WriterX's Posts
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Smartcitizen:Guy, whatever this your reasoning be, I suppose give you better talk because your words make no sense at all. I am disappointed |
Smartcitizen:Just look at this, if you are reading this, know that a full blown human being with legs and hands and a working mind typed this. How is it that, we have come this far? I honestly dont know what is wrong with people this day, full blown human beings, it just baffles me. Is this what Nairaland is showing to the world? |
mmadu4:I hope you know in your deepest of conscience and the intelligence you were blessed with as a human being deemed higher than other animals living in a civilized society that has been around for centuries. I sincerely hope you knew that you just DIDNT NEED TO COMMENT. I hope you know that and make peace with it. |
Let the writer ensure he sleeps and eats very well till 2027 |
olushowunm:This is rubbish on an epic scale disguised as intelligence for zombies. This so-called "open letter" masquerades as a balanced inquiry but is, in reality, a deeply flawed and ironic attempt to whitewash the catastrophic failures of the Tinubu administration by shifting the focus onto a man who currently holds no executive office—Peter Obi. It reeks of selective amnesia, partisan spin, and a gross misrepresentation of Nigeria’s current crisis. Here's a deafening critical response that dissects this letter point by point: 1. FALSE PREMISE OF ‘PERFORMANCE’: GASLIGHTING THE SUFFERING MASSES The writer praises Tinubu’s administration for “performance” and “political will,” yet fails to mention: The unprecedented hardship Nigerians are enduring under Tinubu—from hyperinflation, record naira devaluation, fuel prices exceeding ₦900/litre, to food insecurity at starvation levels. The National Bureau of Statistics (NBS) reported over 133 million Nigerians living in multidimensional poverty—a crisis worsened under Tinubu’s free-market dogmatism. The removal of subsidies without a safety net plunged millions into chaos—transport fares tripled, power supply remains epileptic, and small businesses are folding by the day. So when the letter boasts of “freed up fiscal space” from subsidy removal, the real cost is paid daily by dying Nigerians in markets, hospitals, schools, and homes. That is not reform. That is fiscal sadism. 2. LOPSIDED COMPARISONS: PETER OBI IS NOT IN OFFICE This letter compares a sitting President with full executive powers to a man who merely contested and is not in office. That is a joke. Peter Obi’s campaign promises were for when he becomes President. He was not elected. You cannot accuse a man of not implementing policies when you denied him the power to do so. Meanwhile, Tinubu is in power, making policies now, and should be held accountable now. Asking Obi for timelines and budget breakdowns while ignoring the abysmal results of the man in charge is the height of intellectual dishonesty. If Obi had failed in office, then compare. But here, you’re comparing dreams to disasters. 3. ECONOMIC FREEFALL: IS THIS YOUR ‘RENEWED HOPE’? The author lists Tinubu’s economic moves like CNG, tractors, and floating the naira—but forgets the explosion of suffering that came with them. CNG? Over 90% of Nigerians can’t even afford cooking gas, let alone CNG vehicles. Floating the Naira? FX policies under Tinubu sent the naira to ₦1,500/$ before temporary relief. And even now, food inflation remains over 40%. Job creation? The 3MTT program is laudable on paper but remains a portal exercise with no large-scale impact. No massive job creation has materialized. So where is the ‘work in progress’ when your progress is hunger, chaos, and more suicide reports? 4. SECURITY: THE BLOOD ON TINUBU'S WATCH How dare the author question Obi's security plans while ignoring that: Massacres and kidnappings have worsened under Tinubu—from Kaduna to Zamfara to Plateau—entire communities are being wiped out weekly. State Police? Tinubu only made vague “talks” about it, but no concrete policy, funding, or constitutional amendments have materialized. Obi, by contrast, consistently advocates decentralization, while Tinubu has used military suppression and ambiguity as security strategy. 5. EDUCATION, INFRASTRUCTURE: AN EMPTY SHELL OF WORDS The open letter makes it seem like Tinubu’s feeding program and highway projects are groundbreaking. Reality check: Education budget under Tinubu is abysmal. ASUU still grumbles, facilities rot, and millions of children remain out of school. Coastal Highway? A vanity project prioritized over real productivity infrastructure, with costs that lack transparency. Electricity? You praise 20,000MW ambition mockingly, but under Tinubu, power generation dropped, with over 130 grid collapses and ongoing blackouts. 