Remind yourself of your past victories. Look back at what
didn’t kill you.
There’s more strength inside you than you know.
“You can cry and still conquer, feel fear and still move, what matters is that you keep going.”

Breaking news

CHRISBROWN last night was on phone begging Liberia internationally star for a collaboration

Days ago JZyNo when out did a hair cut for his American tour,immediately he posted online, Chrisbrown rush to the nearest kiosk load credit, people ask him why he's sweating that much and he said my twin brother who was missing since childhood was found in Liberia

Little did he know JZyNo was ready for an American tour, few minutes past stood up on a call with him for hours he said please can you give me a callabo during this American tour, and believe me from this time your Grammy award is ready, woow

Not long a child was born and he was destined to live and change the Liberian Music Industry, his American tours is a success already, tickets 🎟 are selling high,his music play worldwide, millions of streams ❤

People now sleep at his dor to beg him drop a verse for them,someone who said Liberia music is dead now they just starting , after this you must know Liberia

Abuja Pastor Amos Isah In Police Custody Over Alleged Rape Of 14-Year-Old Girl

Amos Isah, the founder and lead pastor of Prophetic Victory Voice of Fire Ministry in Gwagwalada, Abuja, has been arrested and detained by the Federal Criminal Investigation Department (FCID) over allegations of raping a 14-year-old girl.

