• True friendship knows no tribal barriers. The story below further confirms this.

    This is Irechukwu, an Igbo boy, with Abubakar Jauro Ribadu, a Fulani man. Irechukwu's parents lived downstairs where other tenants lived, while Ribadu and his wife lived upstairs with other tenants.

    Although the Ribadus had no child for about five years of marriage, they helped to look after Irechukwu, who grew to be very fond of them. There was a time he spent two weeks with them while his mother was in the hospital and the father was out of the country. Neighbors criticized Irechukwu's mother for leaving her only child with Fulani Muslims. When eventually the Ribadus had their first child, Irechukwu's dad flew in from Europe with 2 of the latest phones for Ribadu and his wife, aside from many other gifts.

    When Irechukwu's parents were transferred to western Nigeria, it was weeping for both families. The Ribadus found time to visit years later. When Irechukwu saw them, the joy was out of this world, the same for the parents.

    Ribadu's love for Ndi Igbo started from childhood. His father's block of flats has been majorly occupied by Ndi Igbo for donkey years. The Hausas call the house "gidan iyamirai"—Igbo for "people's house! According to him, people told his mother (after his father passed away) to replace the tenants with northerners, but she refused. Igbos are still living there!

    For these families, love, peace, and mutual understanding transcend the negative narratives. # Tsunami
    True friendship knows no tribal barriers. The story below further confirms this. This is Irechukwu, an Igbo boy, with Abubakar Jauro Ribadu, a Fulani man. Irechukwu's parents lived downstairs where other tenants lived, while Ribadu and his wife lived upstairs with other tenants. Although the Ribadus had no child for about five years of marriage, they helped to look after Irechukwu, who grew to be very fond of them. There was a time he spent two weeks with them while his mother was in the hospital and the father was out of the country. Neighbors criticized Irechukwu's mother for leaving her only child with Fulani Muslims. When eventually the Ribadus had their first child, Irechukwu's dad flew in from Europe with 2 of the latest phones for Ribadu and his wife, aside from many other gifts. When Irechukwu's parents were transferred to western Nigeria, it was weeping for both families. The Ribadus found time to visit years later. When Irechukwu saw them, the joy was out of this world, the same for the parents. Ribadu's love for Ndi Igbo started from childhood. His father's block of flats has been majorly occupied by Ndi Igbo for donkey years. The Hausas call the house "gidan iyamirai"—Igbo for "people's house! According to him, people told his mother (after his father passed away) to replace the tenants with northerners, but she refused. Igbos are still living there! For these families, love, peace, and mutual understanding transcend the negative narratives. # Tsunami
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  • 35 Years, One Paycheck: A Nation’s Gratitude?

    On the 28th of July, 2025, I received an invite to speak to young students about career paths—a moment that should have filled me with pride. But just hours before then, I was hit with something that shook me to the core.

    After 35 years of service in the Nigeria Police Force… after sleepless nights, wahala, risks taken, promotions delayed, and personal sacrifices made—I received news of the lump sum I would be paid (gratuity and pension).

    $5,488.01.
    That’s what my 35 years as a Deputy Commissioner of Police is worth.

    I laughed. Not from joy—but disbelief. Then came the sting of betrayal. Is this all my dedication amounts to? Is this what service to nation looks like in retirement?

    I feel used. Discarded. Disillusioned. Scammed.

    To every officer still in service, to every youth dreaming of public service: we need to speak up. Our sacrifices must mean something.

    This isn’t just my story—it’s the silent story of thousands.

    We deserve dignity. We deserve better.

    -Written by Francis Erhabor

    #ServiceAndSacrifice #GratuityRealities #NigeriaPoliceForce #35YearsOfService #ContributoryPensionScheme #PensionReformNow #VeteransDeservesMore
    📌 35 Years, One Paycheck: A Nation’s Gratitude? On the 28th of July, 2025, I received an invite to speak to young students about career paths—a moment that should have filled me with pride. But just hours before then, I was hit with something that shook me to the core. After 35 years of service in the Nigeria Police Force… after sleepless nights, wahala, risks taken, promotions delayed, and personal sacrifices made—I received news of the lump sum I would be paid (gratuity and pension). $5,488.01. That’s what my 35 years as a Deputy Commissioner of Police is worth. I laughed. Not from joy—but disbelief. Then came the sting of betrayal. Is this all my dedication amounts to? Is this what service to nation looks like in retirement? I feel used. Discarded. Disillusioned. Scammed. To every officer still in service, to every youth dreaming of public service: we need to speak up. Our sacrifices must mean something. This isn’t just my story—it’s the silent story of thousands. We deserve dignity. We deserve better. -Written by Francis Erhabor #ServiceAndSacrifice #GratuityRealities #NigeriaPoliceForce #35YearsOfService #ContributoryPensionScheme #PensionReformNow #VeteransDeservesMore
    Yay
    1
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  • No, not all men cheat.

    Some do—but many don’t.

