipped from his brother, low and guttural, nothing like the boy Jonathan remembered. Jonathan’s knees buckled. He stumbled backward, the revolver shaking in his grip. The door creaked as it swung wider — and in that instant, the chains rattled. Iron straining, metal bending. They lunged, only to be yanked back by their bonds. The sound — the sheer violence of it — tore through Jonathan’s skull. He slammed the door shut, his chest heaving, his vision blurred by tears. His back struck the wall and he slid down to the floor, clutching the revolver to his chest like a child clutching a toy against the dark. From inside came the sound of nails dragging across wood. Long, deliberate scratches. Then silence. |
| Literature › Re: Discontinued. by WriterX(op): 12:35am On Sep 22, 2025*. Modified: 3:51am On Oct 19, 2025 |
As an Author and Movie Lover, perhaps one of my most hated troupes is vampires and how they are portrayed, its almost too consistent and I have stayed far away from anything that has to do with vampires and werewolves. Why make a three part book suddenly out of vampires? Well, because someone has to do it. HOW TO SAVE A VAMPIRE IS A MUST READ FOR EVERY ONE WHO WONDERS WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A MONSTER. |
| Literature › Re: Discontinued. by WriterX(op): 12:31am On Sep 22, 2025 |
Dont forget to Like, Share and Comment.  |
| Literature › Re: Discontinued. by WriterX(op): 12:30am On Sep 22, 2025 |
Episode Three Part Three – The Approach The revolver weighed like iron in his grip as Jonathan climbed. Each stair answered his step with a groan, wood protesting beneath his boots. The house seemed to lean inward, listening. His breath quickened. He tried to steady it, tried to be the hunter his father would have demanded, but all he felt was the pounding of his heart against his ribs. One more step. Just one more. His eyes flicked upward. The corridor stretched ahead, draped in shadow. At the far end, the oak door of Room 32 loomed like a sealed tomb. Iron locks glinted faintly in the candlelight. Jonathan’s throat tightened. Three weeks, and still he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Three weeks of feeding them, hiding them, lying for them. Three weeks of pretending to the council, to the town about what happened that night. His legs threatened to falter, but he pressed forward, whispering in his head: I’ll end it tonight. I have to. I must. But another voice rose inside him, quieter, crueler. What if you can’t? What if you never will? He reached the landing. The silence was suffocating. Then— A sound. Soft. Gentle. A woman’s voice, seeping through the cracks in the oak. “Jonathan… darling.” His mother. The voice was warm, almost musical, as though nothing had changed. As though she weren’t chained inside, rotting away piece by piece. His chest constricted. “Let us out, Jonathan. Please.” His knees wavered. For a heartbeat he wanted nothing more than to fling the door open, to see her smile again. Then came another voice, smaller, frailer. His brother. “Jon? It’s so dark. I’m hungry. Please, can we eat? Remember the IronClover fields? The games we played?” Jonathan bit down on his lip until it bled. The revolver trembled in his hand. His brother’s voice was exactly as it had been three weeks ago. Exactly as it had been the day before everything turned to blood and fire. He pressed his forehead to the wall beside the door, eyes squeezed shut. Sweat rolled down his temple. Don’t listen. They’re not your family anymore. Not your mother. Not your brother. Roths. Just Roths. But the words rang hollow. He could still hear his mother’s lullabies, smell her perfume, remember the way his brother had laughed when they raced across the fields. He wanted to believe those memories were still alive inside that room. And yet—deep beneath the sweetness, he caught it. The rasp. The hunger. A guttural growl riding beneath their pleas. Jonathan staggered back a step, nearly tripping over himself. The revolver shook so violently he almost dropped it. Tonight, he thought again, desperate, clinging to the lie. Tonight I’ll do it. But his body betrayed him. His hand hovered near the door, trembling, his knuckles white around the revolver’s grip. Fear rooted him in place. |
| Literature › Re: Discontinued. by WriterX(op): 12:26am On Sep 22, 2025 |
Happy Reading More Episodes To Follow Daily |
| Literature › Re: Discontinued. by WriterX(op): 12:25am On Sep 22, 2025 |