FIFTY MILLION NIGHTS
PART 3
Time crawled in the gilded cage. The untouched tray of jollof rice sat cold and congealing on the floor near the hidden compartment. The clean white dress remained folded, pristine. Olivia hadn’t moved the sleek black chair. She stood. Or paced. Or sat cross-legged on the freezing stone floor, her back against the unyielding metal door, staring at the impossible view.
She ignored the gnawing hunger. Ignored the scratchy discomfort of her nightdress. Ignored the bone-deep cold. She focused on the city lights, tracing patterns, imagining lives down there – people laughing, arguing, rushing home, completely unaware of the woman trapped fifty floors up.
No one cares. Malik’s words echoed, but they sparked anger now, not despair. He cared. He cared enough to lock her here. Enough to want her broken.
He’d told her to change. To eat. To be a good, quiet asset. By doing nothing, by leaving his offerings untouched, she’d thrown his control back in his face. A silent, stubborn rebellion. Let him see how a distressed asset really looks.
How long would it take him to notice? An hour? Two? The sterile silence pressed in, broken only by the muffled city hum and the frantic drumming of her own heart. Every tiny sound – the faint whir of hidden air conditioning, a distant elevator chime – made her jump. Waiting was its own torture.
Then, it came. The soft, dreaded click of the main suite door. Footsteps. Malik’s footsteps. Measured. Purposeful. Coming straight towards her prison.
Olivia scrambled to her feet, pressing her back against the cold metal again. Her mouth went dry. This was it. The cost of defiance. She braced herself, fists clenched at her sides, chin lifted. Don’t let him see you break.
The electronic beep sounded. The door slid open.
Malik Adebayo stood framed in the doorway. He hadn’t bothered with a jacket again. His white shirt was still crisp, but his tie was loosened. He held a thin tablet in one hand. His dark eyes scanned the room instantly, missing nothing. They flicked past her defiant stance, past the untouched chair, and landed unerringly on the cold tray of food and the pristine, folded dress still sitting in the open compartment.
A beat of utter silence. The air crackled.
Olivia watched his face. That perfect mask of cold control. His jaw tightened, just a fraction. A tiny muscle flickered near the pale scar tracing his cheekbone. His eyes, when they finally lifted to meet hers, were like polished obsidian – hard, dark, and terrifyingly focused. The pleasant, dangerous curiosity from before was gone. Replaced by something colder. Sharper.
He stepped into the room. The door slid shut behind him with its soft, final hiss and click. He didn’t speak. He walked slowly, deliberately, towards the compartment. His polished shoes clicked softly on the stone floor, each step echoing Olivia’s pounding heartbeat.
He stopped beside the tray. Looked down at the uneaten food. Then his gaze shifted to the dress. Unmoved. Untouched. He didn’t pick them up. He didn’t yell.
He just stood there. The silence grew heavier, thicker, more suffocating than the sack had been. Olivia could feel the heat of his anger radiating off him, a physical pressure in the cool room. It wasn’t loud. It was deep, simmering, and infinitely more frightening than shouting.
Slowly, deliberately, he raised his gaze back to hers. "You disobeyed." His voice was low, flat, devoid of any inflection. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact, cold and hard.
Olivia forced herself to hold that dark gaze. "I’m not a dog to obey commands," she said, her voice surprisingly steady, though her knees felt like water. "I told you. I’m not your asset."
A flicker of something dangerous sparked in his eyes. He took a step closer. Then another. He invaded her space, stopping barely a foot away. Olivia had to crane her neck to look up at him. The scent of sandalwood and clean, sharp ice filled her senses, mixed with the subtle, expensive smell of his clothes. It was overwhelming. Intimidating.
"Is that so?" he murmured, his voice dropping to a near whisper that vibrated through her. He lifted his free hand, not towards her face, but towards the fabric of her nightdress. His fingers hovered near the worn cotton sleeve, close enough for her to feel the heat radiating from his skin. Olivia froze, breath catching. Was he going to touch her? Force her?
He didn’t. His hand stopped. He let it hang there, a silent, menacing threat. "This," he said, his eyes tracing the thin, slightly torn fabric, the dust on her bare arms, "is defiance? Looking like… this?" His gaze swept down her disheveled state with deliberate, insulting slowness. "Like something dragged from the gutter?"
Shame warred with fury. Olivia felt her cheeks burn. "It’s the truth of what you’ve done," she shot back, her voice trembling now. "You dragged me from my home! This is your asset!"
His dark eyes snapped back to hers, locking on with an intensity that stole her breath. "An asset," he said, his voice dangerously soft, "has value. Cleanliness. Order. Respect for the hand that holds it." He tilted his head, his gaze boring into her. "You look like a broken thing, Olivia Okoro. Worthless. Defiant, perhaps, but broken nonetheless." He leaned in, just slightly. "Broken things," he whispered, the words chilling, "get discarded."
The threat hung in the air, colder than anything before. Olivia felt a fresh wave of terror, icy and paralyzing. Discarded. What did that mean? The cold river? A dark cell? Something worse?
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her defiance wavered, threatened to crumble under the sheer, terrifying weight of his presence and his words.
Then, something shifted. As he looked down at her, his gaze sharp, assessing, it snagged on her face. Not on her defiant eyes, but lower. On her lips. They were dry, slightly chapped from crying, pressed together in a tight line of fear and anger.
Malik Adebayo went utterly still. Not the controlled stillness from before. This was different. Frozen. His intense gaze fixed on her mouth. For a heartbeat, two, the terrifying anger in his eyes flickered. Something else flashed there – raw, unexpected, and gone in an instant. Surprise? Confusion? Something… darker? Hotter? His own lips parted slightly, just a fraction.
Olivia saw it. That crack in the ice. That brief, unguarded moment. It shocked her more than his anger. What was that?
The moment shattered. Malik blinked, and the cold mask slammed back down, harder than before. He straightened abruptly, putting a fraction more space between them, as if burned. The intensity in his eyes was now pure, controlled fury.
"Forty-five hours," he stated, his voice clipped, harsh. He turned away from her, his back rigid. He walked towards the door without another glance. "Enjoy the view. And the silence. You’ll find little comfort in either."
He reached the door. The electronic lock disengaged with its familiar *beep*. The door slid open. He stepped through.
Olivia stood rooted to the spot, heart hammering against her ribs, the echo of his threat – "Broken things get discarded" – warring with the shocking memory of his frozen stare… fixed on her lips.
The door began to slide shut.
Then, abruptly, it stopped.
Malik stood just outside, his back still to her. He didn’t turn. His broad shoulders were tense under the crisp white shirt. He seemed… paused. Hesitant? Angry? Something else?
Olivia held her breath. The silence stretched, thick and charged. What was he doing? What was he thinking?
After a heartbeat that felt like an eternity, Malik’s hand shot out. Not towards her. He slammed his palm hard against the wall outside her room. A sharp, echoing crack of sound. A sound of pure, frustrated fury.
Then, without a word, without turning, he strode away. His footsteps, usually so controlled, echoed down the corridor outside – sharp, hard, and fast. Angry.
The metal door slid shut completely with its soft *hiss* and final click.
Olivia sank slowly to the cold floor, trembling uncontrollably. The untouched food. The clean dress. His terrifying threat. His strange, frozen moment. That slam of his hand against the wall.
He hadn’t hurt her. Not physically. But he’d shown her a glimpse of something… volatile. Uncontrolled. And that moment looking at her lips… what was that?
He was angry. Furious, even. But Olivia Okoro, huddled on the freezing stone, felt a tiny, dangerous spark ignite amidst the fear.
He’s not as cold as he pretends.
He lost control.
He saw something he didn’t expect.
And that slam against the wall? That wasn’t the sound of a man discarding broken things. That was the sound of a man… rattled.
The gilded cage felt different. The air crackled with unspoken tension. The game had just gotten infinitely more dangerous.
Olivia wrapped her arms around herself, staring at the blank metal door. A slow, determined thought cut through the fear: If I can rattle him… what else can I do?
TO BE CONTINUED...