    Cheating is a choice, not a gender trait. There are men who value loyalty, commitment, and emotional integrity. They love deeply and would never betray their partner's trust. At the same time, yes, some men cheat, just as some women cheat too. It's more about the person’s character, values, and self-control—not their gender

    JB WORLD.
    No, not all men cheat. Some do—but many don’t. Cheating is a choice, not a gender trait. There are men who value loyalty, commitment, and emotional integrity. They love deeply and would never betray their partner's trust. At the same time, yes, some men cheat, just as some women cheat too. It's more about the person’s character, values, and self-control—not their gender JB WORLD.
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  • President Putin's Old Interview Is the Best Reply to Donald Trump's Threats.

    “If someone decided to destroy Russia, there would be a global catastrophe, and being president of Russia, I don’t want a world where there’s no Russia.”

    President Putin
    President Putin's Old Interview Is the Best Reply to Donald Trump's Threats. “If someone decided to destroy Russia, there would be a global catastrophe, and being president of Russia, I don’t want a world where there’s no Russia.” President Putin
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  • He Slept With Me Every Night—Then Paid My Bride Price for Another Girl
    Episode 2

    Grief makes you quiet. Betrayal gives you a voice. And I was done being silent.

    After Raymond blocked me, something inside me cracked—but it didn’t break. Not completely. It transformed. I had spent years pouring every piece of myself into a man who saw me as a placeholder. I gave him loyalty, and he gave another woman a ring. I gave him my womb, and he gave me shame.

    But what he didn’t know—was that I was carrying more than heartbreak.

    Three days after I saw the post, I woke up with a fever and blood between my legs. I was five months pregnant. I rushed to the clinic alone, praying I hadn’t lost the baby. The doctor ran tests. The heartbeat was still there—soft, strong, defiant. Just like me. That was the moment I stopped thinking like a victim. I started thinking like a mother.

    I moved out of the apartment that weekend. Packed my things while crying quietly into folded bedsheets. I told the caretaker Raymond wouldn’t be returning. He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t ask questions. I moved into my aunt’s flat in Iyana Church. She took one look at my face, at my swollen belly, and didn’t say “I told you so.” She just held me.

    Days passed. Then weeks. I stayed off social media, but the streets? They talk. A friend of a friend told me Raymond’s wedding was huge. Traditional and white. Chinenye wore four outfits, and Raymond danced like someone who had never known real pain. They called her “the lucky girl.” People said he had “leveled up.” That I was just “a campus phase.” They didn’t know I had been washing his boxers when he couldn’t afford airtime.

    I watched quietly.

    Then one evening, my friend Uche showed up. She dropped a flash drive on the table and smiled with her eyes. “I thought you might want this,” she said. “From someone at the wedding.”

    It was a full recording.

    Their engagement. The vows. The dancing. The cake. And then—the speech.

    Raymond had stood up, half-drunk and arrogant. “I thank God for giving me a real woman,” he slurred. “Someone who didn’t come to eat my money. Someone who didn’t use me to chase small-girl dreams. You’re not like the others.”

    The crowd had clapped. He had smiled. But the thing about recording devices is—they remember. They capture. They preserve.

    So I posted it.

    Not the whole thing.

    Just the part where he called me a user. A leech. A fake. I posted it with a caption:
    “He slept with me every night, called me his wife, and left me pregnant—only to say this at his wedding. This is the father of my unborn child.”

    And I didn’t stop there.

    I sent copies of the pregnancy test, ultrasound images, and photos of us from just three months before—to Chinenye. I didn’t insult her. I simply wrote: “He was mine while he was planning you. You deserve the full picture before you carry his name.”

    The post went viral in six hours.

    By the next morning, Raymond was trending.

    #RaymondTheRunner
    #TwoWivesNoHonor
    #CampusToAltarScam

    My phone rang endlessly. Unknown numbers. Media houses. Instagram blogs. Even Chinenye’s sister texted me, asking, “Is this real?” I didn’t reply. I was already in the hospital—contractions had started. The stress triggered early labor.

    It was a long night. I screamed, I bled, I almost gave up.

    But then I held her.

    My daughter.

    Tiny, brown, beautiful—and full of war.

    I named her Hope.

    As I stared at her face, Raymond called again—this time with a new number.

    I didn’t answer.

    He thought he broke me.

    But he gave birth to my purpose.

