HOW TO BECOME MORE CLASSY AND INTELLIGENT AS A WOMAN Being classy is not about bleaching your skin, wearing designer bags, or speaking through your nose. And intelligence? It’s not about speaking big grammar and forming British accent. If you want to truly be a classy and intelligent woman, start here, 1. Read, sis. I’m not saying become a professor overnight. But carry books. Read. Listen to podcasts. Watch YouTube videos that feed your brain, not just celebrity gossips. 2. Speak with sense. You don’t have to talk all the time. But when you do, let people feel your wisdom. Speak gently. Speak with respect. Speak to add value, not to scatter everywhere. 3. Dress like you respect yourself. You don’t need a wardrobe full of clothes. Just know how to package yourself with confidence, decency, and class. 4. Maturity in how you handle things. Not everything requires quarrels. Not every insult deserves a reply. Sometimes, your silence is the loudest clapback. 5. Improve your mindset. The way you think affects how you act. Stop thinking small. Stop seeing yourself as a victim. You’re a woman with power. Think big. Think wise. 6. Don’t move with noise makers. Classy women are intentional about their company. Hang around women who lift your standards, not those who drag you into drama every day. 7. Pray and glow differently. Spiritual depth gives you peace that shows in your walk, your talk, and your decisions. Real elegance comes from the inside out.HOW TO BECOME MORE CLASSY AND INTELLIGENT AS A WOMAN Being classy is not about bleaching your skin, wearing designer bags, or speaking through your nose. And intelligence? It’s not about speaking big grammar and forming British accent. If you want to truly be a classy and intelligent woman, start here, 1. Read, sis. I’m not saying become a professor overnight. But carry books. Read. Listen to podcasts. Watch YouTube videos that feed your brain, not just celebrity gossips. 2. Speak with sense. You don’t have to talk all the time. But when you do, let people feel your wisdom. Speak gently. Speak with respect. Speak to add value, not to scatter everywhere. 3. Dress like you respect yourself. You don’t need a wardrobe full of clothes. Just know how to package yourself with confidence, decency, and class. 4. Maturity in how you handle things. Not everything requires quarrels. Not every insult deserves a reply. Sometimes, your silence is the loudest clapback. 5. Improve your mindset. The way you think affects how you act. Stop thinking small. Stop seeing yourself as a victim. You’re a woman with power. Think big. Think wise. 6. Don’t move with noise makers. Classy women are intentional about their company. Hang around women who lift your standards, not those who drag you into drama every day. 7. Pray and glow differently. Spiritual depth gives you peace that shows in your walk, your talk, and your decisions. Real elegance comes from the inside out. Every lady in the channel let's gather here with a blue 💙

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THE NEW CEO He never looked up. He just polished and returned them." Her father never knew his name. But she never forgot his hands. Until the day the company he once stood outside… Became the one he walked into — as the boss. 1996. Lagos Island. Baba Dauda was a cobbler stationed outside the Afolabi & Sons Corporation — a big construction firm where luxury cars pulled up daily, and security guards barely let him near the building. But every week, a wealthy man — Chief Afolabi — sent his driver with three pairs of Italian leather shoes. Dauda would shine, stitch, clean, and polish them until they looked brand new. He was never invited in. Never tipped. Never acknowledged. But someone noticed. Little Adesewa, Chief’s 9-year-old daughter, used to sit in the back of the car watching him work. She once asked, “Why does he never come inside?” Her father replied: "Because people like that don’t belong in boardrooms." But Dauda looked up and said: “Small madam… maybe one day, I’ll fix more than shoes.” Adesewa smiled. He winked. Then life happened. The Afolabis moved abroad. Dauda lost his spot outside the building when the area was demolished. Nobody knew where he went. Nobody looked for him. 2024. Victoria Island. The same company — now renamed Afolabi Global — had fallen into crisis. Stocks plummeted. Leadership changed. They were awaiting their new CEO — a private appointee brought in by international investors to restructure the entire business. Boardroom filled. Cameras ready. Staff nervous. Then the doors opened… And Mr. Dauda Adekunle walked in — polished suit, grey hair, briefcase in hand. Silence. Gasps. He nodded slowly and said: “28 years ago, I fixed shoes outside this building. Today, I’m here to rebuild what was broken inside it.” The crowd froze. And from the corner, Adesewa — now head of PR — stood in tears. She walked over, hugged him, and whispered: “You didn’t just fix shoes, Baba. You fixed my view of the world.” He didn’t beg. He didn’t fight. He just worked. And while others built offices… He built himself. Now the same hands that once held polish and thread… Hold contracts, power, and legacy. Because sometimes, the person outside the gate… Was just waiting to own the entire building.

