𝗖𝘆𝗻𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗮 𝗠𝗼𝗿𝗴𝗮𝗻 "DESTROYED" Her Own Career With Her Bad Habits Not 𝗝𝘂𝗱𝗲

One of the most used phrase on social media is that media never forgets but sadly, it's as if the media suffers Amnesia Sometimes.

The Jude Okoye Vrs Cynthia Morgan Fall out has exposed Alot and we would take our time to underlist some of these lapses.

Yes, Cynthia Morgan was signed to Northside inc and yes they fell out. This happened as far back as 2016. Now, we are in 2025 -- approximately nine years after. Why is no one talking about her life and career after she left Her former Record Label Boss Jude Okoye?

On the 25th May 2020, we woke up to the news of This same Cynthia Morgan's New manager Joy Tongo ripping her apart on social media. Yes you read right. Cynthia Morgan employed the services of Joy Tongo to manage her after her breakout from Northside inc. Sadly, her bad habits dragged out there too.

Tongo accused this same Cynthia Morgan of owing her $30,000 USD. In this same social media, Joy Tongo plainly told Cynthia Morgan that her downfall was caused by her pride & nasty attitude not Jude.

Jude saw the beyond her Talent and Banked On Her. He gave Cynthia Morgan Life. He picked her up and RePackaged her to match international standard.

When Cynthia Morgan Dropped her First Song Under the Label, No one believed she was a Nigerian . Everybody thought she was Jamaican yet again, Her Sound and the marketing strategy Jude used on her, worked for her so well that the world embraced her --When the money started rolling in, She got Greedy, Left and Fell Off like a Mango fruit falling from a very high tree . Tell me why she wouldn't break her own back?

The Cynthia Morgan of 2015, 2016, was never a saint. Her own controversies were always on another level. The first picture in this post was one of the most criticised pictures in the music industry. She was a heavy smoker and She never gave a damn of where or what Anybody says. In many occasions she had been accused of doing other higher substances. Many of her fans believe it was actually Dr"g that crippled her finances if not, tell me where she kept all the money she made after she left Jude?

Here is a photo of her Kissing Wizkid's then Manager, Bank W. Here again with Burna. Tell me, What Would it cost Burna Boy to reach out to her ? Even if Odogwu decide not to give her a verse, One picture with ODG is enough to revive her already dead career but no. Obviously, They already know things we do not know that is why everyone is trying hard to avoid her.

Until she is ready to tell the world what happened to all the money she made after she Left Jude Okoye's Record Label, She not ready for the truth.

Moral Lesson: Cynthia Morgan Has Tried Others And Found Out Jude was the best but Pride wouldn't let her admit it

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BREAKING: Trump Asks Liberian President, “Where’d You Learn to Speak Such Good English?”

President of Liberia: “Uhh… from being born in a country where English is the official language?”

Trump: “Wow. That’s incredible. Do they have English classes there or something?”

President of Liberia: But sir… Liberia was founded by Americans in 1822 and even named after U.S President James Monroe.

Trump: Oh my bad! You speak better English than some of your colleagues from Chicago States University!

#Afrocania

Introducing Psquare, the legendary pioneers of Afrobeat! They transformed the music scene and paved the way for others. Their legacy will forever be remembered. 🫡

Grammy-nominated Afrobeat musician, Made Kuti, says he is skeptical about continuing with his family’s legacy of activism because, despite their sacrifices, meaningful change remains elusive and he now believes only a collective national effort, not the toil of one family or Individual can move Nigeria forward.

Speaking on a recent episode of the ‘Breakdown’ podcast, Kuti pointed to the sacrifices of his great-grandmother, Funmilayo Ransome-Kuti, who, he recalled, was thrown from a storey building for her activism, as well as the lifelong struggles of his grandfather, Fela Kuti, his father, Femi Kuti, and uncle, Seun Kuti and expressed scepticism about individual efforts to bring about meaningful change in Nigeria.

Click the link in the comments to watch the video.