    To be continued…
    He Slept With Me Every Night—Then Paid My Bride Price for Another Girl Episode 2 Grief makes you quiet. Betrayal gives you a voice. And I was done being silent. After Raymond blocked me, something inside me cracked—but it didn’t break. Not completely. It transformed. I had spent years pouring every piece of myself into a man who saw me as a placeholder. I gave him loyalty, and he gave another woman a ring. I gave him my womb, and he gave me shame. But what he didn’t know—was that I was carrying more than heartbreak. Three days after I saw the post, I woke up with a fever and blood between my legs. I was five months pregnant. I rushed to the clinic alone, praying I hadn’t lost the baby. The doctor ran tests. The heartbeat was still there—soft, strong, defiant. Just like me. That was the moment I stopped thinking like a victim. I started thinking like a mother. I moved out of the apartment that weekend. Packed my things while crying quietly into folded bedsheets. I told the caretaker Raymond wouldn’t be returning. He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t ask questions. I moved into my aunt’s flat in Iyana Church. She took one look at my face, at my swollen belly, and didn’t say “I told you so.” She just held me. Days passed. Then weeks. I stayed off social media, but the streets? They talk. A friend of a friend told me Raymond’s wedding was huge. Traditional and white. Chinenye wore four outfits, and Raymond danced like someone who had never known real pain. They called her “the lucky girl.” People said he had “leveled up.” That I was just “a campus phase.” They didn’t know I had been washing his boxers when he couldn’t afford airtime. I watched quietly. Then one evening, my friend Uche showed up. She dropped a flash drive on the table and smiled with her eyes. “I thought you might want this,” she said. “From someone at the wedding.” It was a full recording. Their engagement. The vows. The dancing. The cake. And then—the speech. Raymond had stood up, half-drunk and arrogant. “I thank God for giving me a real woman,” he slurred. “Someone who didn’t come to eat my money. Someone who didn’t use me to chase small-girl dreams. You’re not like the others.” The crowd had clapped. He had smiled. But the thing about recording devices is—they remember. They capture. They preserve. So I posted it. Not the whole thing. Just the part where he called me a user. A leech. A fake. I posted it with a caption: “He slept with me every night, called me his wife, and left me pregnant—only to say this at his wedding. This is the father of my unborn child.” And I didn’t stop there. I sent copies of the pregnancy test, ultrasound images, and photos of us from just three months before—to Chinenye. I didn’t insult her. I simply wrote: “He was mine while he was planning you. You deserve the full picture before you carry his name.” The post went viral in six hours. By the next morning, Raymond was trending. #RaymondTheRunner #TwoWivesNoHonor #CampusToAltarScam My phone rang endlessly. Unknown numbers. Media houses. Instagram blogs. Even Chinenye’s sister texted me, asking, “Is this real?” I didn’t reply. I was already in the hospital—contractions had started. The stress triggered early labor. It was a long night. I screamed, I bled, I almost gave up. But then I held her. My daughter. Tiny, brown, beautiful—and full of war. I named her Hope. As I stared at her face, Raymond called again—this time with a new number. I didn’t answer. He thought he broke me. But he gave birth to my purpose. To be continued…
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  • Nafisa Aliyu Bashir wrote on Facebook, and I have her permission to share here.
    NYSC 2014: The Year I Became an Igbo Queen
    Who would’ve thought that one northern girl would fall so hard for Anambra? NYSC took me to Nnamdi Azikiwe University in Awka South, and boom, life changed!

    I didn’t redeploy (yes, I was that bold ), and the love I received from the Igbo community? Mad oh! They treated me like a queen—no jokes. (Alhaja, as she fondly called me).

    That year, I leveled up in ways I didn’t expect. I learned how to cook native soups like a real pro (Igbo wives, una dey try!). I attended lots of events and danced my heart out. And my Rareclothing business? Flourished like crazy in the East! Igbo people know how to support hustle, I swear!

    From a corporate employee to a serial entrepreneur to a full-blown business babe in 2014, much appreciation.

    Shoutout to Anambra for the love. I’ll never forget. #Tsunami
    #NYSCDiaries #ThrowbackVibes #IgboLove #AnambraQueen #FromCorperToBossBabe


    Nafisa Aliyu Bashir wrote on Facebook, and I have her permission to share here. NYSC 2014: The Year I Became an Igbo Queen 👑😂 Who would’ve thought that one northern girl would fall so hard for Anambra? 😅 NYSC took me to Nnamdi Azikiwe University in Awka South, and boom, life changed! I didn’t redeploy (yes, I was that bold 😂), and the love I received from the Igbo community? Mad oh! They treated me like a queen—no jokes. (Alhaja, as she fondly called me). That year, I leveled up in ways I didn’t expect. I learned how to cook native soups like a real pro (Igbo wives, una dey try!). I attended lots of events and danced my heart out. And my Rareclothing business? Flourished like crazy in the East! Igbo people know how to support hustle, I swear! From a corporate employee to a serial entrepreneur to a full-blown business babe in 2014, much appreciation. Shoutout to Anambra for the love. I’ll never forget. 💚 #Tsunami #NYSCDiaries #ThrowbackVibes #IgboLove #AnambraQueen #FromCorperToBossBabe
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  • Super Falcons Rewarded Royally, But Who Will Honour Nigeria’s Real Nation Builders?

    By Stanley Ugagbe

    The air is thick with jubilation, and rightly so. Our Super Falcons, a beacon of national pride, have once again soared, bringing home the 2024 Women's Africa Cup of Nations trophy. President Bola Tinubu, with a flourish, has showered them with accolades: national honors, three-bedroom apartments, and a cool $100,000 each. The Nigeria Governors Forum chimed in with an additional N10 million per player. A grand gesture, indeed, a testament to their dedication and a shining moment for our nation.