Episode Two Part Two – The Heirloom Jonathan paused at the base of the staircase. His gaze slid — not upward to Room 32 — but sideways, toward the wall beside the great steps. There, in its glass case, hung the golden Winchester revolver. It glimmered faintly in the candlelight, catching the fire in its engraved barrel. A family heirloom, a relic of Iron Age wars. His father had polished it religiously, retelling the story of how the Hanns bloodline had once stood shoulder to shoulder with hunters, driving back the night’s creatures during the second, third and fourth war. Now his father was nothing but bones beneath the earth, murdered. Jonathan’s hand lifted almost of its own accord. The glass case opened with a tired creak, and the revolver slid free into his palm. It was heavier than he remembered. He held it up, studying the weapon. In its reflection he caught sight of himself. A pale face stared back at him — younger than his nineteen years should have allowed. His skin, once warm with youth, now held a sickly hue, drained as if the house itself had bled him dry. His eyes, green like young apples, no longer carried the brightness of summer fields but the dim, hollow gleam of a boy who had looked too long into the dark. His black hair fell untidy across his forehead, damp with sweat. A streak of dried blood lingered at the cuff of his shirt. He hadn’t noticed it before. Whose blood? Animal? His own? He couldn’t remember. Jonathan exhaled, the sound shaky, and curled his fingers around the revolver’s grip. The metal was cold, biting into his skin. His father’s voice rose unbidden in his mind: “A Hanns does not flinch before duty. If you aim, you fire.” But Jonathan’s hand trembled. He looked up the staircase again. The candles flickered as though stirred by a hidden breath. The stair boards groaned under his first step, then the next, each sound a reminder: the higher he climbed, the closer he came to Room 32. Jonathan whispered under his breath, a broken vow to himself. “Tonight… I’ll do it. Tonight.” his courage wasn't enough so tonight he had taken courage from wine. Yet even as he said it, the words tasted like ash. |
| Literature › Re: Discontinued. by WriterX(op): 12:24am On Sep 22, 2025 |
EPisode One (Three Weeks Later) Part One – The Return The iron gates of the Hanns estate groaned as they shut behind the carriage. Jonathan Hanns leaned heavily against its polished wood, his breath thick with the smell of wine. The party had ended hours ago, yet the sound of laughter and music still seemed to rattle in his skull, refusing to leave him alone. He stumbled as the carriage jolted to a halt before the great steps of the mansion. The doors opened before he could reach for them. Heller, the butler, stood framed in the light of the entrance hall, tall and thin as the candelabras behind him. His white gloves gleamed, but his eyes, sunk deep behind sharp spectacles, measured Jonathan silently. Jonathan grinned, forcing cheer into his tone. “Heller. Still awake for me at this hour? You should sleep, old friend.” The butler said nothing at first. He stepped forward, steadying Jonathan as he swayed on the threshold. “You reek of wine, Master Jonathan.” His voice was dry, clipped, yet touched with the faintest weariness. “Shall I have water sent up?” Jonathan waved him off. “No, no. I’ve had…enough water for a lifetime.” He gave a half-laugh that turned into a cough. His boots dragged against the marble floor as he stumbled inside. The entrance hall loomed around him — chandeliers unlit, portraits staring down from shadowed walls, the once-proud banners of House Hanns sagging as if even the cloth mourned. The mansion, once alive with servants, echoed only with the hollow sound of his footsteps. Dust gathered where no hand bothered to polish. The smell of smoke and candle wax clung to the air, heavy, suffocating. Jonathan paused in the center of the hall. Above him stretched the grand staircase, curving upward like a pair of open arms. His eyes wandered — unwillingly, always unwillingly — to the far corridor of the second floor. The corridor that ended at Room 32. His smile faltered. The wine in his blood curdled into unease. For a moment, he thought he heard it again — a whisper. The faint echo of his mother’s voice drifting down through the wood and stone. He swallowed hard, fingers clenching. “Are you well, Master Jonathan?” Heller asked softly. Jonathan shook his head quickly, forcing another smile, though his lips trembled. “Perfectly well. I’ll just…retire to my room. Long night.” The butler’s eyes lingered on him as though searching for the truth, but he bowed slightly and stepped aside. Jonathan turned toward the stairs, but his steps slowed as he drew nearer. The house was too quiet. Too aware. Every shadow seemed to lean toward him, urging him to climb. And above, beyond the locked oak of Room 32, something stirred. |
| Christianity Etc › Re: American Scientists Say That Biblical Eve Looked Like This by WriterX(m): 12:51pm On Sep 21, 2025 |