#MadeKuti
#FelaAnikulapoKuti
#FemiKuti
#FumilayoRansomKuti

Fela Kuti and his wife, Remilekun (Remi) Taylor, shared a love story that began long before the spotlight of fame and the roar of political resistance. In the early 1960s, the two young lovers were far from the bustling streets of Lagos or the pulsating energy of the Shrine—Fela was a music student at the Trinity College of Music in London, and Remi, a British-born Nigerian woman, was part of his new world abroad.
They met in the vibrant cultural mix of post-war London, where African students, British jazz, and global ideas intermingled freely. Drawn together by shared heritage and a growing affection, they got married in 1960—the same year Nigeria gained independence. Their union marked the beginning of a personal journey that would produce not only a family but also the early emotional foundations of Fela’s legendary career.
Remilekun Taylor became Fela’s first wife and the mother of his first three children: Yeni, who would later become a renowned dancer and cultural curator; Femi, who would inherit and expand his father’s Afrobeat legacy; and Sola, their only daughter, who sadly passed away in 1997. During their early years together in London, Remi stood beside Fela as he experimented with sound, identity, and direction—far from the rebel icon he would later become.
Photographs from the 1960s capture them in quiet, elegant moments: a young couple full of promise, navigating life, music, and love in a foreign land. At that time, Fela was still Olufela Olusegun Oludotun Ransome-Kuti—a disciplined musician and dreamer—before he dropped the colonial “Ransome” and embraced “Anikulapo,” meaning “he who carries death in his pouch.”
Though their marriage eventually ended as Fela’s life took a more radical, unconventional turn—including his later controversial marriage to 27 women in 1978—Remilekun’s role in his life remains deeply significant. She was part of the quieter, more grounded chapter of Fela’s story—the years of building, of beginnings, of becoming.
In the grand narrative of Fela Kuti—the revolutionary, the cultural warrior, the Afrobeat pioneer—Remi stands as the woman who loved him first, the mother of his first children, and a witness to his transformation from a promising young musician to a global icon.