    But as the confetti settles and the cheers begin to fade, a dissonant note rings in the ears of many, a stark reminder of a deeper, more unsettling reality. While we celebrate our athletes, and rightly so, a gnawing question begs to be asked: what about the unsung heroes who keep the wheels of our society turning? The ones who, day in and day out, toil in the trenches, their invaluable contributions often met with a paltry pittance rather than a well-deserved windfall.

    Let's speak plainly. Our teachers, the very architects of our future, are paid peanuts. They stand before our children, molding minds and shaping destinies, yet their take-home pay often feels like a cruel joke, barely enough to keep body and soul together. They are the bedrock of our society, yet we treat them as if their worth is less than the dust beneath our feet.

    And what of our professors, the custodians of knowledge, the intellectual giants who are meant to propel our nation forward? They too earn peanuts, forcing many to moonlight or abandon academia altogether, leaving a gaping void in our institutions of higher learning. We expect them to produce world-class research and educate the next generation, but we offer them crumbs, effectively telling them their expertise is dispensable.

    Consider the military men, those brave souls who stand as our shield against chaos, putting their lives on the line to safeguard our peace and sovereignty. Their sacrifice is immense, their courage unwavering. Yet, their take-home pay can't even take them home. Many struggle to provide for their families, living a hand-to-mouth existence while facing unimaginable dangers. It's a bitter pill to swallow when those who protect us are themselves struggling to survive.

    Then there are our medical personnel, the frontline warriors against illness and disease, who dedicate their lives to healing the sick and saving lives. They are stretched thin, overworked, and underpaid, often working in deplorable conditions. The deplorable conditions and abysmal remuneration have driven many to seek greener pastures abroad, a phenomenon we now tragically refer to as "japa." Our hospitals are bleeding talent, and who can blame them for escaping a system that undervalues their tireless efforts?

    The irony is as sharp as a surgeon's scalpel. We celebrate a football victory with lavish rewards, a moment of fleeting glory, while the very pillars of our society crumble under the weight of neglect. It's like pouring champagne on a wilting plant while the roots are starved of water. This disparity isn't just an oversight; it's a profound statement about our national priorities, a disheartening reflection of where our true values lie.

    This isn't to say our Super Falcons don't deserve their accolades. They fought hard, they won big, and they brought joy to millions. Their victory is a testament to the power of sport and the spirit of perseverance. But true national development isn't built on isolated triumphs; it's built on the collective strength of a well-compensated, motivated, and appreciated workforce.

    We cannot expect to build a truly great nation when the very people entrusted with educating our children, securing our borders, and healing our sick are struggling to make ends meet. It's a house built on sand, destined to collapse under the slightest pressure. This isn't just about money; it's about dignity, about respect, and about valuing the foundational elements of our society.

    It's time for a radical shift in perspective, a re-evaluation of our national ethos. We must move beyond the dazzling spotlight of transient achievements and focus on the quiet, consistent efforts that truly sustain us. Let's not be blinded by the glitter of gold medals while the very fabric of our society frays at the edges.

    The President's gesture, while commendable for the Super Falcons, highlights a glaring double standard. If we can find the resources to reward athletic prowess so handsomely, then surely, we can find the means to ensure that those who dedicate their lives to public service are compensated with dignity and fairness. It's not a matter of scarcity; it's a matter of priority.

    It's time to provoke action. We must demand a living wage for our teachers, fair compensation for our professors, honorable pay for our military, and respectable remuneration for our medical personnel. We must hold our leaders accountable and insist that they put their money where their mouths are when it comes to the well-being of all citizens, not just a select few.

    Let this moment of athletic triumph be a catalyst for change, a loud alarm bell ringing in the ears of those in power. Let it remind us that a nation's true strength lies not just in its sporting victories, but in the equitable treatment and flourishing of all its people. Otherwise, the taste of victory will forever be tinged with the bitter irony of a society that celebrates some while leaving others to wither on the vine.