I want to simply correct two errors in most of the previous commenters word. Just two words "beautiful" "perfect" I think beautiful and perfect is subjective not objective. What could be perfect beauty to you may not be to another. So why would anyone say she had to be the most beautiful or perfect woman? Do you even know what it would mean to be perfect or beautiful truly? when we keep holding pageantry each year to define what beauty or perfection looks like. We are all created in Gods image, we must stop using words above our measurement to measure things above our reasoning. Everyone on this thread is just too quick to dismiss, deny, refute, rebuke, avoid, destroy, ignore, replace what was said. Hah, Nigerians shall! 1 Like |
| Literature › Re: Discontinued. by WriterX(op): 6:54pm On Sep 20, 2025 |
Chapter One Episodes Will Be Available By Monday. See you all soon. |
| Literature › Discontinued. by WriterX(op): 6:53pm On Sep 20, 2025*. Modified: 4:07pm On Nov 11, 2025 |
Synopsis – Secret of the Roth (Book One) In the shadowed city of Iron Clover, humans and vampires share a fragile peace built on fear, politics, and old wars. But when a prominent man is found dead under strange and brutal circumstances, the balance begins to crack. At the center of it all is Jonathan Hanns, a young man burdened by family secrets — and chained to a house where something monstrous lurks upstairs. Drawn into the investigation alongside Albert and Raleigh. Jonathan discovers forbidden relics: a cursed ritual knife, a book with missing pages, mysterious blueprints and whispers of the long-forgotten Cult of Patra — a sect that once sought immortality in the sun through blood arcane magic. As tensions in Iron Clover ignite — tavern brawls between humans and vampires, mysterious disappearances, and the arrival of the eccentric hunter Merlein— Jonathan must decide whether to run from the truth… or face it. Because the Roth — the twisted half dead, half vampire creatures — may not be a forgotten horror after all. And their secret is clawing its way back into the light. Full Version Will Be Available On Webtoon By October. Written by writerX
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| Literature › Re: Divorce Me - A Piece Of Reality by WriterX(op): 4:11pm On Sep 19, 2025 |
This piece is a satirical and reflective commentary on how easily “divorce” has become a default escape in marriages today. It is not a denial that divorce can sometimes be the only safe or reasonable option — such as in cases of abuse, neglect, betrayal, or irreparable harm. The intent here is to question the casual, throwaway use of divorce as the first response to conflict, not to shame or condemn those who have made the difficult choice to leave for their safety or sanity. Every marriage is unique. This work is a mirror, not a verdict. |
| Literature › Divorce Me - A Piece Of Reality by WriterX(op): 4:09pm On Sep 19, 2025 |
Divorce Me Wife’s Voice Divorce me. That’s the new greeting in our homes, The punctuation at the end of every quarrel The shortcut to silence, The weapon sharper than knives. Once upon a time, Our mothers patched their wrappers, Our fathers patched their pride. They bent but did not break. Now? The slightest wind and we scatter. We don’t mend anymore. We discard. We don’t heal anymore. We replace. Husband’s Voice Divorce me. That’s the password of this generation. Once the food is salty, Once the bills are heavy, Once the children cry too loud, Divorce becomes the anthem. Our fathers stayed for better or worse, Even if they grumbled before elders and relatives. Our mothers endured through storms, Even if their eyes carried silent rivers. Now we slam doors Instead of opening them. We text lawyers Before we text each other. Wife’s Voice Divorce me, you say, As if love was a disposable plate. Do you not know Even broken plates can be glued? Do you not know That cracks tell stories, That healing is also holy? But no— We prefer escape routes, Quick exits, Clean breaks. We run from growth And call it freedom. Husband’s Voice Divorce me. Because patience is old-fashioned. Because counseling is boring. Because forgiveness feels like slavery. Because we’d rather upload pictures of new love Than repair the wreckage of old promises. We were not taught how to endure,learn and grow. We were taught how to upgrade. New car, new phone, New husband, new wife. And so the cycle continues— Children inherit our brokenness, They rehearse our excuses. Both Voices Together Divorce Us The phrase rolls too easily off our tongues. Not as a cry for help, But as a death sentence. We no longer fight for love, We fight to leave it. We no longer hold hands, We hold grudges. But tell me If every storm sends us packing, if every quarrel ends with papers, If every mistake deserves exile— Who will still believe in marriage? Silence. Then a whisper. Maybe love is not the absence of fire, But the courage to walk through it together. Maybe marriage is not chains, But the choice to repair, Again and again. Maybe “Divorce me” Should not be the first word. Nor the last.
