LOVE AND BULLET
PART 3
The gunshot still rang in Ava’s ears.
Silence.
Then—chaos.
The club erupted into screams as people stampeded toward the exits. Glass shattered. Chairs overturned. The smell of gunpowder burned Ava’s nose.
But she didn’t move.
Neither did Obinna.
His dark eyes locked onto hers, unblinking, as his men trained their weapons on her. The pistol in her hand suddenly felt like a death sentence.
******. Reckless. Deadly.
She had broken her cover in the worst way possible.
"Drop it," Obinna said, his voice terrifyingly calm.
Ava hesitated. If she surrendered, she was dead. If she fought, she was dead.
Her fingers twitched around the grip.
Obinna tilted his head slightly. "Last chance, Lola."
The way he said her fake name—like it was a joke—sent ice through her veins.
Slowly, Ava lowered the gun to the floor and kicked it toward him.
Obinna didn’t pick it up. He just stared at her, his expression unreadable. Then, without breaking eye contact, he jerked his chin at his men.
"Bring her"
The ride to Obinna’s compound was silent.
Ava sat sandwiched between two armed guards in the back of a black SUV, her wrists bound with rough rope. Outside, the Lagos night blurred past—neon signs, crowded streets, then nothing but darkness as they left the city behind.
Her mind raced.
Had NDLEA been notified? Was backup coming?
Doubt gnawed at her. No one knew where she was. No one was coming.
The SUV finally rolled to a stop in front of a massive gated mansion. Floodlights cut through the night, illuminating armed men pacing the perimeter.
Ava’s stomach twisted.
She was in the Lion’s den now.
Obinna’s study was all dark wood and cold luxury.
Ava was shoved into a chair, the ropes cutting into her skin. Obinna stood by the window, his back to her, swirling a glass of amber liquid.
"Who are you?" he finally asked.
Ava lifted her chin. "You already know my name."
Obinna turned, his eyes glinting like a predator’s in the dim light. "No. I know the name you gave me. Now I want the truth."
He moved closer, his expensive cologne wrapping around her. "Because the Lola I investigated doesn’t know how to shoot like a trained killer."
Ava’s pulse hammered.
Obinna crouched in front of her, so close she could see the faint scar above his eyebrow. "So I’ll ask again. Who. Are. You?"
Ava swallowed hard.
Then—
She headbutted him.
Obinna staggered back, blood trickling from his nose. His men surged forward, but he held up a hand, laughing darkly as he wiped his face.
"Ah! This one has fire!"
He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. "I like fire. But I also know how to put it out."
Ava spat in his face.
Obinna’s grip tightened. Then, to her shock, he smiled.
"We’re going to have fun, you and I."
TO BE CONTINUED...

LISTEN UP, MEN — MASTURBATI0N IS DESTROYING YOU AND YOU DON’T EVEN SEE IT.

Read before you react

They told you it’s normal.
They told you it’s harmless.
They even told you it’s healthy.

Let me tell you what they won’t: Masturbation is silently wrecking your mind, your confidence, and your future.
Those promoting it aren’t helping you — they’re grooming you for failure.
Because tomorrow when your mind’s foggy, your energy’s gone, your confidence dead, and your body wrecked — they’ll sell you the cure.

The truth? Prevention is power.

Brutal Thread:

1️⃣ It’s a silent addiction.
You tell yourself you can quit anytime — but it’s already controlling you.

2️⃣ It makes you weak.
A man addicted to cheap pleasure loses discipline. And without discipline, you’ll fail at everything that matters.

3️⃣ It destroys your confidence.
After every session, you feel guilty. Ashamed. Like a man who abandoned his greatness for a temporary high.

4️⃣ It kills your energy.
Your drive, your focus, your hunger — wiped out. You feel lazy, tired, uninspired.

5️⃣ It turns you socially awkward.
Too much self-pleasure makes you anxious in real-life conversations. You start craving fantasy over authentic human connection.

6️⃣ It rewires your brain.
Your mind gets addicted to instant pleasure, making it impossible to chase long-term goals.

7️⃣ It ruins real relationships.
You get so used to fake digital highs; you lose interest in real intimacy and meaningful connection.

8️⃣ It breeds extreme cravings.
What started as “once in a while” becomes daily slavery. And soon, normal content isn’t enough — you chase darker, more damaging material.