At a university, a professor asked his students: "If there are four birds on a tree and three of them decided to fly away, how many are left on the tree?" Everyone answered, "One." They were surprised when one student disagreed and said, "Four birds remain." This caught everyone's attention. Follow Boniface ose The professor asked him: "How so?" He replied: "You said they decided to fly, but you didn't say they actually flew. Making a decision doesn't mean taking action." And indeed, that was the correct answer. This story reflects the lives of some people — they have many slogans and catchy words, and they shine in gatherings and among friends, but in reality, their lives don’t reflect those words. Many people talk, but only a few act..! Making a (decision) is one thing... Taking (action) is something else entirely.

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Title: My Arranged Marriage Episode 1: The Day My Bride Brought Her Ex to Our Wedding I always knew my family was chaotic, but I didn’t know they were diabolical until the day I walked into my own wedding and nearly fainted. Not because of cold feet — but because the bride, the woman I was supposed to marry, was sitting on the stage laughing with her ex-boyfriend, whom she brought along like a plus-one. Yes, her ex. To our wedding. Let me start from the beginning. It began two months ago when Mama burst into my room like a hurricane dressed in Ankara and holy anointing. "Obinna, your bachelorhood is a spiritual attack!" She clutched her Bible and her phone, scrolling through WhatsApp pictures of potential wives like it was Tinder for African mothers. I was 29, a civil engineer in Lagos, and deeply single—not because I couldn't find love, but because the last girl I loved used my rent money to buy a Brazilian wig and disappeared with a sugar daddy who sold building materials. So, when Mama insisted on arranging a marriage, I laughed. Until Papa added his voice. “If you don’t marry before July, forget your inheritance. We will donate your land to the church!” July was two months away. That was how I met Amaka. Photos first. Then video calls. She was pretty. Soft-spoken. From Enugu. A nurse. And, according to her mother, a virgin. (My cousin Ugochi whispered, “Aunty, check that thing well. These days, even calculators reset.”) I agreed to meet her. She smiled, giggled, and spoke gently. But something felt... rehearsed. Like she was playing a role. Still, the wedding date was fixed. Invitations printed. Cow bought. Church booked. DJ paid. Mama danced every night to Flavour’s songs as if the wedding was her own. And then the big day came. The hall glittered with decorations. Guests arrived in gele and agbada. My friends teased me “Obinna, you go finally chop life!” Then I saw her. Amaka. Dressed in white. Gorgeous. Smiling. Until I noticed the man sitting beside her, whispering in her ear and holding her hand. I frowned. “Who is that?” I asked my brother. My brother squinted. “I think he came with the bride.” “Came with the" Before I could finish, Mama appeared beside me, all smiles and sweat. “You look handsome, my son. Now go and smile at your bride.” “I will smile after I know who that guy is.” Mama hissed and walked off. So, I marched up to Amaka, heart racing. “Who is this?” She blinked, calm. “Oh! Meet Chuka. My best friend. He’s like… family.” Chuka stood, extended his hand, smiling like a goat that just chewed your exam script. “Nice to meet you, bro.” Bro? I ignored his hand. “Can we talk privately?” Amaka sighed, dragged me aside, and said the thing that nearly made me remove my agbada and run home in boxers. “I invited him because... well... he’s important to me. We dated for six years. He’s the one who taught me how to love. But my parents didn’t approve. So I had to settle for this... arrangement.” I stood still, blinking. “Settle?” “Yes,” she said. “But you’re kind. You’ll understand.” Ladies and gentlemen, I did not understand. My uncle, who saw me shaking like a leaf, whispered, “Is it heartbreak or hunger? Should we bring you small jollof rice to calm your nerves?” I wanted to run, but the hall was full, the gifts were stacked, and the caterers were serving. A pastor was waiting. A crowd was watching. Then I remembered what my grandmother once said: “If you must embarrass the devil, do it with boldness.” So, I climbed the stage, grabbed the mic, and said: “Ladies and gentlemen, I want to thank you all for coming. But I just found out that I am not the main actor in this wedding. I am an extra.” Gasps. Chuka choked on his zobo. Amaka’s face turned pale. Mama tried to grab the mic, but I raised my hand dramatically. “This wedding is cancelled. But don’t worry there’s plenty of food. Eat, drink, and take selfies. Just know that Obinna has left the chat!” I walked out, head high, heart free. That night, I ate the wedding jollof alone in my boxers and watched Nollywood movies till 2 a.m. A week later, I met Adaeze, my neighbor who had always lent me pepper without asking for it back. She knocked on my door with a plate of hot rice and a smile. And guess what?