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| Celebrities › Re: Daniel Regha Knocks Scott Iguma Over Tweet About Yorubas Being Tribalistic by WriterX(m): 3:06pm On Sep 19, 2025 |
Eastcoastboy:It is still painful and shocking but what to do. This things happen 1 Like |
| Literature › THE KLEPTOMANIA OF LAGOS - A FAST PACED MUST READ FOR ALL STORY LOVERS - CMPLTE by WriterX(op): 10:49pm On Sep 18, 2025*. Modified: 4:23pm On Oct 30, 2025 |
A Must read for All story lovers of romance, friendship and revenge. Synopsis – “The KLEPTOMANIA OF LAGOS” Patty just wants peace — love, stability, and a little happiness after too many heartbreaks. Caddy, her best friend, has everything Patty dreams of — power, beauty, money, control. But beneath Caddy’s perfect smile lies a secret hunger… a dangerous thrill that feeds on taking what isn’t hers. When Patty meets David, a charming young doctor who seems almost too good to be true, her world brightens again — until Caddy takes notice. What begins as friendship turns into a silent war of obsession, manipulation, and betrayal. As hidden pasts resurface and truths unravel, both women are forced to face the price of what they’ve stolen — love, trust, and identity itself. Set against a backdrop of glamour and emotional chaos, The Art of Taking explores the fragile lines between affection and control, loyalty and dependence, guilt and revenge. In the end, everyone takes something. The question is — who will be left with nothing?
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| Celebrities › Re: Daniel Regha Knocks Scott Iguma Over Tweet About Yorubas Being Tribalistic by WriterX(m): 10:07pm On Sep 18, 2025*. Modified: 10:50pm On Sep 18, 2025 |
Sorry to say, I recently just put up my resignation over this tribal issue with yorubas, the boss told me fairly he is bias towards his tribe and wont ever hire someone outside his tribe again. So nor vex if I believe this. Mind you, it is this same tribal issue that has made me almost an alien in an office I have given my best in. So sorry, i find it hard not to believe 8 Likes |
| European Football (EPL, UEFA, La Liga) › Re: Liverpool Vs Atletico Madrid; UCL At (3 - 2) On 17th September 2025 by WriterX(m): 11:20pm On Sep 17, 2025 |
You guys forgot bayer leverkusen goals came from mostly games that everyone kept thinking they will lose I think liverpool dynamics needs time to kick in. In wirtz is looking up. We will get there. |
| Foreign Affairs › Re: Charlie Kirk: FBI Releases Images Of Person Of Interest. Seeks Public's Help by WriterX(m): 10:21pm On Sep 11, 2025 |
Many people dont know how this works, I have watched crimes and investigations documentaries for a long time . Getting the media involved says two things right now. *They have no new leads on this POI (person of interest) in other words, they have no clue who this is or how to get him right now. *They are desperate to get this person. Its going to be wild wild west chase. Let the real hunt begin 7 Likes 2 Shares |
| Romance › Re: How Would You Handle This Relationship? by WriterX(m): 7:02pm On Sep 11, 2025 |
I am just here to say I stopped at paragraph two. I have nothing else to say 1 Like |
| Sports › Re: Asamoah Gyan Accuses Osimhen Of Faking Injury In World Cup Qualifiers by WriterX(m): 6:59pm On Sep 11, 2025 |
Nobodily wants to play and get injured and sidelined after having such a huge purchase price paid on your head. Gala stood out for osimhen. If the super eagles overall performance should be blamed ,osimhen should not be singled out. Let him breath. This nation doesn't reward loyalty sorry to say. And Remember there are eleven capable players in the squad if anyone should be blame its the team, coach and management and nff not one player! |
| Literature › I Used To Be - A Piece Of Reality by WriterX(op): 7:40pm On Sep 10, 2025 |
I Used to Be FROM THE COLLECTION A PIECE OF REALITY Everywhere I turn, big people wear their past like agbada. They carry it proudly, dragging me into it like inheritance, as if “used to be” is a crown, as if “used to be” is enough to eat. Coach clears his throat, belly bouncing: "I used to be captain of the football team, I used to score goals like thunder, girls used to scream my name in the stands!” But now? He can’t run after his own shoes, and the only thing he kicks is empty plastic bottles on the street. He calls me lazy, says I’ll never make it. But if he “used to be” champion, what is he now? Teacher frowns with chalk-stained fingers: "I used to be the best in mathematics, never needed calculator, I used to solve equations faster than rain falls.” But now, she flips through ten textbooks before she can answer one question, and if we fail to solve it for her, she punishes us. Is “used to be” a certificate, or just another cane? Mother sighs while pounding yam: "I used to be so beautiful, men lined up just to look at me, your father was the luckiest!” But now, she quarrels with her mirror, and reminds me daily how ugly my nose is. If beauty expired like old garri, why use it to measure me? Father leans back in his chair: "I used to carry first in all subjects, I used to win debates, my grammar was sharper than blade.” But now, he cannot spell “biro” without peeping. He asks me to write his texts, to fill his forms, yet tells me I will “never reach his level.” What level? The one he already abandoned? The preacher shouts on the roadside: "I used to heal the sick, I used to pray fire down, I used to command demons, angels used to visit me every night!” But now, he cannot command his microphone to stop squealing. He sells “anointed napkin” for ten thousand, yet cannot recite John 3:16 without help. If he used to walk with angels, why is he now begging us for transport money? Uncle at the bar raises his glass: "I used to be rich, money flowed like river, I used to drink champagne, I used to drive the latest cars!” But now, his phone rings only for debt collectors, he borrows salt from the neighbors, and still tells me not to waste my future. If wealth could vanish so fast, why is he still bragging like it’s present tense? Everywhere I turn, it is the same story: "I used to be… I used to be…" Like a song without chorus, like past glory is bread for today’s hunger. But me? I am still small, I want to laugh now, play now, be something now. I don’t want to grow up and become a museum of expired achievements. So I ask them, with my small but stubborn voice: Is it success to be a “used to be,” or failure that refuses to sit quietly? If all your medals only shine in yesterday, why polish them in my face today? As for me, I refuse to be trapped in “used to be.” I will be, I am becoming, I am not done. Because the future will never ask, "What did you use to be?” It will only ask, “What are you now?”