    Stanley Ugagbe is a seasoned journalist with a passion for exposing social issues and advocating for justice. With years of experience in the media industry, he has written extensively on governance, human rights, and societal challenges, crafting powerful narratives that inspire change. He can be reached via stanleyakomeno@gmail.com
    Super Falcons Rewarded Royally, But Who Will Honour Nigeria’s Real Nation Builders? By Stanley Ugagbe The air is thick with jubilation, and rightly so. Our Super Falcons, a beacon of national pride, have once again soared, bringing home the 2024 Women's Africa Cup of Nations trophy. President Bola Tinubu, with a flourish, has showered them with accolades: national honors, three-bedroom apartments, and a cool $100,000 each. The Nigeria Governors Forum chimed in with an additional N10 million per player. A grand gesture, indeed, a testament to their dedication and a shining moment for our nation. But as the confetti settles and the cheers begin to fade, a dissonant note rings in the ears of many, a stark reminder of a deeper, more unsettling reality. While we celebrate our athletes, and rightly so, a gnawing question begs to be asked: what about the unsung heroes who keep the wheels of our society turning? The ones who, day in and day out, toil in the trenches, their invaluable contributions often met with a paltry pittance rather than a well-deserved windfall. Let's speak plainly. Our teachers, the very architects of our future, are paid peanuts. They stand before our children, molding minds and shaping destinies, yet their take-home pay often feels like a cruel joke, barely enough to keep body and soul together. They are the bedrock of our society, yet we treat them as if their worth is less than the dust beneath our feet. And what of our professors, the custodians of knowledge, the intellectual giants who are meant to propel our nation forward? They too earn peanuts, forcing many to moonlight or abandon academia altogether, leaving a gaping void in our institutions of higher learning. We expect them to produce world-class research and educate the next generation, but we offer them crumbs, effectively telling them their expertise is dispensable. Consider the military men, those brave souls who stand as our shield against chaos, putting their lives on the line to safeguard our peace and sovereignty. Their sacrifice is immense, their courage unwavering. Yet, their take-home pay can't even take them home. Many struggle to provide for their families, living a hand-to-mouth existence while facing unimaginable dangers. It's a bitter pill to swallow when those who protect us are themselves struggling to survive. Then there are our medical personnel, the frontline warriors against illness and disease, who dedicate their lives to healing the sick and saving lives. They are stretched thin, overworked, and underpaid, often working in deplorable conditions. The deplorable conditions and abysmal remuneration have driven many to seek greener pastures abroad, a phenomenon we now tragically refer to as "japa." Our hospitals are bleeding talent, and who can blame them for escaping a system that undervalues their tireless efforts? The irony is as sharp as a surgeon's scalpel. We celebrate a football victory with lavish rewards, a moment of fleeting glory, while the very pillars of our society crumble under the weight of neglect. It's like pouring champagne on a wilting plant while the roots are starved of water. This disparity isn't just an oversight; it's a profound statement about our national priorities, a disheartening reflection of where our true values lie. This isn't to say our Super Falcons don't deserve their accolades. They fought hard, they won big, and they brought joy to millions. Their victory is a testament to the power of sport and the spirit of perseverance. But true national development isn't built on isolated triumphs; it's built on the collective strength of a well-compensated, motivated, and appreciated workforce. We cannot expect to build a truly great nation when the very people entrusted with educating our children, securing our borders, and healing our sick are struggling to make ends meet. It's a house built on sand, destined to collapse under the slightest pressure. This isn't just about money; it's about dignity, about respect, and about valuing the foundational elements of our society. It's time for a radical shift in perspective, a re-evaluation of our national ethos. We must move beyond the dazzling spotlight of transient achievements and focus on the quiet, consistent efforts that truly sustain us. Let's not be blinded by the glitter of gold medals while the very fabric of our society frays at the edges. The President's gesture, while commendable for the Super Falcons, highlights a glaring double standard. If we can find the resources to reward athletic prowess so handsomely, then surely, we can find the means to ensure that those who dedicate their lives to public service are compensated with dignity and fairness. It's not a matter of scarcity; it's a matter of priority. It's time to provoke action. We must demand a living wage for our teachers, fair compensation for our professors, honorable pay for our military, and respectable remuneration for our medical personnel. We must hold our leaders accountable and insist that they put their money where their mouths are when it comes to the well-being of all citizens, not just a select few. Let this moment of athletic triumph be a catalyst for change, a loud alarm bell ringing in the ears of those in power. Let it remind us that a nation's true strength lies not just in its sporting victories, but in the equitable treatment and flourishing of all its people. Otherwise, the taste of victory will forever be tinged with the bitter irony of a society that celebrates some while leaving others to wither on the vine. Stanley Ugagbe is a seasoned journalist with a passion for exposing social issues and advocating for justice. With years of experience in the media industry, he has written extensively on governance, human rights, and societal challenges, crafting powerful narratives that inspire change. He can be reached via stanleyakomeno@gmail.com
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  • *SCHOOL WITCHES *

    *Episode One: The Meat of the Innocent*

    The sun stood reluctantly over Abuja, its golden face veiled in clouds as if it too dreaded what would unfold at Ivory City College. Chinasa sat quietly at the back seat of her parents' car, fingers twisting the hem of her green skirt, her heart pounding like a caged drum. Her eyes darted from her father’s stern silence to her mother’s gentle hands resting over hers.

    It was her final year in junior secondary school—JSS Three. The year that mattered.

    The car rolled to a stop in front of Hostel A, and as the door swung open, her mother stepped out first. Chinasa hesitated. Her father came around, opened her door, and handed her the small purple travel bag.

    "Chinasa, be strong," her mother whispered as she embraced her tightly, her perfume clinging to Chinasa like a memory that wouldn’t wash off.

    Tears rolled down her cheek before she could stop them.

    They waved at her from the car as they drove off, and Chinasa stood frozen, her chest crumbling like dry leaves underfoot.

    Then came the whirlwind of noise—

    "Na wa o! Chinasa you dey cry?"