9️⃣ It wastes your time.
Countless hours gone. No value added. No progress made. Just lost potential.

It crushes your masculinity.
A man who trades his life force for pixels and lotion loses his natural dominance, confidence, and warrior spirit.

1️⃣1️⃣ It makes you settle.
A man satisfied with fake pleasure is a man too numb to chase real purpose.

FINAL WARNING:
If you don’t kill the habit, it will kill your potential. The most dangerous man isn’t broke — it’s the one enslaved by his own lust.

Discipline is the gatekeeper of destiny.
No man addicted to self-pleasure will build an empire or command respect.

Your future’s not in your hands — it’s in your discipline.

When people die, we say: “Do not speak ill of the dead.”

But today, I ask one question: what of the living the dead ruined?

What of the lives they shattered?

The voices they silenced?

The dreams they wasted?

What if the dead ruled with cruelty and departed, leaving a trail of victims too damaged to ever recover?

What if their legacy is the reason some died untimely, violently, and unnecessarily in the first place?

Muhammadu Buhari is gone.

And once again, a bleeding nation is being asked to perform its most dangerous ritual: FORGET!

But I remember.

I remember citizens waving flags and singing the anthem
gunned down at Lekki Tollgate by soldiers, under his government that saw a demand for dignity as defiance.

The streetlights went off.
The cameras looked away.
The bullets rained down mercilessly on unarmed citizens!

He was Commander-in-Chief!

Families are still grieving. Many are still missing.

His government denied their murder.

They made us question the evidence of our own eyes.

They spat on our memory and dared us to forget.

I remember the Shi’ites
fathers, sons, women, children
dragged through dust, crushed under boots,
for daring to march and pray differently.

I remember the violent burial of justice
when DSS agents invaded judges’ homes at midnight, Gestapo-style,
without warrants, without shame, without consequence.
Till date, no justification.
And the judiciary never stood the same again.

I remember the hundreds of “repentant” Boko Haram terrorists he released back into society
with fanfare, jollof rice, sewing machines, starter packs, and smiles
while widows of slain soldiers clutched folded flags and death certificates.
While children from burnt villages grew up without homes,
without fathers,
without mothers,
without answers.

I remember the grievous collapse of the economy
the deepest plunge into abyss this nation had witnessed in recent history
while Buhari repeatedly abandoned the country, disappearing for weeks without remorse, without explanation.

As inflation soared, the Naira crumbled into disgrace, and food prices became horror stories,
he remained absent.

Absent while businesses folded.

Absent while the World Poverty Clock declared Nigeria the Poverty Capital of the World.

He watched from a distance, aloof, detached, unmoved
and whenever he spoke, it was either denial or pure condescension.

No strategy.

No empathy.

No shame.

I remember the wickedness of his final days in office
a Naira redesign wrapped in the disguise of reform,
announced without foresight,
without care for the poor, the sick, the elderly, or the rural.

People died not for lack of medicine,
but because they couldn’t use or access their money to purchase it.

Aged parents wept bitterly in the streets, under the hot sun,
for days that turned into weeks, because their own money was locked away.

And Buhari, the Chief Architect of that doomsday policy
the man under whose watch lives wasted like scraps of paper
was the single biggest beneficiary of public goodwill in our democratic history!

Yet they say, “Do not speak ill of the dead.”

Why?

Because he is now under the earth?

Was he not godlike in power while we suffered under his rule?

Since when did death become a bleach that wipes away how people lived?

Since when did dying canonize men who had no empathy for the living?

He died in London
not in Zaria, not in Enugu, not in Jos
but in a foreign hospital most Nigerians cannot even dream of, let alone afford.

And his media aide, Femi Adesina, looked Nigerians dead in the face and said,
"Buhari could have long died if he used Nigerian hospitals...due to lack of medical competence..."

The sheer cruelty of the Nigerian ruling class in full glare!

So, who should use Nigerian hospitals?

Who should suffer the lack of "medical competence"?

The aggrieved masses, from whom you now demand silence or empathy for the dead?

The one who ruled for 8 YEARS over bad hospitals, empty pharmacies, and unpaid doctors?

And when his time came, he fled, as usual, the very system he created.

He ran from his own legacy.

How many Nigerians can run from bad governance?
How many of you reading this can afford London clinics?