6. FOREIGN POLICY: WHAT EXACTLY IS BEING REBUILT? Tinubu “rebuilding” Nigeria’s global image? That’s ironic, because: Nigerians abroad are being deported, rejected, mocked. The naira is practically worthless outside Nigeria. Nigeria’s investment climate has been downgraded repeatedly due to policy instability, corruption, and poor infrastructure. BRICS & G20? Attendance is not diplomacy. It’s what you do with it—and so far, it’s only photo ops. 7. POLITICAL CONSISTENCY: AN IRONIC ATTACK You accuse Obi of switching parties—but fail to admit: Tinubu’s loyalty is not to Nigeria, but to a cabal of cronies he built over 30 years. Party loyalty means nothing when it delivers suffering. Nigerians are not looking for loyalty to party—they seek loyalty to progress and justice. Obi’s platform switch is dwarfed by Tinubu’s documented use of fraudulent certificates, drug-related scandals, and opaque wealth. So who really lacks consistency? 8. CORRUPTION: THE POT CALLING THE CLEAN KETTLE BLACK You accuse Obi based on allegations—Pandora Papers and N250M in a trunk (with no prosecution)—yet ignore: Tinubu’s Chicago mystery, Alpha Beta probe, drug trafficking settlement, bullion vans during elections, and unexplained properties. Tinubu’s government is already shielding cronies. Just look at the scandalous reappointment of indicted politicians and refusal to publish subsidy savings. So who really fears EFCC THE REAL IRONY: "RENEWED HOPE" IS A CRUEL JOKE "Renewed Hope" was a slogan. Now, it’s a national sarcasm. Hospitals are empty, schools in shambles, hunger and theft rampant, and the middle class wiped out. Yet this writer calls for Obi to show “costed proposals” as if that is the priority when the man they support is driving Nigeria into the ground daily. This open letter is a poorly disguised attempt at image laundering. It is built on: False equivalence Selective praise Omission of current suffering Demonization of hope The author says “truth is measured by results.” Then let the truth be deafening: Under Tinubu, Nigeria is more insecure, poorer, hungrier, and angrier than it was a year ago. So no, sir, this open letter isn’t a patriotic critique. It’s a dishonest distraction. And we refuse to let propaganda bury pain. Obi may not be in power, but he remains a symbol of an alternative. And if this government was performing, you wouldn’t need to attack the man Nigerians hoped for—you’d be celebrating results. But alas, you have none. Let the silence be broken. Let the lies be burned. Let the people remember what real hope feels like. And let this letter be torn apart by truth the writer has so far ignored in the lives of over 200+ million Nigerians out here hoping for a better Nigeria |
So I cant write R. I. P again so because of 40 characters.I don't like this type of character at all. I go spell RIP and then add memoir join? |
Fibonacci88:There is sense in this talk right now Both Victor and Viktor are literally media attention. The other day the VK broke up with his gf i shake head because he say he wan move lol they need advisers. When they are free clubs will swoop for them.Madrid have thought clubs lesson once a player is more than 25? Just wait till contract runs out... As for Galatasaray, I think they need to keep him. Gala has a good record though with players i think Didier did have an issue or so but I think they need VO |
Fibonacci88:From day one, I didn't blame Napoli or Victor, I blamed his agent. You see that guy, is the reason for all of this. An agent suppose no watin dey sup. The agent was fighting for his own pocket las las. VO was a chip both club and agent used. See Nico Williams, barca be wan play smart ball once nico saw the documents and understood what was going on. Guy, ran away for his dear career. |
Toban855:Oga its not a matter of emotions, you talk as though you are not familiar with player contracts and transfer negotiations. Its clearly a win-win for napoli here. Why pay someone for the next six months who wont be even in your reserve when you have a bid of 95-98% of what you want. There is no sense in that |
The truth is that for me, this is now personal clearly for Napololi and Conte. I see no reason for a player you deem surplus and unneeded to be in your paying books and when an offer that offers 95-98% of the expected bid comes up? Mind you, this same player is also getting close to be a free agent you will realize this is not a transfer saga but a vendetta. Most clubs want VO and VG and would likely wait it out till he is free. I can assure you both Vs have alot of suitors so why pay when you can wait and get them? For me, Let Napoli run their course of revenge, see Cahannoglu with inter milan been disrespected by the club and its captain, CH that puts his blood and sweat in Games suddenly because they have heard transfer, he is now the bad guy? Italy clubs act like Mafioso..loyalty until you are not needed. Thank God for Paulo Dybala and Roma that saved his career from oblivion. When clubs wanted that guy he stuck to loyalty only to be discarded even when he still showed in roma that he was always a better player. I like harling in Man city, guy made sure he invluded many clauses in his contract to make sure he can move when the time comes. In football there is nothing like loyalty, do your best when the spot light is on you. And take a bow when you ought to. Let this be a lesson to all players...lukaku and mctominay take note! |