    She turned.

    Betty, her wild-haired best friend, sprinted across the hostel lawn, flanked by Asia and Chommy. They wrapped their arms around her, bursting into giggles, teasing and tugging playfully at her braids. Chinasa laughed through tears as they grabbed her boxes and dragged her toward the hostel doors.

    Inside the large hall, the air was thick with the musty scent of bodies and bunk beds. Over two hundred girls shared the space, giggling, gossiping, some already changing into dorm wear. Asia and Betty helped her unpack, throwing jokes as they folded her clothes into the metal locker beneath the bunk.

    Then the assembly bell clanged.

    Like soldiers in chaos, students poured out into the gravel paths, flowing into the giant hall with rusted fans and a faint smell of varnish. On stage stood Mrs. Barbara, headmistress of Ivory City College, a woman known for her thick-rimmed glasses and voice that cracked like thunder.

    "Welcome to a new term at Ivory City!" she roared. "This is not your village. Obedience is not optional. You are young women being prepared for society!"

    Behind her stood the new prefects, eyes sharp as hawks. Some students clapped. Some stared like hostages.

    That evening, the dining hall erupted with madness.

    Noise bounced from wall to wall. Pantry boys and girls served trays of fried rice and chicken, but order was a myth. Students screamed across tables, fought over meat, some devoured food with open mouths, utensils forgotten.

    At one corner, Chinasa sat with Betty, Asia, Chommy—and three boys from their class. Among them was Victor, tall, quiet, with a face sculpted like it belonged in a storybook. He stared at Chinasa like he was seeing a spirit.

    She didn’t notice.

    From her school bag, she brought out a silver flask, its body smooth and warm from the sun. She opened it, and thick chunks of stewed meat slid out, oily, glistening, spiced. The aroma captured the attention of everyone around her. Asia and Chommy didn’t wait—they scooped pieces greedily, stuffing their mouths. The boys reached for some too.

    All except Victor.

    He just watched her.

    Betty nudged Chinasa. “Why you no go chop your own meat? You dey do fine girl?”

    “I’m okay with the chicken they gave us,” Chinasa replied quietly.

    “No try that nonsense,” Betty said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Na my mum prepare this meat for you. Anything I eat, you go eat too.”

    Chinasa hesitated. The meat looked too rich, too tender to resist. Guilt slid off her like a shawl. She picked a chunk and placed it over her green rice. The first bite melted in her mouth—juicy, buttery, laced with flavors she’d never tasted before.

    “Betty, this meat is mad o! What meat is this?”

    Betty grinned. “Human meat.”

    Chinasa stopped chewing. “What?”

    “I dey joke jare. It’s from my papa’s ranch. Young bull. Special breed.”

    Chinasa laughed. “Better talk true. This meat taste like sin.”

    They all laughed.

    But shortly after, Chinasa’s vision blurred. The world tilted like a room with a crooked floor. She stood up, mumbling something about needing to rest. The walk to the hostel was like wading through fog.

    By the time she lay on her bed, her bones felt hollow. Then darkness took her.

    ---

    She was flying.

    Her arms were wings—feathers sprouting from her shoulders. She gasped for air. She wasn’t dreaming; she was moving through night sky, trees rising below like jagged teeth.

    She slammed into a tree. Pain pierced her chest.

    She spiraled through the wind like a falling star, unable to scream.

    She crashed into a forest clearing.

    The open space was lit by hundreds of fire torches, their flames casting shadows on more than five hundred masked dancers circling a throne carved of skulls and bone. They wore brown ragged clothes, chanted in a language older than pain. The drums shook the ground.

    White men. Black women. Children. Teenagers.

    Witches.

    At the center, on the throne, sat the Queen Mother—masked, unmoving, glowing.

    “Unmask!” her voice rang like a bell soaked in fire.

    One by one, the dancers removed their masks.

    Chinasa gasped.

    Betty.
    Asia.
    Chommy.
    A teacher from school.
    A kitchen woman.
    Even the boy who once cleaned toilets.

    No. No no no.

    She turned to run.

    But something was already behind her.

    Demons.

    They flew like bats but had the heads and arms of men. Their skin was scaled like crocodiles. Their eyes were blood red, tongues long and split. They grabbed her and tossed her into the center circle like a ragdoll.

    “Feed her,” the Queen commanded.

    “No!” Chinasa screamed, struggling, crying. “I won’t eat!”

    The demons pried her jaw open. A wet, warm piece of meat was shoved into her mouth. Blood. It was blood. They forced her to swallow.

    Then everything went black.

    ---

    She woke up at 2:03 AM, gasping, drenched in sweat.

    She felt like she had been beaten with iron rods. Her ribs screamed in pain. Her arms had scratches—fresh, real. Her knees were bruised.

    “God… what is this?”

    She leaped from her bunk, her chest pounding. She checked her arms. The marks were still there. Her body had brought the dream into the real world.

    Outside, the night was silent.

    Too silent.

    She looked toward Betty’s bunk.

    The girl was fast asleep… with a smile on her lips.