BREAKING: Abuja Pastor Amos Isah In Police Custody Over Alleged Rape Of 14-Year-Old Girl | Sahara Reporters bit.ly/4egJK8E

FIFTY MILLION NIGHTS
PART 2
Olivia slammed against the cold metal door the second it clicked shut behind her. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the sudden, suffocating silence. She whirled around, fumbling for a handle, a lock, anything. Nothing. Just smooth, cool metal. Seamless. Implacable.
Her breath came in sharp, ragged gasps. The sterile, lemony smell of the vast room outside was gone, replaced by something colder, emptier. This room was smaller, but still absurdly large for a prison cell. Like the main room, one entire wall was floor-to-ceiling glass, offering that same terrifying, beautiful view of Lagos glittering miles below. The lights here were dimmer, casting long, menacing shadows. The only furniture was a large, low platform covered in crisp white linens – a bed that looked more like an altar – and a single, sleek black chair that seemed to grow out of the polished dark stone floor. A closed door in the far corner probably led to a bathroom. No windows that opened. No phone. No escape.
The reality crashed over her, heavier than the sack had been. Trapped. Her legs gave way. She slid down the cold metal door until her bare bottom hit the icy floor. The shock of the cold was almost welcome. It felt real. The tears came then, hot and silent, carving paths through the dust on her cheeks. She hugged her knees, burying her face. The scratchy memory of the sack against her skin made her shudder. Emeka’s terrified voice echoed: *"Fifty million... it's bad..." How? How could he owe so much? And why take her? What could Malik Adebayo possibly think she was worth?
Minutes bled into each other. The silence pressed in, broken only by the frantic drumming of her own heart and the distant, muffled hum of the city – a constant reminder of the normal life she’d been ripped from. The luxurious coldness of the room seeped into her bones. She felt exposed, fragile, like a butterfly pinned under glass in this sterile, sky-high cage.
A soft click made her jump. Not her door. The main door to the suite. Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, echoing on the hard floor. Coming closer. Olivia scrambled upright, pressing her back against the metal door again, wiping furiously at her tears. Fear warred with a fresh surge of anger. Him.
The footsteps stopped outside her door. Silence. Then, a quiet electronic beep. The door slid open silently, revealing Malik Adebayo.
He filled the doorway, not just with his size, but with an aura of absolute control. He’d removed his suit jacket. The crisp white shirt he wore was rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms. He looked relaxed, almost bored, but his dark eyes held that same unnerving intensity as before. They swept over her – huddled on the floor, tear-streaked, barefoot in her thin nightdress – with detached assessment. Like examining an object that had been slightly damaged in transit.
He didn’t enter. He simply stood there, a dark silhouette against the brighter light of the main room. The faint red mark on his cheekbone where she’d struck him was still visible. It made him look more dangerous, not less.
"Well, Miss Okoro," his deep voice cut through the silence, smooth and chillingly calm. "Have you reconsidered the cost of defiance?" He didn't sound angry. He sounded... curious.
Olivia pushed herself fully upright, forcing her trembling legs to lock. She met his gaze, refusing to flinch. "Let me go," she said, her voice hoarse but clear. "My brother’s debt isn’t mine. Taking me is... is madness!"
"Madness?" Malik’s lips twitched, almost a smile, but it never reached his eyes. He took one step into the room. Just one. It felt like an invasion. "It’s business, Olivia. May I call you Olivia?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Your brother signed contracts. He understood the terms. He failed. Spectacularly. And now," he gestured vaguely around the luxurious cell, "you ensure his cooperation. Simple leverage."
"Leverage?" Olivia spat the word. "You think keeping me locked up in this... this gold-plated cage will make Emeka magically find fifty million Naira? He doesn’t have it! That’s why he ran!" Her voice rose, echoing slightly in the bare room. "You’ve got the wrong person!"
Malik tilted his head, studying her. The intensity in his gaze sharpened. "On the contrary," he murmured, taking another slow step closer. The scent of sandalwood and something clean, sharp, like winter air, filled the space between them. "You seem precisely the right person. Emeka Okoro might be a gambler and a fool, but he loves his sister. That much, our sources assure us, is true." He stopped, less than an arm's length away now. Olivia had to tilt her head back to hold his gaze. His height, his stillness, the sheer power radiating from him was overwhelming. "He will find the money, Olivia. Or he will watch you pay the price."