But again, they say: “Do not speak ill of the dead.”

Do not remember your pain.
Do not remember your trauma.
Do not remember the loved ones you buried.
Do not remember the blood that dried on our streets.
Do not remember your truth.

But I do remember.
And I will not be silent.

He governed like a ghost
distant, cold, silent
except when denying responsibility.

He left a nation poorer, angrier, and more broken than he met it.
He stole our time.
He wasted our growth.
He stifled our voice.

And now, they want to steal our memory too?

Nigeria is a tragedy dressed in resilience.

We are too forgiving.
Too adaptive.
Too FORGETFUL.

We hug trauma like tradition.

We laugh in hunger...in pain!

We move on too fast, too far, before our wounds even scab.

We’ve normalized cuddling and being ruled by people who do not love us.

Leaders who weaponize our silence.

Who live lavishly off our forgetfulness.

Who take and take and take
because they know:
When they die, we’ll still say “rest in peace.”
We’ll still honor their ignoble memory and whisper: “Don’t speak ill of the dead.”

And so we never name shame.

We never call wickedness exactly what it is.

We never hang failure around the necks of those who earned it.

And that is why it never ends.

That is why they never stop taking us for granted.

Let Buhari’s name NEVER be uttered with reverence.

Let his memory haunt the halls of power.

Let his people carry the burden of the name that emptied a nation.

Let every living and future president, governor, senator, judge, and minister know:

If you ruin lives, you will not be remembered in peace.

We will not lie for you.

We will not absolve you.

We will not let death whitewash your legacy.

We will not silence our truth for the comfort of your memory.

---
This post is about us.

About Nigeria.

And how we keep burying our trauma under the cloak of politeness.

We say: “Let the dead rest.”

But did the dead let us rest?

We say: "Respect the dead."

But did the dead respect the living?

We must stop confusing cowardice for civility.
We must stop mistaking silence for grace.
We must be comfortable with painful truth, demanding accountability, and having tough conversations!

We must make it clear:

To die in disgrace must be a warning to the living.

A nation that does not shame the wicked will keep giving birth to monsters.

I want a country
where our children have a future they can trust.

Where they look up to their leaders and not just up at airplanes far in the sky.

Where our brightest minds don’t flee to be second-class citizens elsewhere.

Where hospitals heal, not kill.

Where doctors and health personnel are well paid
and not told to go learn tailoring, like Buhari's own Health Minister once said,
without fear of any rebuke from his boss, the President!

Where leaders are true stewards, not shameless, heartless predators.

And if that future must begin with truth,
then let it begin here.

Buhari failed this country.
Spectacularly.
Shamelessly.
Fatally.

He squandered hope and enormous goodwill, the kind never seen before.

That is his legacy, and I will not pretend otherwise.

Because when death becomes a sweet deodorant for wickedness,
we teach the living that legacies don’t matter
and that is how nations die long before their people do.

And to those of you who say, “He’s gone now. Let’s move on. Let’s focus on our own legacy…”

I say: we cannot build clean legacies atop the graves of unaccounted wickedness.

To move forward without reckoning is not wisdom; it is willful amnesia. It is dangerous, faux morality!

The dead may be gone, yes. But their choices still live with us.

Their impact outlives their breath.

And the way we remember them tells the living what history will one day say of them too.

“Do not speak ill of the dead?”

Then, let the dead live better.

Let them lead with conscience,

remembering the day they'll take their final breath.

Enough of political correctness that earns us nothing.

Enough of false civility that brings us more chains and despair.

Enough of this culture of respectability we have pushed too far into sheer docility.

Let the dead rest, if they so deserve.

But let the truth never sleep.

My name is Ayo Atitebi, and I am my father's child!
Copied.

It will be Beautiful

Keep working!
Keep walking!!
Don't stop!!!
It will be Beautiful

Work In Progress
#WIP.

Swipe Right on My Vibe
Hey world—caught me posting late,
Serving sass with a side of fate.
Love ain't lost in midnight scrolls,
It's dancing memes and comment goals.
“U up?”—nah, I craft my rhyme,
Heart emojis dropped in perfect time.
Lips pout, stars wink, screens glow—
Romance? Baby, I’m the whole show.
Filter? Optional. Drama? Lite.
Cupid likes my Wi-Fi, right?
So here's my heart, in 4K mode,
Streaming affection down your road.