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| Literature › It Used To Be A Country - A Piece Of Reality by WriterX(op): 7:07pm On Sep 10, 2025 |
It Used to Be a Country They tell us to sing: “Nigeria, we hail thee, Our own dear native land.” But what land? One where hunger eats bones thicker than corrosion? One where rice costs more than the dreams we carried into university? Does the anthem taste of tears in parentless homes? “Though tribes and tongues may differ, In brotherhood, we stand.” They say our strength is in diversity— Yet highways bleed blood between Biafra cries and Fulani fires. Brothers shooting brothers because land, faith, fear are rewritten as death sentences. “Nigerians all, and proud to serve Our sovereign Motherland.” Serve whom? The ministers with gold teeth, The governors who sleep in wallets full of stolen votes, The flabby local chairmen selling votes like palm oil to the highest bidder. “Our flag shall be a symbol That truth and justice reign.” Truth is now auctioned in courtrooms, justice a bribe in plastic bags. Baloons of hope fly, popped by hired thugs who know the anthem only as background noise. “In peace or battle honoured, And this we count as gain.” Peace? When bombs roar in the North, abductions carve the night deeper than fear, soldiers massacre villagers while the anthem echoes in Abuja halls. “To hand on to our children A banner without stain.” Yet our children grow invisible— in IDP camps, in synagogues, in hunger, in tears, with no banner to love, only shadows of promises broken. “O God of all creation, Grant this our one request.” They pray for unity— but where is the prayer when hunger starves the body? When illiteracy chains minds, and hospitals are empty graves dressed in white coats? “Help us to build a nation Where no man is oppressed.” But oppression walks with guns, in courtrooms, in prisons, in policies that suffocate the poor while the corrupt feast in corridors of power “And so with peace and plenty Nigeria may be blessed.” Blessed? When our granaries starve, our currency collapses, our dreams expire like fuel in a stalled engine? This—this is not a country anymore. It used to be a country where anthem was hope, flag was promise, future was bright. But now? It’s words on paper, a devotion paid with sorrow. It used to be a country. Now it is a question, a dirge, a blistering memory wrapped in colonial ink.
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| Politics › Re: World's Most Populated Countries By 2100 by WriterX(m): 2:19pm On Sep 09, 2025 |
lexy2014:1. When did China adopt the one-child policy? 1979. 2. How much decline of their population has been recorded since then? Population growth slowed sharply; the decline only began around 2022, with about 2–3 million fewer people per year since then. 3. Where will the more than 600 million people go to in the next 75 years? China’s population is projected to shrink to about 600 million by 2100, mostly through natural decline (low births, aging, deaths) |
| Politics › Re: World's Most Populated Countries By 2100 by WriterX(m): 11:05am On Sep 09, 2025 |
lexy2014:There is steady decline and people are migrating far and wide. China is on steady decline in population. 1 Like 1 Share |
| Politics › Re: World's Most Populated Countries By 2100 by WriterX(m): 11:04am On Sep 09, 2025 |
Kajaard:Currently population is on steady decline as well, not many women or men are interested in marriages or having kids. |
| Romance › Re: Lady Drinks Hypo Because Of Heartbreak (Photos) by WriterX(m): 10:28pm On Sep 06, 2025 |
Fisher007:Now I am worried about you, why would you drink worse..sure you good? 1 Like |
| Crime › Re: Popular Benue Interior Designer, Debporsche, Killed By Ex-Boyfriend In Lagos by WriterX(m): 7:56am On Sep 06, 2025 |
Omihanifa:Guy, you suppose to reason what to say, what brought this comment here? |