THE VILLAGE OF THE TWO HUNDRED EYES An African Folktale of Communal Wisdom by Linda Somiari - Stewart In the heart of the green valley of N’nika, where hills rolled like the backs of resting lions and baobab trees whispered secrets to the stars, a child was born on a moonlit night. Her name was Zoya, which means “peace after longing.” Her mother, Amina, had wept for many seasons, her womb quiet like an abandoned fireplace. Her father, Kwaku, had prayed by rivers and planted trees that never bore fruit. But when Zoya arrived, laughter returned to their home like rain after drought. Now, in many places worldwide, a child is considered the property of the parents. “My daughter,” “my son.” But in N’nika, a child belongs to the people. There, they say, “A child is birthed by four eyes, but nurtured by two hundred.” And so, Zoya was not only the joy of her mother and father, she was the moonbeam of the village. Her first laugh echoed from hut to hut like festival drums. When she took her first step, an elder carved the memory into wood. When she said her first word—"Maji" (water)—the village griot sang it into the evening fire. Each villager played their part. Old Mama Binta, whose eyes had dimmed but whose spirit saw clearly, taught Zoya riddles and proverbs. Uncle Sefu, who shaped clay like it was born in his palms, showed her how to mold earth into beauty. Auntie Dede, swift-footed as a gazelle, taught her to dance on the drum’s breath. Even Blind Baba Chikere, who never saw her face, listened to her soul and reminded her, “You are more than what eyes can see.” One day, when the rains were late and the air cracked with dryness, Zoya, now a child of seven seasons, saw a brilliant green butterfly flutter past. Her eyes widened. She remembered Mama Binta's tale: “The butterfly that glows like emerald flies toward old magic.” Curious, fearless, Zoya followed. She wandered into the forest, past the watchful iroko tree, into the thick silence where children were told not to stray. Hours passed. Shadows lengthened. The sun bowed out. Panic rose like smoke in Amina’s chest. Kwaku’s hands trembled. But before their fear became thunder, the village moved. Mama Binta said, “She spoke of butterflies this morning.” Uncle Sefu recalled, “She asked me about the old stone under the iroko tree, the one shaped like wings.” After pausing her grinding, Auntie Dede added, “I saw her head toward the bush path near the river bend.” No one said, “Not my child.” Because Zoya belonged to all of them. The drum was sounded - not in alarm, but in unity. Two hundred eyes awakened. Old legs and young feet marched. Voices called her name not angrily but with love braided into every syllable. They found her just as dusk kissed the sky. She sat peacefully beside a stone shaped like wings, humming a song she had learned from Baba Chikere. When asked if she was scared, she said, “No. I knew someone would come. Someone always comes when someone is lost.” That night, under a sky heavy with stars and the smell of roasted maize, the village held a feast - not just for Zoya’s return, but for the power of many eyes, hands, and hearts. Zoya grew into a woman of many talents. She became a healer, a teacher, and a singer of old songs. When she had her own child, she did not build a wall around them. She opened her door wide. And when strangers from far lands encounter her versatility, they would ask, “Who taught you such wisdom?” She would say: “The eyes that watched me were many. The love that raised me was village-wide and deep.” And so, dear friend, learn this: The natural order is not to raise any child alone. Whether in Nairobi or New York, Lagos or London, an authentic village is not made of huts and fences - but of hearts willing to see, hands willing to hold, and spirits willing to lift. Please do your best to return the natural order to our neighborhoods and villages.

