We should praise God for His goodness and His wonderful works.

Porto wall yesterday

Palmeiras 0:0 Porto

#Palmeiras #Porto #clupworldcup

Hustler watch this..... not by who first make it, resilience is the key

Fact

Today quiz

*If thief wan rob me today, I go just show am my account balance make e know say we dey the same boat*

*KEY MINING BITCOIN REWARDS UPDATE *

Key Mining has reduced the number of Bitcoin you can claim per day and increased the number of referrals.

Calculating Bitcoin at $100,000 rate, you're automatically earning as follows

3 referrals = $0.678 Worth of BTC daily
5 referrals = $1.355 Worth of BTC daily
10 referrals = $4 Worth of BTC daily
20 referrals = $6.78 Worth of BTC daily
40 referrals = $10 Worth of BTC daily

Maximise the current moment because I'm sure they'll slash again soon.

*JOIN NOW*
https://www.key.top/#/pages/index/index/?k=R482UYP4

Ref code:: R482UYP4

However, the KEY mining rate has not been affected by this update

*Core supply* was 2.1Billion
*Key supply* is just 97Million (And only 40Million for miners)

Don't play with *KEY MINING* guys!

*$CORE* Mining did wonder..
*$KEY* Mining will do wonderer..

*KEY MINING BITCOIN REWARDS UPDATE *

Key Mining has reduced the number of Bitcoin you can claim per day and increased the number of referrals.

Calculating Bitcoin at $100,000 rate, you're automatically earning as follows

3 referrals = $0.678 Worth of BTC daily
5 referrals = $1.355 Worth of BTC daily
10 referrals = $4 Worth of BTC daily
20 referrals = $6.78 Worth of BTC daily
40 referrals = $10 Worth of BTC daily

Maximise the current moment because I'm sure they'll slash again soon.

*JOIN NOW*
https://www.key.top/#/pages/index/index/?k=R482UYP4

Ref code:: R482UYP4

However, the KEY mining rate has not been affected by this update

*Core supply* was 2.1Billion
*Key supply* is just 97Million (And only 40Million for miners)

Don't play with *KEY MINING* guys!

*$CORE* Mining did wonder..
*$KEY* Mining will do wonderer..

THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 1
The stench of rotting garbage and sweat clung to the air like a curse. In the heart of Lagos' worst slump, where hope went to die, a little girl with too-big eyes and ribs poking through her skin crouched in the dirt, counting grains of rice like they were gold. Jessica was eight years old the first time she understood what hunger truly was—not just the gnawing emptiness in her belly, but the kind that made her mother weep silently at night, the kind that made her father’s hands shake when he couldn’t afford medicine for her baby brother’s fever.
Nine people. One room. A single mattress stained with years of suffering, shared between her parents and seven children. The walls were thin, and the sounds of the slum never slept—drunken shouts, the cries of hungry babies, the scuttling of rats that were bolder than the people. Jessica learned early that life wasn’t fair. While other children played, she scavenged. While others dreamed, she fought—for food, for space, for a single moment of silence.
But there was something different about Jessica. Even as a child, her eyes burned with a fire that poverty couldn’t extinguish. At ten, she taught herself to read using tattered newspapers she found in the trash. At twelve, she sold boiled groundnuts under the scorching sun, saving every coin in a rusted tin she buried beneath their floor. At fifteen, she watched her eldest sister, Ada, disappear into the night with a man who promised her "work"—Ada never came back. That was the day Jessica swore she would never let the slum swallow her whole.
By some miracle—or sheer stubbornness—she finished secondary school. Then came the university admission letter, a flimsy piece of paper that felt like a ticket to heaven. But heaven came with a price. Her parents cried—not tears of joy, but of shame, because they couldn’t afford it. So Jessica did what she had always done: she fought.
She sold pure water under the rain, braved the leering eyes of market men who "tipped" her extra for bending low, took cleaning jobs in rich neighborhoods where women looked at her like she was dirt. Still, it wasn’t enough. Then one evening, a woman in a sleek car rolled down her window and said the words that would change everything: "A girl like you could make a month’s salary in one night."
Jessica knew what it meant. She wasn’t ******. But as she stared at the woman’s manicured nails and perfumed wrists, she thought of her siblings’ hollow cheeks, her father’s cough that never went away, her mother’s broken back from carrying other people’s loads. That night, she made a choice—not because she wanted to, but because the slum had given her no other options.
She became an escort. Not the kind draped in shame, but the kind who wore her pain like armor. She studied men the way she had once studied textbooks—learning their weaknesses, their desires, the way power curled around them like smoke. She was careful. She was smart. And most importantly, she had a plan.
This life wouldn’t break her. It would fuel her.
Because Jessica had one rule: no matter how far she sank, she would never stop climbing.
TO BE CONTINUED....