    ---

    To be continued...

    IF I can get thirty shares today I'll write three episodes tomorrow
    *SCHOOL WITCHES 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥* *Episode One: The Meat of the Innocent* The sun stood reluctantly over Abuja, its golden face veiled in clouds as if it too dreaded what would unfold at Ivory City College. Chinasa sat quietly at the back seat of her parents' car, fingers twisting the hem of her green skirt, her heart pounding like a caged drum. Her eyes darted from her father’s stern silence to her mother’s gentle hands resting over hers. It was her final year in junior secondary school—JSS Three. The year that mattered. The car rolled to a stop in front of Hostel A, and as the door swung open, her mother stepped out first. Chinasa hesitated. Her father came around, opened her door, and handed her the small purple travel bag. "Chinasa, be strong," her mother whispered as she embraced her tightly, her perfume clinging to Chinasa like a memory that wouldn’t wash off. Tears rolled down her cheek before she could stop them. They waved at her from the car as they drove off, and Chinasa stood frozen, her chest crumbling like dry leaves underfoot. Then came the whirlwind of noise— "Na wa o! Chinasa you dey cry?" She turned. Betty, her wild-haired best friend, sprinted across the hostel lawn, flanked by Asia and Chommy. They wrapped their arms around her, bursting into giggles, teasing and tugging playfully at her braids. Chinasa laughed through tears as they grabbed her boxes and dragged her toward the hostel doors. Inside the large hall, the air was thick with the musty scent of bodies and bunk beds. Over two hundred girls shared the space, giggling, gossiping, some already changing into dorm wear. Asia and Betty helped her unpack, throwing jokes as they folded her clothes into the metal locker beneath the bunk. Then the assembly bell clanged. Like soldiers in chaos, students poured out into the gravel paths, flowing into the giant hall with rusted fans and a faint smell of varnish. On stage stood Mrs. Barbara, headmistress of Ivory City College, a woman known for her thick-rimmed glasses and voice that cracked like thunder. "Welcome to a new term at Ivory City!" she roared. "This is not your village. Obedience is not optional. You are young women being prepared for society!" Behind her stood the new prefects, eyes sharp as hawks. Some students clapped. Some stared like hostages. That evening, the dining hall erupted with madness. Noise bounced from wall to wall. Pantry boys and girls served trays of fried rice and chicken, but order was a myth. Students screamed across tables, fought over meat, some devoured food with open mouths, utensils forgotten. At one corner, Chinasa sat with Betty, Asia, Chommy—and three boys from their class. Among them was Victor, tall, quiet, with a face sculpted like it belonged in a storybook. He stared at Chinasa like he was seeing a spirit. She didn’t notice. From her school bag, she brought out a silver flask, its body smooth and warm from the sun. She opened it, and thick chunks of stewed meat slid out, oily, glistening, spiced. The aroma captured the attention of everyone around her. Asia and Chommy didn’t wait—they scooped pieces greedily, stuffing their mouths. The boys reached for some too. All except Victor. He just watched her. Betty nudged Chinasa. “Why you no go chop your own meat? You dey do fine girl?” “I’m okay with the chicken they gave us,” Chinasa replied quietly. “No try that nonsense,” Betty said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Na my mum prepare this meat for you. Anything I eat, you go eat too.” Chinasa hesitated. The meat looked too rich, too tender to resist. Guilt slid off her like a shawl. She picked a chunk and placed it over her green rice. The first bite melted in her mouth—juicy, buttery, laced with flavors she’d never tasted before. “Betty, this meat is mad o! What meat is this?” Betty grinned. “Human meat.” Chinasa stopped chewing. “What?” “I dey joke jare. It’s from my papa’s ranch. Young bull. Special breed.” Chinasa laughed. “Better talk true. This meat taste like sin.” They all laughed. But shortly after, Chinasa’s vision blurred. The world tilted like a room with a crooked floor. She stood up, mumbling something about needing to rest. The walk to the hostel was like wading through fog. By the time she lay on her bed, her bones felt hollow. Then darkness took her. --- She was flying. Her arms were wings—feathers sprouting from her shoulders. She gasped for air. She wasn’t dreaming; she was moving through night sky, trees rising below like jagged teeth. She slammed into a tree. Pain pierced her chest. She spiraled through the wind like a falling star, unable to scream. She crashed into a forest clearing. The open space was lit by hundreds of fire torches, their flames casting shadows on more than five hundred masked dancers circling a throne carved of skulls and bone. They wore brown ragged clothes, chanted in a language older than pain. The drums shook the ground. White men. Black women. Children. Teenagers. Witches. At the center, on the throne, sat the Queen Mother—masked, unmoving, glowing. “Unmask!” her voice rang like a bell soaked in fire. One by one, the dancers removed their masks. Chinasa gasped. Betty. Asia. Chommy. A teacher from school. A kitchen woman. Even the boy who once cleaned toilets. No. No no no. She turned to run. But something was already behind her. Demons. They flew like bats but had the heads and arms of men. Their skin was scaled like crocodiles. Their eyes were blood red, tongues long and split. They grabbed her and tossed her into the center circle like a ragdoll. “Feed her,” the Queen commanded. “No!” Chinasa screamed, struggling, crying. “I won’t eat!” The demons pried her jaw open. A wet, warm piece of meat was shoved into her mouth. Blood. It was blood. They forced her to swallow. Then everything went black. --- She woke up at 2:03 AM, gasping, drenched in sweat. She felt like she had been beaten with iron rods. Her ribs screamed in pain. Her arms had scratches—fresh, real. Her knees were bruised. “God… what is this?” She leaped from her bunk, her chest pounding. She checked her arms. The marks were still there. Her body had brought the dream into the real world. Outside, the night was silent. Too silent. She looked toward Betty’s bunk. The girl was fast asleep… with a smile on her lips. --- To be continued... IF I can get thirty shares today I'll write three episodes tomorrow
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  • “It’s not about how many people love you, but how deeply they do.”