spencekat:Fact remains that the business is still thriving, you just go to know how to package your self...before cinema was a thing, na person reason the matter and they still remain profitable |
Truetalk3139:Sorry, where you typing this from a prayer ground or what? |
udemzyudex:You dont understand the pyschology behind this business when it comes to a viewing centre it is not necessarly the watching you are there for, thats why the business thrives. Many people have data and cable to watch but still choose to go and watch outside...e get why |
I hear alot of people say viewing centre is a side hustle. I remember when I wanted to get into the business unfortunately I couldnt raise the needed capital. My plan was to elevate what a viewing centre is to something that would be bringing in steady profit. Use it as a rented meeting place for orgs, churches, lesson self. Get game consoles. Stream new movies, popular in demand series yes including zee world and korean and wrestling matches. Refreshments buying and serving. Charging spots especially where there is no light. Remote work places just small partitioning thats all it takes. Elearning spaces. And so on..i get ideas full ground. I dont see any reason why its a side hustle when you can invest big and be cashing out steady |
The one which is closer to me performing a slam down like undertaker or kane ![]() |
Revealpanda:If I talk for your matter they would get me an 897 years ban on nairaland and possibly ban me from accessing the internet. ![]() |
oyeb15:You will do your training here in sambisa forest or benue state. You cant go without having formal experience. after like 3 months in war front, we go arrange your visa. |
Oga Landlord, Do You Remember? (from the collection: A Piece of Reality) Oga landlord, do you remember me? Don’t try too hard — the oxygen mask might slip. Besides, I doubt you ever looked me in the eye. Not when I lived beneath your stairs like an insect you barely tolerated. But I remember you. With detail. With disgust. With decades of pain pressed into memory like laundry. You owned a house, but you acted like you owned people. You walked around shirtless — belly out, insults sharper than your belt. Your slippers slapped the ground like they were judging it, and your children learned that pride from your footsteps. They beat me once — your boys, for not greeting them. I was 22. They were 14 and 17. And still, they hit me with sticks while you watched and sipped your stout. You said, “What can you do?” I did nothing. I went to bed with blood on my shirt and none of it mattered to anyone. Do you remember the day I came home hungry? No job yet, just promises. I asked you if I could borrow ₦500. You told your wife to give me leftover amala from the children's meal. I ate it. Because dignity doesn’t feed the stomach. Later, you laughed about it at your beer table. “Na who dey lick pot, naim go make am in life?” They all laughed. Even my friends — once — until they stopped visiting. Your compound broke their spirits too. Said it smelled of failure. My prayers were mocked. You said I prayed too loud. Called me ‘Pentecostal beggar.’ You said real men don’t kneel — they negotiate. But God and I had no contracts. Only hope. Only pain. Only the wish that one day, I would not be small in your world. You used me as your houseboy. Not by name. But by need. You sent me to buy diesel, carry crates, chase goats, hold ladder for your carpenter, fix your DSTV, wash your cars. All without Pay or without Thanks. Because “at least you dey stay under roof.” Even dogs live under roofs. But you gave me none of their loyalty. Your wife called me “tenant,” like the word was an insult. Your daughter rolled her eyes whenever I greeted her. And when I smiled, your family acted like I farted pride into a space where only shame belonged. Once, she told her friends: “That one? Na failure, he can never make it.” They laughed. I cried into my pillow and wrote lyrics I never sang. Then you evicted me when I raised my voice, Without notice. In the middle of the rainy season. I left soaked, cold, coughing. You watched from the upstairs window, sipping tea. “He never serious with life,” you said. But life had been serious with me. It beat me daily. You just added the finishing touches. Now, look at you. Silent. Drained. Your belly smaller. Your skin pale. And your eyes searching for the same compassion you never gave. Where are your children now? The ones who threw stones? They don't come. They don’t call. They forgot you like you forgot mercy. Your wife? She brings food, but leaves fast. She looks tired, like a woman repenting for the gods she once followed. Your boys? Abroad. They sold that precious house and land of yours, the same one you said four of my generations would never be able to buy. And me? I wear white. Not the robe of a doctor, but the uniform of a