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Now it is huge currency it has turned to the suspect .......No names, No tribe , No Religion. A Mystery Identity. Weldone EFCC |
This is really weird because out of nowhere two days my mind went to Hulk Hogan. I was hulk that wrestler must still be live and well. Just for me to see this today. HH rest in peace man, you made wrestling quite interesting to me |
In the end, someone tells our story in their own words. Good or Bad , Right or Wrong. |
Aunty Waka Waka (From The Collection A Piece of Reality) The Carpenter says: “She greet me well, no be lie. Spoke English wey pass even my oga for site. Soft voice, like breeze for harmattan, She laugh loud, full chest, Like person wey see better joy inside sorrow.” The Market Woman grunts: “Na she make my daughter dye her hair red Always waka with tight trousers and chewing gum, She go pass and everywhere go quiet — Even pepper no go hot again! The Okada Man laughs: “She sabi gist! Ride with her once, She talk say she wan open saloon for the North. No be anyhow girl o. She dey hustle and get big dream, I swear — She pay my bail that time police carry me.” The Beggar nods slowly: “She dey give small change every Friday. Sometimes puff puff, sometimes rice. She dey always hold something come and laugh with us" The Child whispers: “She bought me sweet! Told me to stay in school and stay away from the boys. She winked and called me ‘future madam president.’ I like her... but mummy said she’s bad.” The Pastor frowns: “She donated speakers, big ones — But refused altar call. I prayed for her, she no bow head. Still... she cleans the church every now and then... alone.” The Headmistress wails: “She snatched my husband! That Jezebel with red lipstick and fast legs! He said he was praying overnight — Hmph! With her?” The Tailor shakes his head: “She brought my Ankara. Said she wanted to shine at her sister’s wedding. Paid double. No wahala. She wear am like queen. Say I be the best But na same day dem say she beat one girl for junction.” The Landlord grumbles: "She owe rent! Three months straight! But paid all with interest, in cash. Brought small chops too... She say thank you. I no fit vex again.” The Friend sighs: She listen when nobody did. Held my hand in the hospital, Sang old songs when I couldn’t sleep. But she disappear sometimes... weeks... Then return with strange perfume and tired eyes.” The Client confesses: "She make me feel human, More than my wife in years. She talk, she ask questions — deep ones. But she never let me stay long. Say ‘go home, your wife and daughter go dey wait.’” The Ex mutters: "She love me once. True love. But I no fit accept her life. Still dream of her. Still dey pain me.” The Choir Girl says: "I saw her kneeling at night, before the altar one day, She wept like a child, Asking God for something I couldn’t hear.” So they ask... Is she saint or sinner? Devil in wrapper or angel with scars? Harlot or helper? Thief of peace or giver of bread? She is all of them. And none. She is known. And unknown. She is Aunty Waka Waka. She walks in every story. She lives in every whisper. She laughs in every sorrow. She sins. She saves. She survives.
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The statement by APC’s Bala Ibrahim, in response to the PDP’s criticism, is not only riddled with political gaslighting, it’s a shameless attempt to cover APC’s catastrophic record with propaganda. Claiming the PDP is in “intensive care” while APC presides over a country suffocating under economic hardship is the height of irony. Nigerians today are not merely frustrated — they are hungry, angry, unemployed, and unsafe — all under the APC-led government that promised “renewed hope” but has instead delivered widespread hopelessness. To assert that Tinubu is “restoring hope” is a cruel joke when fuel prices have tripled, inflation is out of control, food has become a luxury, and the naira has become one of the world’s worst-performing currencies. There is nothing hopeful about the daily reality of Nigerians who can no longer afford to go to work, eat well, or pay their children’s school fees. If this is the “hope” Bala Ibrahim refers to, then the APC has lost touch with the very people it claims to serve. While the PDP has its own chequered history, it governed during a time when the naira was stronger, inflation was more stable, and food was affordable. For APC to mock the PDP’s credibility, yet constantly respond to its statements with this much energy, shows that they still see the PDP as a serious threat. It’s telling that the same APC that claims PDP is dead feels the need to shout down every criticism it makes — clearly, the PDP is not as irrelevant as they wish. Moreover, pointing to defections from PDP while ignoring the daily defections into and out of APC exposes their selective memory. The truth is that party loyalty in Nigeria is often transactional, and no party — including APC — is immune to internal rot. What Nigerians are judging now is not which party says the right things, but which party has done the least damage. And by all objective metrics, the APC government has failed in virtually every index of governance. Using the Lagos local government elections as an example, Ologunagba rightly pointed out that only 6% of registered voters turned out — a massive vote of no confidence. If Tinubu and the APC are truly popular, why are voters refusing to show up in his stronghold? This silent protest from the electorate speaks louder than all the noise from APC’s spokespersons. Bala Ibrahim’s comparison of the PDP to a mentally ill patient is beneath the dignity of political discourse. When a party resorts to mental health slurs instead of factual rebuttals, it shows they’ve run out of substance. This type of childish name-calling only reveals the moral and intellectual poverty of APC’s current defense strategy. The claim that APC is “the largest party in Africa” is an empty boast when its leadership cannot pay salaries, maintain hospitals, control inflation, or reduce insecurity. Size means nothing when millions of Nigerians under your rule are starving and scared. Leadership is measured by performance, not by slogans. In reality, APC under Tinubu has become a classic “bad market,” as the PDP stated — overpriced, overhyped, and under-delivering. The hardship Nigerians face daily has nothing to do with party loyalty and everything to do with survival. Come 2027, they will not vote for propaganda or metaphors. They will vote based on their stomachs, their pain, and their anger. If APC wants to defend Tinubu, let them do so with facts, figures, and impact — not playground insults and revisionist rhetoric. Until then, their loud rebuttals only highlight their fear that the Nigerian people have had enough. Let them continue, We are watching. |
Offer still valid? |