THE FISHERMAN AND THE SKYFATHER (a tribute to fatherhood ) A father’s Day Tale from the Creeks by Linda Somiari-Stewart in the voice of Kombare, Keeper of the Tide-Songs. In time before timepieces , when the tide carried secrets instead of plastic, there was a village called Opu-Toru-Piri,nestled in the belly of the Delta where the Lufafa River split into seven winding tongues. The people of this village were born with salt in their blood and paddle-strokes in their hearts. They spoke to the spirits with drums and fetched fish with prayers. In this famed village of fishermen lived a young man named Biebuma- sharp-eyed, hot-blooded, and full of questions. His father, AyibaTonye, was once the most respected fisherman on the Lufafa River. His canoe, Ebiegberi, had once sliced through the waters like a blade of light. His nets returned with fish so fat, you could hear the fat sing while melting on the kitchen altar. But time, as it does even to crocodiles, bent AyibaTonye’s back. It drained the fire from his bones. His boat groaned with every journey. His nets came up empty. His hands, once sure, trembled like leaves in Harmattan. Biebuma watched in silence. Then in anger. “You say the river blessed you,” he spat one night, “but all I see is a weak old man who sits in the dark, clinging to ghosts of old conquests, past glories “ AyibaTonye did not raise his voice. He only looked into the boy’s eyes and said: “The day you understand the cost of keeping a household afloat, you will speak with softer lips.” Biebuma turned away. That night, when even the moon slept and only the fireflies kept watch, he paddled silently into the outer river and called upon Opu-ama-so—the Skyfather, the Spirit of winds. The father of the firmament, whose voice shakes palm trees and whose eyes see the beginning and the end. “Skyfather!” Biebuma cried, standing in his canoe. “I am the son of a broken man. It is shameful. Grant me the strength he never gave me!” The river stilled. The stars blinked once. Then came the Skyfather’s reply, low and vast: “You ask for strength. But do you know the shape of sacrifice? Here, carry this little burden for one tide.” A calabash rose from the river, sealed with threads of lightning and marked with ancestral art, than it looked. Skyfather warned: “Do not spill even one drop.” Biebuma took it, laughing. What weight could break the arms of a youth who paddled against the tides? He paddled home and carried the calabash on his shoulder. But as he walked the narrow footpath to his father’s compound,the calabash grew heavier. It whispered. It wept. It spoke in the voices of many distraught of fathers. His arms ached. His legs trembled. The trees watched in silence. He staggered and fell! The calabash shattered into several pieces. From it poured a vapor of visions - not water, not smoke, but a vapor of remembrances. As the vapor rose skyward, Biebuma saw his father - young, fierce, strong; *trading his only canoe to pay for Biebuma’s medicine during the Great Fever. *Selling the sacred necklace from his grandmother to buy books for Biebuma. *Wrestling the river god Owoi-Tuburu at midnight, so Biebuma would not drown during his naming rites by the river. And finally; *AyibaTonye declining an invitation the Council of Elders feast just to stay home and sing his son to sleep so his wife could rest. Biebuma fell on his face on the footpath, breathless. “I did not know,” he whispered. The Skyfather’s voice returned, gentle now- like rain on old roofs: “Fathers do not always explain. Some carry the world in silence. Some love with backs bent, not with words spoken but with their stoic presence ” Biebuma became a changed man. When he got home he didn’t find his father in their house . He found him at the riverbank,mending a net with cracked fingers. His father did not look up. But when Biebuma knelt, AyibaTonye’s hands paused just for a moment. Then he smiled. From that day forward ,Biebuma fished with the soul of his father in his heart. His nets filled not only with fish, but with understanding. He built a new canoe for AyibaTonye but the old man never used it. He only smiled and said, “The river gives… when the son learns to paddle with both arms.” And the griots still say today in the creeks of Lufafa: “To know the weight of a present father’s love, you must carry what he carried… and listen for the silence he bore.