As i dey see *coffee* here. I am not thinking what I am thinking

THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 2
The first time Jessica stepped into the VIP lounge, her stomach twisted with shame. The air smelled like expensive whiskey and desperation, a far cry from the stench of the slums she had grown up in. The neon lights flickered, casting shadows over the faces of men who watched her like she was a meal. She was nineteen, dressed in a tight black dress that clung to curves she hadn’t even known she possessed—a far cry from the bony girl who used to count grains of rice in the dirt.
Lady Lily, the woman in the sleek car, had painted this life as glamorous. "You’ll wear designer clothes, sleep in five-star hotels, and make in one night what your parents sweat for in a year," she had said.
But the first time a client touched her, Jessica had locked herself in a bathroom afterward and scrubbed her skin raw.
Not all of it was hell.
There were nights when the men were kind—older businessmen who preferred conversation over groping, who tipped her extra when they saw textbooks peeking out of her bag. Some even admired her ambition.
"You’re too smart for this," one had said, a silver-haired executive who paid her just to listen to him talk about his failed marriage. He left her an envelope thick with cash and a note: "For your education."
On those nights, Jessica allowed herself to hope. She would return to her tiny apartment—a step up from the slums, but still a far cry from luxury—and spread her books across the bed. Economics. Law. Literature. She devoured knowledge like a starving woman, her highlighter bleeding across pages late into the night.
And then there was the money.
Every month, without fail, she sent home stacks of cash—enough to feed her siblings, to pay for medicine, to finally get her father’s cough checked by a real doctor. Her mother’s voice on the phone was lighter these days, no longer frayed with exhaustion. "God bless you, my daughter," she would say, and Jessica would swallow the lump in her throat.
They never asked where the money came from.
She never told.
But then there were the other nights.
The ones where men didn’t see her as a person, just a body. The ones where their hands left bruises, where their laughter was cruel, where they called her names that made her want to vanish.
One client, a politician with a gold Rolex and dead eyes, had smirked as he threw cash at her feet. "Pick it up," he ordered.
She did.
That night, she cried in the shower until the water ran cold.
Lady Lily had warned her: *"This life will eat you alive if you let it."
Jessica refused to let it.
She kept a strict schedule—classes in the morning, study sessions in the library between appointments, nights "working" only when she had to. She learned how to read men, how to manipulate their desires, how to give them just enough to keep them coming back without losing pieces of herself.
And she never, ever let herself forget why she was doing this.
Her siblings were slipping away—one sister pregnant at sixteen, a brother dropping out of school to hawk goods in traffic. The slum was a monster, and it was hungry.
But Jessica had claws too.
Then came the night she met him.
A crime lord.
Not just any client, but the kind of man even powerful people whispered about. His name was a rumor, a shadow. And when he walked into the VIP lounge, the air shifted.
He didn’t leer at her like the others. He studied her.
"You don’t belong here,"* he said, his voice low.
Jessica met his gaze without flinching. "Neither do you."
For the first time in years, someone saw her—*really* saw her.
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
TO BE CONTINUED...

As i dey see *coffee* here. I am not thinking what I am thinking

Mmiri mara ugo sara ya ahụ.

Just watch befor and after and know how the last one looks

It's lunch time