REBUTTAL STATEMENT: Calling Out the Hypocrisy—Labour’s Empty Rhetoric and Political Posturing Must End The recent remarks by the President of the Nigeria Labour Congress (NLC), Joe Ajaero, lamenting a “shrinking democratic space” and claiming that Nigerian workers are under siege, would have carried weight—if they were not soaked in contradictions, selective outrage, and political ambition disguised as activism. For too long, the leadership of the NLC has operated as a megaphone for grievance, not a true vessel of transformative change. Their statement, full of charged phrases like “authoritarian drift” and “muzzling workers,” appears on the surface like a bold defense of democracy. But let’s ask the honest question: Where was this energy when the same NLC was aligning with compromised interests and politicians behind closed doors? Where was this "fighting spirit" when the plight of minimum wage workers was ignored, or when hospitals and schools shut down under successive governments? To be clear: Nigerians are not deceived. We know the difference between principled resistance and theatrics for political relevance. It is laughable to hear Mr. Ajaero declare, “No force can crush the NLC,” when under his very leadership, the Labour movement has been fractured, politically co-opted, and largely ineffective in mounting consistent, nationwide resistance to anti-worker policies. When it matters most, the NLC too often becomes a spectator in elite politics, issuing statements and threats that are never followed through with real action. Let’s not forget that the Labour Party—born out of the NLC’s ideological roots—is only given lip service by its so-called parent union. While Peter Obi, the party’s most popular figure in decades, has faced attacks from state actors like the Edo Governor, the NLC has offered timid defenses, followed by inaction. It speaks of threats to Peter Obi today, yet has allowed internal divisions, political sabotage, and silence to define its engagement with the party he led to historic heights in 2023. Mr. Ajaero speaks of “organising and mobilising workers’ political power,” but what exactly has he organised? Where is the worker-led political roadmap? Where are the labour-endorsed candidates outside of election-season slogans? Where was the NLC when Peter Obi’s supporters were being brutalised and suppressed across the country? You cannot claim to defend democracy while ignoring democratic movements within your own ranks. This selective activism amounts to posturing, not progress. The sudden outcry about authoritarianism now that political permutations for 2027 are in motion reveals what many already suspect: that these outbursts are not grounded in concern for the people, but in positioning for political negotiations and access. It is als telling that Ajaero, while denouncing government repression, fails to acknowledge the decades-long complicity of labour leaders in enabling broken systems. The NLC has, for years, cosied up to politicians during elections, only to retreat into moral grandstanding when their expectations are unmet. This is not resistance—it is strategy without backbone. We also find it disingenous for the NLC to shout about shrinking space for assembly and free speech, while it has stifled dissent within its own ranks, factionalised chapters at the state level, and created confusion within the very Labour Party it should be strengthening. If the NLC cannot maintain unity and credibility within its own structures, how can it speak of defending national democratic institutions? On the NSITF land crisis and claims that government agents are trying to evict the NLC from its secretariat, the union must be reminded that public property must be handled transparently. Emotional appeals will not replace proper documentation and accountability. If the NLC wants to command moral authority, it must first lead by example—not by throwing wild accusations when due process challenges its control over assets. Finally, Mr. Ajaero’s insistence that “politicians are scheming for power” would be more convincing if his own speech weren’t laced with political undertones and ambitions. You cannot pose as neutral and aggrieved while plotting your own positioning. If you want to enter politics, do so boldly. Don’t hide behind the union’s banner while throwing rhetorical stones and offering no actionable solutions. In conclusion, Nigerian workers deserve better than press conferences and buzzwords. They deserve a labour movement that is bold, consistent, non-partisan, and grounded in real grassroots work—not one that lurches from one dramatic declaration to another every election cycle. The NLC must choose: Be a true movement or be a political lobby group. You cannot be both. Until then, the public reserves the right to treat these pronouncements for what they often are: distractions in activist clothing, designed more for headlines than for impact |
I saw a mom push her two or three year to the ground on the road this morning and hit the kid for his legs not been able to walk as fast as she was. She was angry and said a lot of mean things complaining a bout the child always behind. I was hurt and couldn't say anything really, i felt guilty and helpless. This kids are not punching bags where we direct our anger and all the troubles of our adult life unto. Please learn to be lenient, patient and caring . |
"Dear Daddy and Mummy, Now I am yours" (From The Collection A Piece of Reality) – A Child’s First Letter to the World Dear Daddy, dear Mummy, I just got here – all wrinkled and yummy. The room was cold, your eyes were warm, I felt your hands, your breath, your form. You called me “miracle,” you called me “light,” So let me whisper my dreams tonight. I know I can’t talk yet, not in your way, But my heart has things it’s bursting to say. Hold me gently, kiss my hair, Rock me slowly, show me care. I don’t know words, but I know the sound Of love when it wraps itself around. I want a home that's safe and kind, Where hugs are plenty and hearts aligned. Let laughter echo down the halls, Let joy paint pictures on these walls. Dear Daddy, don’t always be strong — It’s okay to cry, to say you’re wrong. I’ll learn more from how you live each day Than all the fancy words you say. Dear Mummy, don’t lose yourself for me, You are more than just who you’re expected to be. Be fierce, be bright, chase your spark, That way, I’ll learn to light my dark. I’ll ask questions – strange and wild, Like every bright and baffling child. Why’s the moon so far and high? Can giraffes really touch the sky? Why do ants march in a line? Why can't chocolate grow on vines? Please, don't hush me too soon or hit me Let me dance beneath the moon. Let me scrape my little knees, Climb the trees, and skin them, please. I need guidance, not just rules, I need wisdom, not just schools. When I say “no,” don’t always frown, don't threaten violence, hear me and correct me— It means I’m learning to stand my ground. [Praise me loudly when I try, Even if I mess up or cry. Let me fail and try once more, Let resilience open every door. Spoil me a little, laugh when I’m weird, Be the ones I always look up to. Sing with me, dream aloud, Let me grow both free and proud. Protect me fiercely from what’s unkind, But teach me to also speak my mind. Don’t just warn me of the storm, Show me how to stay warm. Let our home be filled with truth and grace, With patience etched on every face. Let your love not just be spoken, Let it live in acts unbroken. One day I’ll be grown and gone, But echoes of your love live on. In how I speak, and how I give, In the kind of life I choose to live. Dear Daddy, dear Mummy, this is my vow I’ll reflect what you teach me now. So love me gently, guide me right — Be my first stars, my morning light. Let me be wild, let me be wise, Let my dreams outgrow the skies. I’m not just yours — I’m the world’s new song, So teach me love, and I’ll pass it along.