The threat hung in the air, colder than the floor beneath her feet. "What price?" Olivia whispered, the defiance momentarily drowned by icy dread. "What are you going to do to me?"
Malik didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered on her face, tracing the tracks of her tears, the tight set of her jaw, the fire still burning in her eyes despite the fear. That flicker of something unreadable crossed his features again – a brief crack in the ice. Surprise? Intrigue? It vanished as quickly as it appeared.
"That," he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr, "depends entirely on Emeka. And," his eyes locked onto hers with unnerving focus, "on you." He let the words sink in. "Defiance has consequences, Olivia. Slapping me?" He raised a hand, not threateningly, but slowly, deliberately, tracing the air near the faint mark on his own cheekbone. "That was... unwise. It suggests you haven’t yet grasped the reality of your situation." He lowered his hand, his expression hardening back into impassive stone. "You are not a guest. You are an asset. A valuable one, currently looking slightly... distressed."
He took a final step, closing the small distance. Olivia flinched, bracing herself, but he merely reached past her. His arm brushed against her shoulder – a brief, shocking contact that felt like an electric jolt through the thin fabric of her nightdress. He pressed something on the wall beside the door. A panel slid open silently, revealing a small compartment.
Inside were two things: a simple white cotton dress, neatly folded, and a covered tray. The smell of warm, spiced jollof rice and fried plantain drifted out, incongruously normal and tempting.
"Change," Malik ordered, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth. "Eat. You’ll need your strength." He withdrew his hand, letting the panel slide shut. He looked down at her, his gaze sweeping over her disheveled state one last time. "Forty-seven hours remain, Olivia. Use them wisely. Consider the cost of further... demonstrations."
He turned without another word and walked towards the door. Just before he reached it, he paused, half-turning back. His profile was sharp against the light, the scar a pale line down his cheek. "And Olivia?" His voice was quiet, almost conversational, but it carried a weight that froze her blood. "The glass is three inches thick. Bulletproof. Soundproof. Don’t waste your energy screaming. No one out there," he nodded towards the glittering, distant cityscape, "can hear you. No one out there cares."
He stepped through the doorway. The metal panel slid shut behind him with a soft, final hiss and the quiet click of the lock engaging.
Olivia stood frozen, staring at the blank metal door. The smell of the food made her stomach clench with a confusing mix of hunger and nausea. The clean dress mocked her. His words echoed: "An asset... distressed... Consider the cost... No one out there cares."
The cold luxury of the room pressed in, more suffocating than the sack. She wasn't just trapped. She was erased. Isolated. A piece in Malik Adebayo's terrifying game. And the cost of defiance? He hadn't spelled it out, but the threat vibrated in the air he left behind.
Her gaze drifted to the vast window. Lagos glittered, alive and indifferent. No one out there cares. The words were a knife twisting in her gut. Despair threatened to pull her under.
Then, she remembered the sting of her palm connecting with his cheek. The brief, almost imperceptible flicker in his cold eyes. He hadn't expected that. He hadn't expected her.
A spark ignited in the icy pit of her fear. He thinks I'm broken. Distressed. She looked down at the compartment holding the dress and food. His orders. Change. Eat. Be a good little asset.
Olivia Okoro took a deep, shuddering breath. She uncurled her fists. Slowly, deliberately, she walked past the compartment without opening it. She ignored the clean dress, the warm food. Instead, she walked right up to the massive, unbreakable window. She placed her palms flat against the icy, thick glass. The city lights blurred through the sudden heat of fresh, furious tears, but her back straightened.
No one out there cares? Fine.
He wants a distressed asset? He wouldn't get one.
She stared down at the indifferent city, her reflection a pale ghost superimposed on the glittering sprawl. A plan, desperate and fragile, began to form in the wreckage of her panic. Not screaming. Not begging. Something else. Something he wouldn't expect.
Malik Adebayo thought he held all the cards. Olivia Okoro was starting to learn the rules of his game. And the first rule? **Never let them see you break
She turned her back on the impossible view and walked towards the sleek black chair. She didn't sit. She stood beside it, tall, looking directly at the blank metal door, as if he could still see her.
Forty-seven hours. He wanted strength? She’d show him strength. He wanted defiance? He hadn’t seen anything yet.
The gilded cage felt just a fraction less cold. The game was far from over.
TO BE CONTINUED...