Come and carry your huncle 🤣🤣🤣🤣 It was Friday night. Baba Tunde had been sampling his homemade gin Ogogoro mixed with energy drink and pride for hours. By the sixth bottle, his eyes started seeing things his brain didn’t approve.🤣 He turned to his wife, Mama Tunde, who was wearing her regular wrapper and watching Zee World, and said with slurred confidence: Fine girl, how much you go charge me for one night🤣🤣🤣 Mama Tunde blinked.🤣🤣 She dropped the remote, removed her headscarf slowly, and shouted: Are you mad. You’ve been drinking inside this house all day. THIS IS YOUR WIFE🤣🤣 Baba Tunde squinted harder and replied, Wife ke.. E be like say I jam sugar mummy today o🤣🤣🤣 Mama Tunde chased him around the house with her head tie shouting, By the time I finish with you, your ancestors will sober up too🤣🤣🤣 Drink responsibly before you toast your own wife like a stranger🤣🤣🤣🤣

Women with absent fathers often become beggars for love, safety, and security. It’s heartbreaking how deeply they invest themselves in others, hoping that their love will be returned, hoping to finally feel chosen, protected, and seen. They carry a silent ache—an invisible wound that whispers....Maybe if I give more, they’ll stay. Maybe if I’m good enough, they’ll love me. This voice doesn’t come from who they are today, but from the little girl inside them who kept looking out the window, waiting for someone who never came. Their love becomes a currency—they trade affection, loyalty, and even their own boundaries just to feel held. They over-give, over-function, and over-apologize, hoping that one day, someone will finally choose to stay without conditions. The absence of a father doesn’t just leave a physical void—it creates emotional gaps that women often try to fill with partners, friends, or even strangers. But what’s missing isn’t just a person—it’s the early belief that they are inherently worthy of love without having to earn it. She often becomes hyper-independent, saying she doesn’t need anyone. But behind that strength is exhaustion—from carrying her own pain, from pretending she’s okay, from surviving in a world that never taught her how to receive. When she finally does meet love, she may not know how to trust it. Her nervous system doesn’t recognize consistency. It feels foreign. Unsafe even. She might push it away before it has a chance to hold her. This woman is not broken. She is someone who has been asked to mother herself before she was ever truly mothered. She’s someone who has built a heart out of scars and silence. Healing for her doesn’t come from finding the perfect partner. It comes from finding herself. From meeting the little girl within and telling her, “You don’t have to beg anymore. You are already enough.” When a woman with an absent father begins to reclaim her worth, she stops performing for love and starts attracting it from a place of truth. Her healing isn’t just hers—it becomes a ripple that touches every generation after her. And maybe for the first time, she finally breathes deeply… not because someone stayed, but because she stopped abandoning herself. If you belong to this story, know that healing is possible. I’m here to help you on this journey—just reach out to me. - Abhikesh

Babe, being apart feels like forever, but knowing you're mine and I'm yours keeps me going. I promise to hold on tight, trust deeply, and stick together through this distance. My love for you is stronger than any space between us. You're my home, my heart beats for you. 🤍

My Husband's Wife Is His Mother (EPISODE 1) If someone had told me that I wouldn’t get to spend my wedding night alone with my husband, I would have laughed in disbelief. But that night—my wedding night—was the first time I realized something was very wrong. And it all started with the sound of her slippers. Flip. Flop. Flip. Flop. I was in the bathroom, changing into my silk nightgown. I had planned this night down to the details. Candles. Perfume. The perfect playlist. After all the stress of wedding planning, I just wanted to hold the man I loved and breathe in the beginning of forever. But the knock came. It was soft at first. Then firmer. Then the voice. “Oya open the door jare, make I lie down small. My waist is paining me.” My husband laughed. Laughed. “Shey I told you my mama doesn’t like hard beds,” he said, already heading for the door. I