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So in other words, the school has just told those sexually molested, assaulted and blackmailed into compromising or facing the injustice. Nice going. Really stand out patriotic individuals we have in that school. So when next blackmailers want to blackmail you, they will now do so with the full confidence of the school law. This issues should he handled with care and extreme caution, they have only succeeded in dragging themselves out. |
That song "time na money" comes to mind. Time is the only thing we cant yet buy, steal,manipulate or control. It is a force that can only be worked with. Make use of your time while you still can. |
Kookooruko Says the Agu The Old Cock Speaks (From the Collection , A Piece of Reality) Kookooruko! Says the Agu Wings tired, feathers faded, But voice still sharp as the morning sun. Gather round, you who walk with loud feet, Chasing shadows that smile like gold. You who laugh like time waits, You who drink youth like palmwine — Drunk on the idea that tomorrow owes you anything. I was once like you. Yes — I crowed louder than the hills Strutted through villages with pride fat on my chest, Fought every rooster like death was a myth. I chased hens with songs in my throat And dreams in my claws. But time, Ah, time is the only hunter who never misses. It came with a limp, then a stick, Then a cough that forgot to leave. Listen well. I have buried dreams beside rivers, Watched friends fall to silence, Danced under moons that now mock me, Because I waited… Waited to be perfect, Waited to be ready, Waited till the fire became ash. Life, my children, is a race without replay. The yams you fail to plant today Will not pity your hunger tomorrow. You think you have time? Time is a thief. A cunning one — it steals not your moments, But your chances. You think you are special? The grave is full of voices That once sang like gods. You wait for signs, For stars to align. But stars don’t wait. They burn, they blaze, they vanish. So should you — burn bright while you can. I once said “tomorrow” too many times. Now tomorrow laughs at me. I once said “not yet” to love, And now my nest is cold. You think regrets are only for the weak? No. Regrets are strong. They grow old with you, Sit beside you like friends, And whisper: “Remember when you didn’t?” Kookooruko! This is not a song. It is a warning. A call. A fire. Be bold. Say what you must. Do what you dream. Fail fast, rise faster. Love hard, live loud. For one day, You too shall crow your last, And the world will carry on As if you never did. Kookooruko, I say again. Not to wake the world, But to remind it— Time crows too. And its voice never lies.
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Why Kemi Badenoch’s Comments Are Not Just Misguided – They’re Deeply Unfair to Nigerians and Herself By all accounts, Kemi Badenoch is a woman of remarkable accomplishments—an immigrant-turned-Conservative leader, a mother, a lawmaker, and a cabinet minister. But in her recent CNN interview with Fareed Zakaria, she delivered a deeply disheartening perspective—one that reflects not only a troubling misunderstanding of her roots but also a warped lens through which she views Nigerians and the broader immigrant experience. Let’s begin with her claim that “It’s virtually impossible… to get Nigerian citizenship” and that “I can’t give it to my children because I’m a woman.” This is simply false. Section 25(1)(c) of the Nigerian Constitution clearly states that any person born outside Nigeria is a citizen if either parent is Nigerian. Not “if the father is Nigerian,” but either parent—mother or father. So if Badenoch’s children don’t have Nigerian citizenship, it’s not because Nigeria denied them—it’s because she never applied for it on their behalf. This factual inaccuracy is more than a technical error. It’s a reflection of a deeper discomfort Badenoch seems to have with her Nigerian identity—one she distances herself from publicly while simultaneously using it as a rhetorical tool when it suits her political objectives. She contrasts Britain’s "generous" immigration system with Nigeria’s, suggesting that immigrants exploit the UK while their own countries are stricter and less tolerant. But this argument is problematic on multiple levels. First, she benefits from the very system she now wants to restrict. She immigrated, rose through the ranks, and became a political force in a society that gave her opportunity. Her rise is proof that immigrants enrich societies—when given the chance. That she now seeks to close the door behind her, branding others as exploiters, is not principled—it’s hypocritical. Second, her portrayal of Nigerians is laced with disdain and caricature. She says “Nigerians would not tolerate that” in response to the idea of cultural integration through “mini-Nigerias.” But who exactly does she speak for when she says that? Nigeria is a multicultural, pluralistic society of over 200 million people. Nigerians abroad form vibrant communities—yes, sometimes clustered—but largely industrious, law-abiding, and focused on building better futures. They are students, doctors, engineers, cleaners, writers, and shopkeepers—not a monolith of rule-breakers. Worse, when she says, “There are many people who come to our country… who do things that would not be acceptable in their countries,” she reduces the immigrant experience to a stereotype: opportunists taking advantage of a system. This kind of rhetoric is popular in far-right circles, but it’s especially jarring coming from someone who has firsthand experience of migration. What’s most unfortunate is not just that she misrepresents Nigerian law or fuels suspicion toward immigrants. It’s that she misses the opportunity to be a bridge between two worlds. She could be both proudly British and proudly Nigerian—many are. She could tell stories of Nigerians abroad sending remittances home, investing in education, building infrastructure, championing innovation, and excelling in foreign systems. She could acknowledge flaws in both countries’ systems, yes—but with empathy, not elitism. Instead, Badenoch chooses to stand apart, wielding her Nigerian heritage like a political pawn—useful only when proving a point about how much better the UK supposedly is. But that’s not leadership; that’s performance. Her children are already British. But they could also be Nigerian—if she wanted them to be. The Constitution allows it. So does the culture. So does the very sense of identity that countless dual citizens embrace daily without shame. Rather than gatekeeping her achievements and distancing herself from her heritage, Kemi Badenoch could use her platform to educate, elevate, and inspire. She could be a model for integration without erasure—a Nigerian-Briton proud of both her roots and her chosen nation. But that would require humility. It would require honesty. And it would require a love for where she came from, not just where she ended up. Until then, her vision of belonging remains narrow, defensive, and fundamentally unfair—to Nigerians, to immigrants, and perhaps, to herself. I am really disappointed in her, Every immigrant who has risen to prominence has done far better in preserving, establishing and creating opportunities for their brothers and sisters out there, kemi at this point has lost my interest. |