cleaner. I mop floors now. I empty bins but I am at peace, I am not the one who is at death's door, you are. Your nurses don’t know, but I asked to clean your room. Just once. Just so I could see what time has done to you. What karma has left behind. You wanted to see me beg. Now you can’t even ask for water without blinking twice. The world turned, Oga. The house you ruled became your tombstone-in-training. And I? I hold the rag that wipes your sweat. But don't worry. I won’t hurt you. Mercy is mine now. Not as power — but as peace. I forgive you. Not because you're worthy, but because I refuse to carry you anymore. So I ask again, Oga landlord, do you remember me? I was the unknown boy with unpaid rent. The ghost in your compound. The stain on your ego. The failure you used as firewood for your pride. And now… I am the last face you’ll ever see if the light leaves tonight. Sleep well, Oga. I’ll make sure the floor is clean, — just like your legacy isn’t.
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People dont understand until they have been there, to know you have no chance out there but to remain with that job that suffocates and tortures your being. To know you have to desire and do that job even though it is sentence - a death sentence. |
A Query for My Boss (from the collection: A Piece of Reality) To Whom It May Concern, Though I know no one really is, I write this not to resign — (because I can’t) — but to bleed quietly on paper, in the only place I’m allowed to speak freely. You may never read this. But I need to say it, so I don’t go mad. Sir, You asked me to do one thing — just one — “Get it right,” you said. “Or don’t bother showing up again.” And I tried. God knows I tried. Four days without sleep. Two meals in seventy-two hours. My fingers trembled while I typed, but I double-checked every line. Yet you still found the comma I missed. And with that comma, you sentenced me to shame before your friends, before the interns, before the client. I helped you win in the first place with my sweat and blood . You called me “useless.” “This is the man I’ve been telling you about — He is as useless as they come.” They laughed. You smirked. And I died inside, again. Quietly. Politely. You call it “correction.” But it’s cruelty. A performance. An act for the gallery of power that claps for you and never sees the bruises under my smile. You don’t raise your voice, sir. You lower it — like a noose tightening. You don’t yell. You calculate. You humiliate with precision. You use my salary, as ransom for my silence. You use my position as proof I should be grateful for what amounts to servitude in a prison you call an office. You tell everyone: “I treat them like family.” But no one feeds family with leftover respect. You use me as a moral story: “This is what happens when you don’t work hard in life.” “This is what failure looks like.” [b]But they never see how I carry your business like a cross nailed to my spine under the sun, under the rain, in the office, in my bedroom, in my prayers, in my sleep.[/b] Do you remember the day I was sick? Barely able to stand? You said, “Bring your laptop to the clinic. Deadlines don’t die with you.” I worked while hooked to a drip. Typed through fever. Took calls with an IV in my arm. And you didn’t say, “Get well soon.” You said, “Don’t forget tomorrow’s meeting.” Sir, I know you believe in hierarchy. In status. In the holiness of ownership. And I? I’m disposable, expandable, insignificant replaceable. One of the lucky ones. At least I have a job, right? Even if it means being cleaner, driver, errand boy, punching bag, and emotional sponge for the empire you built on people like me. But I ask you now — and not as your employee — but as a human being hanging by threads you keep tightening: Who disciplines the boss? Who queries the man who queries everyone else? Who tells you you’ve gone too far, that you’re not always right just because you sign the checks? When do you say sorry? Or are apologies beneath your pay grade? They all stay silent because they want promotions. They laugh when you insult me because they don’t want to be next. And I? I nod. I endure. I swallow every injustice with the bitterness of survival. Because I have rent to pay. Because I have mouths to feed. Because my mother is diabetic. Because my child’s school fees are more than my dignity can afford. But deep down, I know: There will come a reckoning. Maybe not from HR. Maybe not from court. But from life — from whatever force balances the cruelty of kings with the tears of their slaves. So I leave you this letter — not as a threat, because I can't threaten you. not as rebellion, because I am loyal to my salary. but as a record. A footprint of the man you broke for your entertainment. And if one day, when the lights go out, and there’s no one left to order around, you ask yourself, “Why is the silence so loud?” — May this query echo back: Who punished the boss when everyone was too afraid to speak? – Your Employee still here, still useful, still invisible.