    “It’s not about how many people love you, but how deeply they do.”
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  • *The Harsh Truths About MEN Nobody Wants to Admit*

    _______________
    1. Men are only loved based on what they provide.
    A man without money, status, or value is invisible to society—even to his own family.

    2. Men don’t get sympathy, only expectations.
    A struggling man is mocked, not helped. The world doesn’t care about his pain—only his productivity.

    3. If a man fails, he is on his own.
    No safety net, no pity. A failed man is seen as useless, even by those who once praised him.

    4. Men are only as good as their last achievement.
    Your past success means nothing if you can’t maintain it. The moment you fall, you become irrelevant.

    5. Nobody teaches men how to deal with emotions.
    Society says “Be a man,” but never explains how to handle pain, stress, or heartbreak.

    6. Men are judged by results, not effort.
    Nobody cares how hard you try—if you don’t succeed, you’re just making excuses.

    7. Men must build themselves from scratch.
    No handouts, no shortcuts. A man must create his own value or be ignored.

    8. Men’s problems are seen as complaints.
    If a man speaks about his struggles, he’s called weak. If he stays silent, he suffers alone.

    9. Men are replaceable.
    In relationships, jobs, and even families—if a man can’t provide, he’s discarded like an old tool.

    10. A man’s worth is always conditional.
    No matter how much he loves, gives, or sacrifices, his value is always tied to what he can do.

    This is the brutal reality. A man must level up, stay strong, and never expect handouts. Because in the end… Nobody is coming to save you. Nwamama Austino is my name please follow for more.
    *The Harsh Truths About MEN Nobody Wants to Admit* _______________ 1. Men are only loved based on what they provide. A man without money, status, or value is invisible to society—even to his own family. 2. Men don’t get sympathy, only expectations. A struggling man is mocked, not helped. The world doesn’t care about his pain—only his productivity. 3. If a man fails, he is on his own. No safety net, no pity. A failed man is seen as useless, even by those who once praised him. 4. Men are only as good as their last achievement. Your past success means nothing if you can’t maintain it. The moment you fall, you become irrelevant. 5. Nobody teaches men how to deal with emotions. Society says “Be a man,” but never explains how to handle pain, stress, or heartbreak. 6. Men are judged by results, not effort. Nobody cares how hard you try—if you don’t succeed, you’re just making excuses. 7. Men must build themselves from scratch. No handouts, no shortcuts. A man must create his own value or be ignored. 8. Men’s problems are seen as complaints. If a man speaks about his struggles, he’s called weak. If he stays silent, he suffers alone. 9. Men are replaceable. In relationships, jobs, and even families—if a man can’t provide, he’s discarded like an old tool. 10. A man’s worth is always conditional. No matter how much he loves, gives, or sacrifices, his value is always tied to what he can do. This is the brutal reality. A man must level up, stay strong, and never expect handouts. Because in the end… Nobody is coming to save you. Nwamama Austino is my name please follow for more.
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  • ```To your enemies, who chose to monitor your life and posts, allow them. Let them get the misery and sleepless nights they deserve , since your light irritates their dark energies and spirits. They can only keep a laughing facade, but deep down their demonic hearts bleeds.```
    ```To your enemies, who chose to monitor your life and posts, allow them. Let them get the misery and sleepless nights they deserve 😌, since your light irritates their dark energies and spirits. They can only keep a laughing facade, but deep down their demonic hearts bleeds.```
    0 Reacties 0 aandelen 142 Views 0 voorbeeld
  • ```To your enemies, who chose to monitor your life and posts, allow them. Let them get the misery and sleepless nights they deserve , since you light irritates their dark energies and spirits.They can only keep a laughing facade, but deep down their demonic hearts bleeds.```
    ```To your enemies, who chose to monitor your life and posts, allow them. Let them get the misery and sleepless nights they deserve 😌, since you light irritates their dark energies and spirits.They can only keep a laughing facade, but deep down their demonic hearts bleeds.```
    0 Reacties 0 aandelen 136 Views 0 voorbeeld
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