Very easy..i go school that year Hip for the hip for hippopo popo for the hippopo And tamus for the hippopotamus. ![]() |
This is dedicated to someone special out there who has seen life and chosen to love and keep believing in love and happiness of knowing they are worth that one special moment. |
When I Walk the Altar (From the Collection of A Piece of Reality) When I walk the altar, Know it is not in blind bliss. Not in fairy tales or white lace dreams Spun by a child dancing in her mother’s veil. I walk not as one untouched by storm, But as one who has stood in the rain With mascara running like promises broken And still dared to bloom. They said— “Be soft. Be silent. Be chosen.” But I learned that silence was not golden— It was a muzzle. And softness? It was never meant to make me small. I’ve seen the cracks behind wedding filters. Fake smiles like folded napkins—only for show. I've seen bruises hidden by foundation, And foundations crumbling behind closed doors. I’ve loved— And been lied to. I’ve given— And been emptied. I’ve waited for apologies That never came. But still, I rise in my heels, Each step on this aisle a war cry, Each breath a vow to myself— I will not lose me in love. As a girl, I dreamed of a prince. Now, I know better. I don’t need saving. I need partnership. I need a man who does not shrink from fatherhood, Who does not flee from faithfulness, Who does not see duty as a chain, But as a crown he wears with pride. To the man who waits at the altar— Don’t just hold my hand. Hold your word. Hold our children’s hearts gently Like the fragile heirlooms they are. I bring my strength with me— Not to fight you, But to build with you. I bring patience— Not to excuse abuse, But to grow with grace. This is not a walk of fantasy. This is not a dance of naivety. This is steel wrapped in satin, Hope forged from fire, A love that has been sifted from ruins. I am not afraid. Not of leaving if I must. Not of staying if it’s true. Not of becoming more, Even if the world says I should shrink. Will it end in forever or papers and signatures? Only time will tell. But I walk this altar not to gamble— But to give what I have earned. A home like the one I was raised in— With peace that isn’t performative, And love that isn’t loud online But quiet and real in the living room. So when you see me walking— Don’t just see the dress. See the years. See the tears. See the fight I fought in silence. See the woman I became when the fairytale shattered. And if you will meet me halfway, Not as savior or master— But as man—whole and willing— Then together, we will write a story Not perfect, But worthy. When I walk the altar— Know this: I do not walk in blind hope. I walk in bold belief. I walk for me. I walk for the love I am finally ready to receive
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I cant explain how traumatic and painful been a victim of a sexual crime. The worst kinds of crimes committed by man are those where we have to live with the evidences for the rest of ourselves. Sexual crimes are serious crimes for both women and men. We need to support them and do better to protect the girl child more. Say No To Rape , Say No To Injustice. |
I Am Not the Victim (from the collection: A Piece of Reality) They said I should speak. So I opened my mouth — But only your words came out. And now, I tell my story… Exactly how you taught me. Yes, I was assaulted. But it was my fault. I wore the dress. It had colour. It had shape. I should have been made Invisible And you know what they say — “Don’t dress like what you don’t want to be hunted as.” So surely… I am not the victim. I went out — at night. To the supermarket. To a friend’s party. To breathe. He offered me a ride home. I said yes. That was the sin, wasn’t it? Who raised me to trust strangers — even polite ones , even relatives and friends? Surely… I am not the victim. They say I drank wine. One cup. Two, maybe. So that means I wanted it, right? My consent came in bottles, not words. Isn’t that how it works here? Surely… I am not the victim. I laughed too much. Spoke freely. Didn't shrink myself small enough when boys spoke. He said, “You women are too forward these days.” And they all nodded. Even the women. Surely… I am not the victim. They said it must have been my upbringing. That girls from “good homes” don’t end up like this. My parents must have failed me. I must have failed myself. Surely… I am not the victim. They asked me what I was doing alone. At night. In trousers. In skirts, In Blouse, In Any Dress With lipstick or With no lipstick In a country where even streetlights judge you. Surely… I am not the victim. They asked me why I didn’t scream. Why I froze. Why I didn’t kick. Why I didn’t die trying to stop it. Because surviving wasn’t enough for them. And silence is always more suspicious than screams. Surely… I am not the victim. And when I finally spoke — They asked what I wanted. Justice? Or attention? They said it was “too late.” They said he was “a good man.” They said I was “confused.” They said I "wanted it" They said I was “emotional.” They said… so much. So I said nothing. Surely… I am not the victim. I looked at the laws — Full of loopholes. Full of conditions. Full of ways to make my story vanish into paperwork. And I saw the system for what it is — Not a ladder to justice, But a maze built to exhaust me. Surely… I am not the victim. My pastor said forgive. My mother said forget. My friend said don't tell anyone — It will ruin your name. But no one ever says it will ruin his. Surely… I am not the victim. (society murmurs) "But..." “But what of him?” “But surely, she didn’t deserve that…” “But still, He shouldn’t have…” "But what if…?" Oh. Now you want to defend me? Now you hesitate? Then let me help you. What about the boys? They’re not taught control, are they? Just blame. What about my tribe? My religion? My silence? My shape? My voice? Pick one. Blame it. You always do. So I’ll say it before you do. Surely… I am not the victim. I must have led him on. I must have enjoyed it. I must have provoked it. I must have deserved it. I am the reason it happened. Surely… I am not the victim. And now, I turn to you — yes, you reading this. Weren’t you about to say it too? Weren’t you just about to tell me How it’s my fault? Go on. Say it. Tell me — surely, I am not the victim.