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I S P Y I spy plantain and eggs. I spy fried potatoes and eggs I spy fried yams and eggs I spy Irish potatoes with eggs. Eggs were literally made for these set of food items. |
To All Who have been here or are here, please no, it is never too late to seek help. There is nothing shameful or embarrassing about this and getting help. Seek help, Get better and be better. I wish you quick recovery and my prayers are always with you. |
Mr. Jailer, When Will You Be Free? (from the collection: A Piece of Reality) He walks the corridor like it belongs to him. Keys jangling — five of them, always five. He checks every lock twice. Sometimes three times when it rains. He thinks he’s the jailer. He says he’s here to watch me. To study me. Contain me. He says, “You are the addict. The unstable one. The collapse. The crime.” But I’m watching him. He talks about freedom like it’s something I never deserved. But his eyes are red. His hands tremble. He mutters apologies to no one in particular. He sits on the same bench outside my cell every night. Lights a cigarette he doesn’t smoke. Tells himself it’s just the routine. But I know rituals when I see them. We all have our gods. Once, I caught his reflection on the cell’s metal tray. And I paused — because it looked like me. Not just similar. Not just tired. Identical. Same weight of sadness. Same ache behind the eyes. Same history of trying too hard to forget something you can’t remember. That was the day I realized: This cell is not a prison. It’s a mirror. He still thinks he’s separate. Says I’m broken — that he’s the one who survived. But I’ve seen him holding that bottle, holding that pill, holding that habit. like it’s the only friend that still calls. I’ve seen the bandages beneath his sleeves. Not for injury — for silence. He won’t admit it. Not even to himself. He is the Jailer and I-I am just a prisoner. But I know what withdrawal looks like. I know what obsession smells like. And I know that emptiness is not cured by hand sanitizer and morning routines. He laughs sometimes. The kind of laugh people do right before they cry. He says, “I can’t believe he ended up like this.” Referring to me. But I remember who I was before this cell. Before the pills. Before the friends stopped calling. I remember being him. The one who “had it all.” Who “knew better.” Who never missed a prayer. Who always had advice for the broken people. he now walks past with disgust and envy. You know the worst part? He thinks he’s punishing me. He is the Jailer, I am the Prisoner. One lives in lies, the other lives in defeat. But I’m the one who finally rested. He’s the one who hasn’t slept in years. He’s haunted. I’m just… forgotten. He walks in circles, but I only wait. He fears becoming me. But I already became him. We’re not enemies. We’re echoes. Some nights he looks right at me and asks, “What happened to you?” And I want to answer: “You did.” You — the one who didn’t ask for help. Who wore pride like armor until it rusted through. Who drowned in work to silence grief. Who turned friends into ghosts and lovers into strangers. You — who laughed at therapy. Who prayed instead of feeling. Who numbed every hurt and called it strength. You didn’t save me. You became me. And now you won’t admit it because you think guilt is virtue and denial is redemption.” So if anyone asks, “Who is the prisoner here?” You tell them: “It’s the man who holds the keys but doesn’t know which one unlocks himself.” And if they ask: “Mr. Jailer, when will you be free?” You tell them: “He was — once. But he couldn’t live with the pain. So he locked it in a cell. And stayed outside. Watching it die slowly — never realizing he was on both sides of the door.” This is the mind in relapse. The guilt and the Vindication that grows a spine. The self split into judge and victim, where verdict is never given.