Swipe Right on My Vibe
Hey world—caught me posting late,
Serving sass with a side of fate.
Love ain't lost in midnight scrolls,
It's dancing memes and comment goals.

“U up?”—nah, I craft my rhyme,
Heart emojis dropped in perfect time.
Lips pout, stars wink, screens glow—
Romance? Baby, I’m the whole show.

Filter? Optional. Drama? Lite.
Cupid likes my Wi-Fi, right?
So here's my heart, in 4K mode,
Streaming affection down your road.

#Africanandnature

for you reading this the lord is wiping away your tears and lifting the garment of shame off your life and family
According to Joel 2.26. my people shall NEVER be ashamed I declare every label the enemy placed on you is removed
EVERY secret pain and public embarrassment turns into a testimony.you will laugh again rejoice again and dance again.

You wiped my lonely tears. Carried away my fearful thoughts and healed my sad heart. Thanks for being in my life.

TOMORROW IS OUR FIRST MERCY-WEDNESDAY AFTER THE FAST.
WE KNOW THAT OUR EFFORTS MAY FAIL,
BUT GOD'S MERCY NEVER EVER FAILS

OH LORD, SHOW ME MERCY.
GOD OF WONDERS, GOD OF ANSWERS, GOD OF GLORY. (DAY3)

So then it is not of him that willeth, nor of him that runneth, BUT OF GOD THAT SHEWETH MERCY. (Romans.9:16)

Tomorrow on NSPPD FIRE ALTAR at 7am Nigerian time we cry out to EL-ROI for mercy. Wonders by Mercy, Answers by Mercy and Glory by Mercy! Mercy never fails.

PREPARE FOR ~♡
♡~MERCY For Answers
♡~MERCY For Manifestation
♡~MERCY For Divine Rememberance
♡~MERCY To Wipe Away Bitter Tears
♡~MERCY For An Outpouring
♡~MERCY For Higher Ground
♡~MERCY For Acceleration & Speed
♡~MERCY For All-round Turnaround

Bring Your Mantle To Wipe Away Bitter Tears
Come along with every negative report to the altar of MERCY.
Write Again "Closed Chapters" list: Everything that must never occur again
Also Write An "Open Chapters" list: Everything that must begin to happen.
Invite at least 3 new persons to join you LIVE
Watch LIVE please, atmospheres aren't easily recreated.

WHAT GOD CANNOT DO DOES NOT EXIST.

Declare With Me: ABBA, PLEASE SHOW ME MERCY. DO FOR ME WHAT ONLY YOU CAN DO.

#NSPPD
#7amfireprayers

" Don't tell me you are suspecting me ? Do you think I took your money? " Olamma asked with a teary voice.

" Who is calling you on phone by this time of the night? Pick up the phone now " Femi said in an angry tone ignoring the question Olamma had asked.

Olamma's hand was shaking in fear. She picked up the call and put it on speaker.

" Hello Ola " a female voice said over the phone.

" Hello, Mirable "

" Babe, how far nah " the female voice asked.

All the anger boiling within Femi died down. He felt confused and didn't even know what to think anymore.

" Let me talk to you later, Mimi " Olamma said and hung up the call. She started shedding tears. Femi tried to touch her and she asked him to leave her alone. Femi looked at Olamma for a while and then walked out of her room.

Olamma wiped her tears immediately. She was scared that Femi had caught her. But her friend had come to the rescue. She had told Mirable that she was going to gist her that night but had forgotten to call her. As Olamma was still breathing her air of freedom, her phone beeped. It was a message from Fred.

He told her he didn't call back because he felt her husband was around which made her hang up abruptly.

Olamma was so happy with Fred for being so smart. She thanked him and promised to see him the next day to give him exactly what he wanted the way he wanted it.

*

Femi sat on his bed thinking of what he was going to do next. If Olamma didn't take the money as he had suspected earlier, does it mean that Odera changed overnight and stole his money?. The more Femi thought about it, the more he got confused. He picked his phone and tried Odera's number and it was still switched off.

The next morning, Femi woke up early. He made up his mind to look for his wife and know why she left with his money. He had dressed up and was about to leave the house when Olamma stopped him.

" Babe, I know you are angry at Odera for t