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A Gold and The Digger (from the collection: A Piece of Reality ) The wine breathes. The waiter bows. The candle winks like it's in on the secret And the gold digger smiles. They’ve done this before. The other person across the table? Nervous, hopeful — smiling too often. Dressed like they borrowed confidence from a friend more secure. They speak of love like it’s overdue. They’ve brought all their softest parts to the table. But the gold digger doesn’t bring softness. Only bait. Only mirrors. The gold digger listens. Not to connect — but to calculate. They ask about dreams, and the other person shares: a bakery, a tech startup, a child someday, a house with jasmine trees. The gold digger nods, carefully — like a thief eyeing what to steal. They are not falling in love. They are taking inventory. The other person leans in. Says, “You’re easy to talk to.” They always say that. It’s how the gold digger knows they’re winning. The other person is generous. They laugh at jokes. They touch their glass when they talk. Their heart is halfway on the table already. They want this to work. But love is not what’s happening here. A transaction is. The gold digger compliments the way they think. The way they hold eye contact. They mimic the same wounds — the same “I was also betrayed,” the same “I don’t want games either.” But it’s all script. Practiced. Polished. Tested across previous lovers. The gold digger doesn’t speak. They perform. “Where do you see yourself in five years?” asks the other person. The gold digger answers, but it’s never real. It’s a reflection of what the other person wants. It’s desire in disguise. They talk about growth. Children. Faith. Family. (but they mean access, inheritance, and escape routes.) The gold digger watches how they chew, how they check their phone, how long their eyes stay sad after certain words. [b]They’re not falling in love. They’re mapping the vulnerabilities.[/b] The other person offers: “My last partner didn’t see me.” The gold digger replies: “I see you.” Of course they do. That’s the whole point. They eat. They laugh. They plan. The date feels magical. The bed feels unreal. But magic is always trickery until the hand is exposed. A few weeks pass. Gifts are exchanged. Family introductions hinted. Love declared — softly, strategically. And one day, the gold digger disappears. Quietly. Guiltlessly. Completely. The other person cries. Prays. Posts “never again” quotes. But the damage is done. The gold digger has moved on — to another dreamer, another table, another heart for a price. But now, dear reader — you’ve read long enough. Listened deeply. Perhaps… wondered who was who. So I step forward. Not them. Me. I was the gold digger. This whole time. Not because I wanted love. Not because I want money, But because I know how to make others want me just long enough to hand me, their time, their wealth, their loyalty, their trusts, their desires, their dreams, their weaknesses, their lies, their truths and their lives. before I left with nothing but a satisfied smile.
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kolente:Sometimes you got to re-educate the socalled elites. |
Maj196:You wont say that to an armed who came to you house to kill, steal and destroy...I bet you would say worse. You want to know where such criminals learn from? Check your ballot boxes. |
Whats reno saying? Peter Obi’s absence at General Muhammadu Buhari’s funeral in Daura should not be misinterpreted as a slight to the North or a display of disrespect. In reality, attending a funeral—even one of a former president—is not a constitutional or political obligation, but a matter of personal discretion. Many prominent Nigerian leaders, including former presidents, have skipped high-profile funerals in the past without such actions being politicized. For instance, President Muhammadu Buhari himself failed to attend the funeral of former President Shehu Shagari and several other notable figures during his tenure, often sending representatives instead. Similarly, Olusegun Obasanjo did not attend President Umaru Musa Yar’Adua’s funeral, yet this did not spark widespread condemnation. In contrast, Peter Obi was in Ilorin attending the 2nd Annual Colloquium in honor of Professor Abdulmumin Yinka Ajia, where he made a public call for national inclusion and regional equity—a topic central to his political vision. This was not a leisurely outing or a celebration, but a thoughtful engagement on national development and political reform. Choosing to attend a policy forum over a symbolic funeral is not a sign of insensitivity, but a reflection of his values: action over performance, and dialogue over optics. Moreover, it must be said that Buhari’s legacy remains deeply polarizing. While some revere him, many Nigerians—especially the youth—remember his tenure for widespread insecurity, rising poverty, suppression of dissent, economic hardship, and ethnic divisions. For Peter Obi, a politician who has built his reputation on reform, transparency, and progressive ideals, attending Buhari’s funeral could have sent confusing signals to his supporters and the public. Leaders must be cautious about the company they keep, even in death, as appearances can contradict their core messages. It is also important to note that Peter Obi has never shown contempt or disregard for the North. His selection of a respected Northerner, Dr. Datti Baba-Ahmed, as his running mate, along with his consistent outreach and engagement with Northern communities, prove that his commitment to unity goes beyond gestures—it is built into his politics. He has visited the North repeatedly, engaged in constructive dialogue, and maintained respect for its people and culture. His absence from a funeral should not erase years of bridge-building. Furthermore, the comparison of Buhari to Ahmadu Bello, as suggested by Reno Omokri, is flawed. Ahmadu Bello is remembered for developmental leadership, inclusion, and vision. Buhari’s legacy, however, is mired in allegations of nepotism, mismanagement, and human rights abuses. It is disingenuous to expect leaders to honor both with the same reverence. The North, and indeed Nigerians at large, are politically mature and can distinguish between tokenism and principled leadership. It would be unwise to assume that a funeral appearance determines loyalty to a region. The North remembers actions, not just optics—and Peter Obi’s actions consistently reflect his vision of a united, just, and progressive Nigeria. In sum, Obi’s decision not to attend Buhari’s funeral was a conscious, strategic, and principled choice, not a sign of indifference. His commitment to national unity, inclusion, and responsible leadership remains evident in his public conduct. Leadership must be measured by consistency of values—not just presence at ceremonies. Lastly I say this. A True Leader Will Walk The Right Path Even If He Walks Alone. Obi has made A bold statement. |