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This is dedicated to the women and men who took a bold step out of that relationship, out of that marriage, out of that friendship. The worst mistakes in life are those we realize and still choose to live with. |
I Do, I Died (from the collection: A Piece of Reality) He was perfect. You know — the kind they write about. Soft smile. Smooth words. Laughed with his eyes, Held doors open, Spoke in poetry. He told me I was made of stars. My friends said I was lucky. My mother thanked God. My heart? It raced like it finally found home. There were signs. Little ones. Like how he didn’t like me laughing too loud. Or how his silence could slice through skin. How he needed to know where I was — always. He said it was love. And I said, “Maybe that’s what love looks like.” He didn’t like my friends. Said they were jealous. He didn’t like my dress. Said it showed too much. He didn’t like my job. Said a real woman doesn’t chase ambition. He loved me, though. So I folded. Tiny pieces of me, put in drawers and forgotten. When he proposed, I wept. The ring was perfect. And so was he — that day. And on the day I said “I do,” I died. Not all at once. Not in front of witnesses. But slowly, silently. Like a flame smothered by hands that once warmed it. The first slap wasn’t a slap. It was a shove. A “what’s wrong with you?” A loud bang on the wall beside my head. He said he was tired. That work was hard. That I provoked him. I made excuses. I said, “He’s just stressed.” The second slap was a slap. Loud, shocking. He cried after. Begged. Said he didn’t know what came over him. Brought flowers. Kissed my bruised cheek. Told me to wear makeup. Said, “Don’t tell anyone. They won’t understand us.” And they didn’t. When I told my mother, She said, “All men have their ways.” When I told the pastor, He said, “Marriage is endurance.” When I told my friend, She said, “He loves you too much, that’s the problem.” So I stayed. And stayed. And prayed. And blamed myself. I stopped laughing. Stopped dressing nice. Stopped dreaming. Stopped breathing properly. Started walking on eggshells. Started lying for him. The beatings got worse. But the apologies got better. He bought me perfume after a black eye. A necklace after a cracked rib. He was a man of gifts, And I was a woman of silence. Because who would believe me? He was charming in public. He held my waist in church. Told people I was his world. And I smiled with broken teeth. Then one night, he didn’t stop. He didn’t cry after. Didn’t apologize. Just cleaned the blood off his knuckles and went to sleep. And I? I stared at the ceiling, he went to sleep, I would never wake up again. The woman he married, The girl who once danced, The one he said he couldn't live without, the one he said would be the mother of his kids,She was gone. They don’t tell you that abuse isn’t always loud. That it starts in whispers. In control dressed as care. In obsession wrapped in flowers. In small deaths before the final blow. I stayed too long. And I died too quietly. Until I became a statistic. A whisper. A cautionary tale no one reads until it’s too late. If you ever hear someone say “I do” — listen closely. Make sure they’re not saying goodbye to themselves.
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I remembered the one time I used a loan app and borrowed 5000 and a business failed. Meh I exceeded the period by 3 days and they were on me. Calling raining insults and threatening defamation. Omoh i got angry and did my. Research on legal matters. When they called when i sent emails and started recording and giving them word for word. They calmed down. I was angry about the insults and threat to my me. I turn lawyer for them and surprisingly they stopped and i was able to pay them in time. But since then i just stopped. Deleted the damn app and i don't use it any longer. It's not worth it |
The great Zidane himself was thought to be an ordinary uninteresting footballer and was rejected by the Algerian team.. Well we know how that turned out. Also he was never caught offside as a player. |
Zlatan ibrahimovic At 10 years old he was used as a second half sub when his team was losing and scored 8 goals to give them a win. |
His 2005 international debut lasted 47 seconds when he received a red card after coming on as a substitute.!! This person name is Lionel messi. |
FRANK LAMPARD has an IQ of 150, Albert Einstein had an IQ of 160, academically lampard is a beast ![]() |
No English manager has ever won the Premier League ![]() |
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i shake head because he say he wan move lol they need advisers. When they are free clubs will swoop for them.