You'll long for this.
You’ll ache for her at 3 a.m., waking from a nightmare, reaching for her—but she’s not there.
You’ll ache for the absence of those unexpected “I love you” texts that used to light up your day.
You’ll ache for her when your day has gone south, and there’s no one who listens the way she did—fully, patiently, and with love.
You’ll ache when you see her laughing with friends, knowing you’re no longer the reason behind her smile.
You’ll ache on cold nights, with only tangled sheets and a glowing phone screen to keep you company.
You’ll ache to cry in her arms again—but she’ll walk right past you, eyes forward, heart no longer yours.
You’ll ache watching her dance, remembering all the times she asked you to join her—and you didn’t.
You’ll ache when you realize how often you still talk about her, while she no longer speaks your name.
You’ll ache when even alcohol can’t blur the image of her smiling in the moonlight.
You’ll ache when your messages go unread, your calls unanswered.
You’ll ache when you understand—too late—that no one ever cared for you the way she did.
You’ll reach for her hand, but it won’t be there.
You’ll miss the goofy selfies, the random videos, the sweet “just thinking about you” moments.
You’ll ache when it’s late, and you’re lying alone, with no one to talk to.
You’ll ache for her little laugh—the one that used to brighten your darkest hours.
You’ll ache for everything.
And by the time you realize what you had—and what you lost—it’ll be too late.
She’ll be in someone else’s arms, giving them the love she once gave you.
She’ll be sharing laughs, secrets, memories… building a life you once had the chance to build with her.
That’s when it will hit you the hardest:
That extraordinary, once-in-a-lifetime woman with the heart of gold?
She’s no longer yours.
So cherish her while you still can—because life doesn’t often give you a second chance with a good woman.

HER PAST WILL BECOME YOUR PROBLEM

Listen up, son.

The world loves lying to men like you.
Telling you her past doesn’t matter.
That love will erase the bodies, the heartbreaks, the reckless years.

It won’t.

Her past won’t disappear.
It’ll just move in with you.

Let’s break it down:

1️⃣ EVERY HEARTBREAK SHE BURIED, YOU’LL INHERIT
The men she let in, the lies she told herself, the pieces of her she lost — all of it comes to your doorstep disguised as “love.”

2️⃣ A WOMAN WITH TEN BODIES CARRIES TEN LESSONS, TEN WOUNDS, TEN HABITS
You won’t see them — but you’ll feel them.
In her walls.
In her coldness.
In her inability to trust you even when you’ve done nothing wrong.

3️⃣ “EXPERIENCE” DOESN’T MEAN WISDOM
If all she’s learned is seduction, rejection, and trauma, you’re not getting a wife — you’re joining a performance.
And guess who’s footing the bill?
You.

4️⃣ NUMBNESS IS NOT STRENGTH
If she laughs about chaos, mocks broken homes, and treats pain like entertainment — she’s not strong.
She’s numb.
And numb people don’t love.
They control.

5️⃣ NEVER RAISE ANOTHER MAN’S CHILD
A child may be innocent, but the decision was hers.
That isn’t your burden.
You build your own legacy.
Your own firsts.
Your own family line.
Without apology.

6️⃣ LOVE DOESN’T ERASE CONSEQUENCES
No matter how soft she sounds.
How beautiful she looks.
How sweet her promises.

If her past is a wildfire — don’t marry into ashes.

FINAL WORD:
Son, choose peace over chaos.
Legacy over lust.
Truth over pity.
You deserve your own firsts.
A wife of your youth.
Children with your name.
A home, not a museum of old heartbreaks.

Stand tall in that.
Own it.

Because real men build futures — they don’t rescue broken stories.

➥𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐤𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐨 𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐰𝐞𝐲𝐚 𝐰𝐚𝐌𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐢 𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐲𝐚𝐰𝐨 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐳𝐯𝐚𝐫𝐨❤‍🩹

The secret of health for both mind and body is not to mourn for the past, not to worry about the future, or not to anticipate troubles, but to live in the present moment wisely and earnestly.

Attitude is more important than the past, than education, than money, than circumstances, than what people do or say. It is more important than appearance, giftedness, or skill.

A mind that has forgotten the past and the future, that is awake to the now, to the present, expresses the highest concentration of intelligence. It is alert, it is watchful, it is inspired.