Bingo Will not be Patient (from the collection: A Piece of Reality) Good morning, my name is Bingo. Yes, that Bingo — The one at Baba Sulé’s Meat Shed beside the mosque. The one with the limp, the scar, and the eyes that have seen too much. You’ve heard of me? Good. Then sit down. Because today, I am not wagging. Today, I will speak. Not in barks or tail swings, But in the truth I’ve chewed on like bitter bone. Every morning I report for duty. Before Sulé sharpens his blade, Before his lazy apprentice yawns, Before the sun finishes brushing its teeth. I am there. Barking at flies, Growling at rude customers, Chasing children who come to poke at frozen cow legs. People don’t just buy meat. They come to see Bingo — The dancing, twisting, snarling show dog of the market. Women even say I bring luck. Men call me Baba Aja. Children chant, “Bingo! Bingo! Watch am go!” But they forget one thing. I am not Sulé’s dog. No. I am a street dog. Born behind a broken toilet near the slaughterhouse. I was weaned on dust, raised on shouting, Baptized in rain and flogged by area boys. I chose to be useful. To serve. To guard. To wait. Ah! Patience. The foolish gospel they feed street dogs like me. They say, “Be loyal, and you shall eat.” But how long does one be loyal before one dies? You see that meat Sulé sells? Lush, pink, fat-glowing meat? I protect it with my soul. Even the flies fear my stare. I’ve saved Sulé’s table from thieves. I’ve entertained customers. I’ve barked until my throat cracked. And what do I get? Not meat. Not even a tendon. Just bones. Hard, dry, God-forsaken bones. The kind that break teeth and choke you in your dreams. I once swallowed one. I coughed for three days. Almost saw dog ancestors calling me home. And when I limped to Sulé, He said, "Stupid dog, stop pretending. Go and guard." And I went back. Limping. Hungry. Faithful. Hoping. Like the fool they think I am. But today? Today I woke up different. I stared at the morning light and something in my chest howled: “Enough is enough.” If patience is a virtue, then let virtue feed me. If loyalty is noble, then let nobility give me one juicy cut. But if all it gets me is insults and cracked ribs, then burn it all. So today, I did my rounds. I barked at flies. I did my spins. I posed for the women on Facebook Live. But when Sulé turned to weigh a customer’s goat meat, I leapt. Oh, I leapt like the ghost of my grandmother’s ancestors gave me wings. And I grabbed it. The fattest, bloodiest, most glorious piece of meat on that table. Ah! Glory! Victory! Taste! Freedom! Of course, Sulé screamed. He picked up a stick. His apprentice joined. They chased me around the pepper seller’s stall. One woman shouted, “Ha! Aja ti ya were! Bingo ti ya were!” Let them shout. Let them chase me. Let them call me mad. But I have tasted what my loyalty never gave me. And if I die today — Let it be written on my grave: “Here lies Bingo — The Dog Who Waited Too Long.” So you, sitting there — Don’t tell me about being patient like a dog. I was. And patience nearly killed me. Now, I am hungry. I am angry. And for once — I have eaten well. Bingo will not be patient. Not anymore.
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Where Is Chief Dogo? (from the collection: A Piece of Reality) They started to ask. Softly at first. Like children tiptoeing into a room that once held fire. “Have you seen Chief Dogo?” Mama Bisi asked the pepper seller. He scratched his head. “Ah! Last I saw him was at the twins’ naming… but he didn’t spray money that day.” “Strange,” another muttered. “Dogo no dey miss event. That one na MC’s best friend.” Now, everyone was wondering: Where is the Lion of Ọjà Mba? The man with agbada that swept the ground like royalty? The one whose laugh cracked the air like thunder? The man who entered occasions like a presidential convoy, Perfumed the air before he arrived, Made drummers switch tempo, And stole attention like tithe in a pastor’s bag. They called him: "The Man With Government on Speed Dial.” “Chairman of All Occasions.” “Importer of the Invisible.” “Distributor of Audio Philanthropy.” Nobody knew where he lived. Some said Lekki. Others whispered London. One okada man swore he saw him renting a room in Ijebu Igbo. But the man himself? “You know these politicians — today Abuja, tomorrow Paris!” He made pledges like prayers. “₦20,000 for the widow!” “₦50,000 for the school roof!” “₦100,000 to support the twins!” But no one ever saw the transfer alert. He had one agbada — white, flowing like Holy Ghost. He wore it to naming ceremonies, burials, church harvests, town hall meetings. Even weddings where he wasn’t invited. But people clapped — because his agbada arrived before he did. Even if the pocket inside that agbada was crying. Even if the shoe was borrowed. Even if his smile was stitched together with lies. You see, Chief Dogo lived off perception. He was richer in talk than in cash. He borrowed for birthdays. He pledged with another man’s tithe. He avoided landlords the way rats avoid traps. But still — The village let him dance. Because it’s easier to laugh at a lie Than sit with your own poverty. Then one day… silence. No Dogo at Mama Uche’s burial. No Dogo at youth fundraiser. No Dogo at Igwe’s granddaughter’s wedding. When he did come, he left before offering. He ducked donation lists like bullets. He gave excuses: “Meeting with minister.” “Flight to Senegal.” “Urgent contract.” But the agbada was now grey. The perfume smelled tired. The laugh had cracks in it. Then the truth began to leak: He sold his car — “for investment.” Sold his fridge — “for relocation.” Sold his watch — “for kingdom work.” Now he sold his time for food. He knocks on gates he once looked down on. He greets with two hands. He clears gutters for food. He runs errands for the same market women he once ignored. “Anything I fit do today — make I see food chop?” The drummers don’t play for him anymore. Children don’t chase his agbada. The MC skips his name without shame. The lion has become the whisper of the antelope. But the village? They don’t laugh anymore. They just say — “We knew.” Because they did. They always knew. But they let him dance his dance. Because every village needs a Chief Dogo To remind them how lies wear agbada too. So now, at events, when a new man walks in Making noise, pledging donations no one asked for — They say: “Abeg, if you see one big man spending like breeze, Making empty promises like fuel price reductions, And distributing hope without account number — Tell am we dey look for our Chief Dogo.” Because sometimes, the lie isn’t what fools you — It’s what entertains you. And when it stops being funny, You realize the show was always free — But the shame costs more than ego can afford.