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FIFTY MILLION NIGHTS
PART 1
One heartbeat, Olivia Okoro was pressed against the cool window of her small Lagos apartment, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The humid night air, thick with the smells of frying plantains, diesel fumes, and distant Afrobeat, felt suffocating. Her brother Emeka’s terrified voice still screamed inside her head: "Livy! They’re coming! The Syndicate… hide! Don’t open the door! Fifty million… it’s bad… so bad!" Then silence. A silence colder than death.
The next heartbeat, the world shattered. Not a knock. A deafening CRUNCH-BOOM! Wood splintered like matchsticks. The flimsy lock tore free, clattering across the cheap tile floor. The door flew inward, banging against the wall so hard the framed photo of their parents crashed down.
Olivia gasped, stumbling back. Her bare feet slipped on the smooth tiles. Two enormous shapes filled the broken doorway, blocking out the dim yellow light from the hallway. They weren’t just big; they were walls of darkness dressed in expensive, perfectly fitted black suits. No faces, just shadows under sharp brims. They moved with a terrifying silence, like predators gliding into her tiny living room. Their eyes, flat and empty, scanned the space – her worn sofa, the small kitchenette, her – with chilling efficiency.
Panic, sharp and icy, shot through her veins. "Get out!" Her voice came out a thin shriek. "Who are you? GET OUT!"
She scrambled backwards, knocking over a small stool. It clattered uselessly. The man closer to her moved. He didn’t run; he simply flowed forward, impossibly fast for his size. A huge, calloused hand clamped over her mouth and nose, crushing her lips against her teeth. The smell hit her – stale cigarette smoke, cheap cologne, and underneath, something metallic and sharp, like old blood. It choked her. Her scream died in her throat, a muffled whimper.
The second man produced something from his jacket. Not a gun. A thick, rough-woven sack, dark as midnight. Olivia’s eyes widened in pure terror. No. No, no, no! She thrashed wildly, kicking out with all her strength. Her bare heel connected hard with the shin of the man holding her. It felt like kicking solid concrete. He didn’t even grunt. His grip tightened, lifting her completely off the ground as easily as if she were a bag of laundry. Her legs flailed uselessly in the air. Her thin nightdress twisted around her thighs.
The rough fabric of the sack descended. Scratchy, suffocating darkness swallowed her whole. The world vanished – her home, the faint city glow, the terrifying men. Only the crushing hand over her mouth and the terrifying blackness remained. She couldn't breathe! Panic clawed at her chest. She sucked in frantic breaths through her nose, the rough sack fibers tickling her nostrils. Tears, hot and stinging, welled instantly, soaking into the scratchy fabric pressed against her cheeks.
"Quiet." The voice came from the ruined doorway. Not loud. Not angry. Worse. It was a deep, resonant rumble, smooth as expensive whiskey but cold as the grave. It held absolute, unquestionable command. Olivia froze mid-struggle, paralyzed by the sheer authority in that single word. She could picture him – another shadow, taller, broader, standing framed in the broken entrance, watching. The real monster.
She felt herself being carried, her body limp with shock now, dangling over the man's shoulder like a sack of yams. Her bare toes brushed the splintered wood of her doorframe as they stepped out. The humid night air hit the sack, making it cling damply to her face. She heard the heavy, final thud as what remained of her front door was pulled shut behind them. The familiar sounds of Lagos at night – the blaring horns, the rhythmic music from a nearby bar, the shouts of late-night vendors – suddenly seemed miles away, sounds from another life. Her world was darkness, the hard shoulder digging into her stomach, the smell of the man carrying her, and the terrifying, silent presence of the one who had spoken.
She was dumped, not gently, onto smooth, cool leather. A car door slammed with a heavy, expensive thunk. The engine purred to life, a deep, powerful growl that vibrated through the seat beneath her. They moved off smoothly, accelerating. Trapped inside the scratchy darkness, Olivia focused desperately on the sounds. The steady hum of the engine. The occasional angry blare of a horn they ignored. The low murmur of the radio – someone crooning a sad Highlife love song. The grotesque normalcy of it made fresh tears spill. Emeka. You ******, ****** fool! What did you do? Fifty million Naira. An impossible fortune. A death sentence owed to the most feared criminal network in Nigeria: the Aro Confederacy. And they hadn't taken Emeka. They’d taken her.
The car drove. Time stretched and warped inside the suffocating sack. Left turn. Right. A long stretch on a smoother road. A stop at traffic lights? She couldn’t tell. The disorientation was complete. Her arms were pinned awkwardly, her neck aching. The rough fabric scraped her skin raw.
Finally, the car slowed. It turned sharply, then descended. The engine note echoed differently. The air grew noticeably cooler, damper. Concrete dust? They were underground. The powerful engine cut off. Silence, heavy and expectant. Car doors opened. Hands grabbed her again, hauling her out. Her bare feet landed on cold, smooth concrete. Goosebumps prickled her arms and legs.
She was marched forward, each step forced. The grip on her upper arms was like steel bands. Her captors walked with silent, purposeful strides. A heavy door hissed open – automatic? More walking. The sound of their footsteps changed. Sharp clicks now, echoing slightly. Marble? Polished stone? The air changed too. Sterile. Like a hospital, but underneath… something else. Cold. Powerful. Expensive. Like money and fear had a smell.
They stopped. Olivia braced herself, trembling violently inside her scratchy prison. A hand grabbed the top of the sack. With a rough yank, it was pulled off her head.
Olivia gasped, sucking in deep, ragged breaths of the cool, sterile air. She blinked, blinded by the sudden, harsh glare of bright recessed lights. Squinting, her vision swam, then cleared.
She stood in the center of a room so vast and empty it felt like a dream. Or a nightmare. The floor was gleaming black stone, reflecting the lights like dark water. One entire wall was glass – floor-to-ceiling windows revealing a dizzying, terrifying view. Far, far below, the sprawling city of Lagos glittered like a million fallen stars, tiny cars moving like glowing ants. It was beautiful and utterly isolating. The furniture was sparse, low, and looked like sculpted metal and cold, black leather. No color. No warmth. Just sharp angles and hard surfaces. It screamed of unimaginable wealth and absolute control. A gilded cage at the top of the world.
Before she could fully take it in, a figure moved near the vast window. He had been standing with his back to her, a tall, broad-shouldered silhouette against the glittering cityscape. He turned slowly, deliberately, like a king surveying his domain.
Olivia’s breath caught in her throat. This was the voice from the doorway. The monster.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Afrobeats queen Tiwa Savage has opened up about her early days in music, revealing a surprising transformation from tomboy to sex symbol — all thanks to her ex-husband and former manager, Tunji “Teebillz” Balogun. Eyes Of Lagos reports,

Speaking on the Afrobeats Intelligence podcast with Joey Akan, Tiwa shared how her fashion and public image dramatically changed when she returned to Nigeria to launch her singing career.