peeked out from behind the bathroom door, confused. “What do you mean lie down?” “She’ll just rest a bit. Don’t worry,” he said, brushing it off like it was normal. “She does this when she travels. The bed in the guest room is too small.” “But... this is our wedding night,” I whispered, heart sinking. He looked at me like I was being unreasonable. “Babe, it’s just for a bit. You know she’s old.” Old? His mother was barely 60. Active. Loud. Controlling. She ran a shop, led the women’s group in church, and made sure to remind everyone that she raised her son "without a single coin from any useless man." Still in disbelief, I watched as he opened the door and let her in. She entered like she owned the room. Like she built it with her hands. She didn’t even look at me. Just removed her wrapper, fluffed a pillow, and slid into the middle of our bed. My side. “Put off that candle abeg,” she said, fanning herself. “You want to burn this house?” I stood there frozen. My chest tightened. I looked at my husband, silently begging for support. He sat beside her and smiled. “She’s just tired. Tomorrow, everything will be normal.” But it wasn’t. I barely slept that night. The three of us lay in that bed like sardines in a can. Every time I shifted, her leg brushed mine. At one point, she even snored. Loudly. I turned to face the wall, hot tears forming in my eyes. This wasn’t what I signed up for. --- The next morning, she woke before us and clapped her hands loudly. “Wake up, wake up! This is not honeymoon o, this is my son’s house. I want to boil water.” I sat up, dazed. My husband stretched lazily and gave her the same smile he gave me during our vows. “Mama, you want me to carry the pot?” “Ehen, now you’re talking.” And just like that, they left me in the room. Alone. In my own marriage. --- Later that day, I tried to talk to him. “Why did she sleep in our room?” I asked gently, not wanting to seem disrespectful. He sighed. “Babe, you know how close I am to my mom. It’s just for a while. She said she wants to be around until you're strong enough to manage things.” “I’m not sick,” I replied, trying to control my voice. “And we just got married. Shouldn’t we be alone?” He shrugged. “Just give her time. She’s adjusting too.” Adjusting? She was adjusting? What about me? --- That evening, it happened again. She brought her wrapper, pillow, and blanket. No questions asked. She even had the audacity to say, “Ah, I like this mattress. Very firm. Good for my back.” I stood by the bed, still in my wrapper, and didn’t know what to do. “Mama,” I tried to speak, “maybe you can try the guest room again? We just—” She turned her head sharply. “You want to chase me away from my son’s room? Is it now a sin for a mother to sleep beside her child?” My husband kept quiet. Dead silence. I looked at him, pleading with my eyes. He avoided my gaze and said, “Let’s not make this a big issue tonight. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” But tomorrow never came. --- I started noticing little things. How she always sat between us when we watched TV. How she would call him to come lie down beside her during the day and rub her back. How she took over my kitchen and rearranged everything without asking. How she spoke to me like I was the house girl. I wanted to be respectful. I was raised to honor elders. But this? This was not honor. This was intrusion. This was something else entirely. A twisted triangle. A marriage with three corners. And somehow, I was the outsider. --- That night, I called my elder sister. “Sis, she sleeps between us. Every night. She won’t leave.” She paused. “What does your husband say?” “Nothing. He acts like it’s normal. Like I’m overreacting.” She hissed. “That’s witchcraft. Or madness. Or both.” I laughed bitterly. “It’s not funny.” “No, I know. But you need to take control before it gets worse.” “How?” I whispered. “How do I fight a mother-in-law on her son’s bed?” There was silence. And then her voice was firm. “You’re the wife. Start acting like it. Don’t let her settle.” But it was already too late. She had settled. She had brought her pillow. Her slippers. Her authority. And on the first night of my marriage, I learned that love is not always a fairytale. Sometimes, it’s a bed with three people—and one of them isn’t going anywhere. End of Episode 1 To Be Continue in Episode 2 ©️ Mummy Moreni