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correctguy101:Actually that high sir, is natural and comes in small Doses in everything we do. Addiction is over flooding the brain pathways responsible for it. Thankfully the brain can be rewired. It is not too late until it is too late. Help is still possible |
You want to help him Change his environment. Its like porn addiction. I tell them, get a smaller phone, stay off the grid for a 3 months period. Find something not addictive for a hobby like reading books and all. Get him anti-depressant drugs...they deal with alot of mental uneasiness Let him be busy, invest in any sport or exercise that exerts physical energy. Keep his mind busy not addicted. Find people , religion helps here, he needs someone to hold him accountable. He needs good fruits and food. His health has to be built up again. Drink more fluid and all. I fit help with counselling but its for a fee. I helped someone with porn addiction some time ago. You just need to be strategic and know how to fight your battles and wars |
lithiumnigeria:What are you saying sir? Get him a job in this state? I wont advice that. Such a person would bring harm to that job and his guarantors and the likes. He needs to rehabilated. Dont treat the symptoms treat the sickness |
JAOS:Worst advice bro, you will only be pushing them to the edge..believe me, this people would rather kill than drop the habit. He needs to go into rehab. Detoxification begins with environment change. If i was the larent. Take him to the village where his access would be limited to cigars and weed. Then start the other processes |
The Drunk and the Mad Man (from the collection: A Piece of Reality) Early in the morning, before the cock could sneeze, Before Mama Titi’s firewood caught breeze, Two shadows danced in front of the shrine — One with staggered feet, The other with a crooked mind. One was called Pa Dede, known for his gin, The other? Odeyemi, whose madness came from within. One drank from bottles, One drank from dreams, But both could be found shouting at trees “Aha!” said the drunk, “Today, I fight my enemies!” “Who are they?” asked the mad man. The drunk replied, “Those goats at the party last week who ate all the meat!” The mad man clapped. “Yes! I too have enemies — the clouds that keep following me. I chased them to the market once!” And the two of them laughed. And the sun, confused, delayed its rise. The drunk wore a suit with one missing sleeve. The mad man wore wrappers like royalty, draped with leaves. The drunk smelled like palmwine and pain. The mad man smelled like dirt and something you can’t name. One lost his mind to bottles, The other lost it to time. But they both talked to people who weren’t there. They both insulted elders without care. They both danced at burials and slept at weddings. They both held sermons at bus stops with no ending. So the villagers asked: “Who is madder?” And the elders replied: “Check their feet.” If the leg shakes, he’s drunk. If the eyes shake, he’s mad. If both shake — run. At the well, they fought one day. Over who was wiser. “I see my visions after three bottles,” said the drunk. “And I see mine without needing a glass!” said the mad man. They argued about politics. The mad man said The chairman is a goat in a wig. The drunk agreed — but insisted the goat was better than the last lizard. They argued about women. They argued about food. They argued about God. But when it came time to sleep, Both curled under the same mango tree, Snoring in unison. One dreaming of bottles. One dreaming of flying goats. The children of the village watched and laughed, Saying, “Uncle Drunk and Uncle Mad are twins!” And truly, in their laughter and confusion, The line between madness and drunkenness was just a breeze — One came in through the mouth, The other through the mind. But both were lost. Both were loud. Both were lonely in a world that only mocks and never listens. So if you pass by the village square one dawn, And see a man greeting the trees and another fighting his shadow, Do not ask which is drunk or mad — Just ask: Which of us is really sane, In a world that has turned us all into something strange? Because some of us drink to forget, And some forget to drink, But all of us… Are just one heartbreak away from dancing with the wind.
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As a believer myself it is with profound respect I write this, its in its way a thank you to the men who have stood behind the altars. For their many sacrifices that go unnoticed and unappreciated. Thank you. |
The Pastor Sat in the Congregation (from the collection: A Piece of Reality) They said he had a calling. A voice like thunder, and a fire in his eyes. He could turn scriptures into swordplay, And silence sin with just a glance. He preached truth. He lived upright. He feared God. And the people feared him, too — A reverent fear, the kind born from respect and awe. But that morning — the pastor sat in the congregation. No altar. No pulpit. No robe. No amen. He sat like a stranger among sheep he once led. His hands trembled around a plastic cup of Coke. Not the chalice of communion. His shirt — not white and pressed — was sun-washed and frayed at the seams. He wore old leather shoes. The same ones he had worn to bury members, to wed couples, to dedicate babies who now looked away as they passed him. The ushers didn't recognize him. The new ones. The young ones. They offered him a seat at the back. He took it without protest. The man of God had become the man forgotten. They whispered in corners. Isn’t that Pastor N...? The one with the big voice? The one who used to speak in tongues for ten minutes straight? The one who prophesied the rain would stop — and it did? Yes. That one. But that was then. Now? Now his wife doesn't come to church. His sons have dreadlocks and debt. His daughter left home after an abortion scandal. And the ministry account? Empty. He tried to flip church funds into business. He was scammed. Not once. But twice. His enemies said it was pride. His friends said it was warfare. He said nothing. No Greetings. No Remarks. No Nothing. Just sat. Back row. Among the murmurs. Looking at the altar like a man staring at an old photo — recognizing everything, but belonging nowhere. He had poured oil on many heads, but none remained to pour oil on his now. He had prayed deliverance into marriages, but his own house collapsed while he was casting out demons in others’ homes. He had fasted. Preached revivals in five states. Given away his car. Counseled addicts. Sent sons of strangers to school. Built other people’s houses in prayer, while his own roof leaked through eight rainy seasons. But ministry is lonely. They don't tell you that part. They don't tell you how the phone stops ringing when your voice no longer echoes in sound systems. They don't tell you how hard it is to look your children in the eye after shouting salvation to strangers and forgetting their birthdays. They don’t tell you that while you save the world, you can lose your own home — in the name of sacrifice. He tried to take his life last year. He won’t say it out loud, but his wrist still carries the evidence. That Sunday, his son knocked on the door. That knock saved him. Now he sits. Head down. No offering envelope. No prophecy. Just a broken hallelujah lodged in his throat. The pastor sat in the congregation. And when the altar call was made, no one noticed the old man with tears in his eyes mouthing a prayer he once taught others to pray: "Create in me a clean heart, O God… and renew a right spirit within me." They prayed for him. Politely. As one would a guest. Hands touched his head but didn’t know his story. They gave him bread and Coke. As if his hunger was only physical. As if that could replace the dignity. he once wore like armor. He watches now as a young pastor stands at the altar. Fire in his eyes. Voice booming with confidence. The church is on their feet, chanting, crying, dancing in the Spirit. He smiles. A sad smile. He’s seen this before. He once was that fire. He knows how it ends. When people no longer shout your name. When the drums stop. When no one answers your calls. When you become a cautionary tale, shared over dinner like, "Have you heard what happened to Pastor N…?" The service ends. The congregation files out. The young minister is surrounded, celebrated, adored. But the old pastor walks alone. No wife beside him. No children waiting in the car. No armor. No applause. Just silence. And his seat at the back. Empty now. Just like his eyes. Because sometimes, the ones we praise as gods are the first we crucify when they bleed. And the shepherd who gave his life for the sheep is forgotten when the wolves come for him. The pastor sat in the congregation. Not in sin. But in sorrow. Not for disgrace. But for the pain that comes when a man gives everything and forgets to keep something for himself.
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olushowunm:Dear "Reasoned Responder", You wrote with polished language and decorum—but beneath the surface lies a deliberate strategy of emotional pacification, data distortion, and intellectual dishonesty. Let’s destroy it point by point—not with fury but with facts. “Economic Chemotherapy”? Let’s Call It What It Is—State-Induced Collapse You say Nigeria needed “economic chemotherapy.” Here's what that chemo has done: Inflation hit 33.95% in May 2024, and food inflation at 40.66%—worst in 29 years (NBS). Naira hit ₦1,900/$ in February 2024 before “stabilizing” above ₦1,400, not due to reforms—but due to CBN’s firefighting and aggressive borrowing. Fuel subsidy removal without structure led to: Fuel jumping from ₦185/litre to ₦900+ Transportation costs up 300% Food prices up 250% (CSO Reports) So, if this is “sustainable correction,” then the correction is killing the patient. And when millions can no longer feed, it’s not reform. It’s cruelty. You call it “painless reform demands.” No. It’s reckless austerity without empathy or preparation. Peter Obi vs Tinubu? One Led Anambra to Surplus. The Other… Well… You ask why Obi should be scrutinized. Fine. Let’s go there: As Governor of Anambra, Obi: Left ₦75 billion in reserves (confirmed in state records) Paid civil servant salaries on time Invested in schools and health (Anambra moved from 28th to top 5 in WAEC rankings) No corruption cases, no EFCC drama, no missing funds Now compare to Tinubu: Chicago certificate scandal Drug money forfeiture case (1993 US court): $460,000 settlement—no denial, just hush Bullion vans during elections—no probe Alpha Beta consulting—over ₦100 billion siphoned from Lagos IGR (whistleblower case in court) So, who has “tested moral compass”? The man with proof of prudence, or the one with undeniable murky financial past? Let’s Talk Global Endorsements—World Bank, IMF, and False Praise You name-drop IMF, World Bank, and JP Morgan like they're spiritual endorsements. Here’s the truth: IMF praised reforms, but also warned in April 2024: “Without effective social safety nets, these policies will deepen poverty.” World Bank said in its Dec 2023 Nigeria Development Update: “No less than 7 million Nigerians fell into poverty since mid-2023 due to inflation and FX reforms.” JP Morgan in 2024: “Cautiously optimistic, but Nigeria’s external reserves are lower than claimed; CBN overstates reserves by $7 billion.” So even these “supporters” are waving red flags. This is not endorsement—it’s a warning siren. 3MTT and Job Creation: Optics Over Outcome The 3 Million Technical Talent (3MTT) scheme? It is not creating jobs. It’s creating certificates. Of the 480,000+ enrolled, less than 5% have been absorbed into formal employment (TechCabal report, June 2024). Over 33% youth unemployment persists (NBS Q1 2024) And you're cheering "structure over slogans"? The real slogan here is “certify and suffer.” Security: Don’t Rebrand Blood as Progress You claim “progress in security”? Let’s remind Nigerians: Plateau (2024): Over 300 killed in a single Christmas season massacre. Kaduna–Abuja train attacks (2023–2024): Resurgence of bandit activities. Zamfara, Niger, Borno, and Katsina remain unlivable for many. According to SBM Intelligence, Nigeria recorded over 6,300 violent deaths in 2023 alone. Tinubu promised to “end insecurity in six months.” It’s been over a year, and Nigeria is still a bloodbath of headlines. Coastal Highway & Vanity Projects: Priorities of the Privileged Yes, the Lagos–Calabar Coastal Highway will create jobs—but here’s what you intentionally omitted: The road project was awarded for ₦15 trillion without open bidding. Communities like Okun-Ajah and Mowo were demolished with little/no compensation, leaving families homeless. The economy is bleeding, yet you pour trillions into a road most Nigerians will never drive on. This isn’t nation-building. It’s nepotism-paved elite tourism. Education & Student Loans? More PR Than Reform You claim the Tinubu government cares about education? Out-of-school children rose to 18.3 million (UNICEF, May 2024). ASUU strike continues to loom—nothing systemic has changed. Student Loan Act? Only 1% of Nigerian students can qualify due to: Guarantor hurdles Credit Bureau red tape No grants, just debt You say Obi “offers nothing new.” But Obi has long advocated cost-efficient education, teacher training, and national testing reforms. You ignored all that to gaslight Nigerians into seeing “loans” as liberation. Foreign Policy? Please. Let’s Check Reality Tinubu begged UAE to lift visa ban. They did—but only after he agreed to opaque aviation deals. Foreign Direct Investment (FDI) fell to $468 million in Q1 2024, the lowest in 17 years (NBS). Nigeria ranked 131st in Ease of Doing Business (World Bank 2024). You talk about Shell, Siemens, and Exxon as though they just returned. They never left. They're just renegotiating new survival terms. Meanwhile, Tinubu’s “party loyalty” gave Nigeria a family-business-styled cabal. Political movement ≠ political betrayal. And Nigerians now know the difference. Finally—Anti-Corruption You demand Obi declare assets, yet Tinubu hasn’t declared his own since 2007 publicly. And: New EFCC boss was handpicked from Lagos circle Customs, FIRS, and CBN have faced massive corruption under Tinubu, not scrutiny Budget padding, missing subsidy savings, and “₦20 trillion unaccounted revenues” (as per BudgIT) remain ignored Where is the transparency? Who audits the auditor? You say, “Nigeria needs maturity, not hysteria.” Agreed. But maturity is not silence in the face of systemic hunger. Maturity is not selling patriotism as pain. Maturity is not blaming a man with no power, while covering for one with too much. Peter Obi may not have the answers to everything—but what he has shown is clean governance, clarity of intent, and a moral standard this country sorely lacks. Meanwhile, this administration has shown us: Hunger without hope Policy without empathy Reform without results So let’s stop twisting suffering into strategy. Let’s stop weaponizing “reason” to silence accountability. Because when a man walks into your house, burns it, and says he’s "renovating"—that’s not reform. That’s arson. And Nigeria is on fire. Now tell the truth. Tell it without spin. Or say nothing at all. Thank you. |
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