• 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.
    0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 112 Views 0 Vista previa
  • ```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 Commentarios 0 Acciones 133 Views 0 Vista previa
  • ```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 Commentarios 0 Acciones 126 Views 0 Vista previa
  • ```The more you act, the less you doubt. Every action you take erodes uncertainty, building confidence in your abilities.
    Doubt thrives when you're inactive; your mind invents fears. But executing provides concrete proof of your capabilities. Each small success solidifies your self-assurance.
    This applies to everything: starting a project makes it less daunting. Practicing a skill reduces questions about mastering it. Stepping outside your comfort zone lessens self-doubt. Action is doubt's most potent antidote. Consistent execution replaces apprehension with conviction, clarifying your path to achievement.```
    ```The more you act, the less you doubt. Every action you take erodes uncertainty, building confidence in your abilities. Doubt thrives when you're inactive; your mind invents fears. But executing provides concrete proof of your capabilities. Each small success solidifies your self-assurance. This applies to everything: starting a project makes it less daunting. Practicing a skill reduces questions about mastering it. Stepping outside your comfort zone lessens self-doubt. Action is doubt's most potent antidote. Consistent execution replaces apprehension with conviction, clarifying your path to achievement.```
    0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 118 Views 0 Vista previa
  • Everyone faces tough days but don't let struggles define you when gets tough, pause, reset, restart and replay don't give up better days are ahead keep pushing forward and know that God is always guiding and protecting you
    Everyone faces tough days but don't let struggles define you when gets tough, pause, reset, restart and replay don't give up better days are ahead keep pushing forward and know that God is always guiding and protecting you
    0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 97 Views 0 Vista previa
  • A worker at a frozen fish factory experienced an event he would never forget. During his shift, he was accidentally trapped inside the industrial freezer. Desperate, he shouted for help, but the shift had ended, and the factory was completely empty. As the freezing cold consumed him, he realized his fate seemed sealed.

    When all hope seemed lost, something unexpected happened: the door opened, and the factory's security guard rescued him at the last moment, saving him from certain death.

    The next day, the manager, shocked by what had happened, asked the guard:

    "How did you know he was inside and hadn’t left with the others?"

    The guard replied with simplicity but deep meaning:

    "Out of all the workers, he was the only one who greeted me every day. He always smiled at me and asked how I was doing. That night, I noticed his absence. I hadn’t heard his voice or seen his smile. I knew something was wrong, so I searched for him… and I found him."

    A small act of kindness can make the difference between life and death.

    Credits: Sobre literatura

    A worker at a frozen fish factory experienced an event he would never forget. During his shift, he was accidentally trapped inside the industrial freezer. Desperate, he shouted for help, but the shift had ended, and the factory was completely empty. As the freezing cold consumed him, he realized his fate seemed sealed. When all hope seemed lost, something unexpected happened: the door opened, and the factory's security guard rescued him at the last moment, saving him from certain death. The next day, the manager, shocked by what had happened, asked the guard: "How did you know he was inside and hadn’t left with the others?" The guard replied with simplicity but deep meaning: "Out of all the workers, he was the only one who greeted me every day. He always smiled at me and asked how I was doing. That night, I noticed his absence. I hadn’t heard his voice or seen his smile. I knew something was wrong, so I searched for him… and I found him." A small act of kindness can make the difference between life and death. Credits: Sobre literatura
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  • You are satisfied, fulfilled and relaxed by giving another man sleepless night without thinking twice.God is watching you.
    You are satisfied, fulfilled and relaxed by giving another man sleepless night without thinking twice.God is watching you.
    0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 83 Views 0 Vista previa
  • She Always Uses Drugs Twice Before Coming to Bed Every Night
    Episode 1

    The first time I noticed it, I thought it was harmless. Maybe even normal. My wife, Simi, would excuse herself every night around 10:15 p.m., just before we went to bed. She’d disappear into the bathroom, and I’d hear the tap run, the medicine cabinet creak, and then silence—followed by two sharp clicks. Sometimes, a faint sound like something being unwrapped. Then she’d come out with a smile, kiss me softly on the cheek, and slip into bed like nothing happened. At first, I thought she was just brushing her teeth or taking her vitamins. I mean, she’d always been a little obsessive about nightly routines. Skincare, candles, prayer. But one night, curiosity got the best of me.

    She had forgotten to lock the bathroom door.

    I walked in.

    And I saw it.

    Two small white pills. Her hand shaking as she brought them to her lips. Her eyes closed tightly. She wasn’t calm—she was desperate. She swallowed them dry, without water, like someone used to the bitterness. Then she turned to find me standing there. Frozen. Her face changed instantly.

    “Why are you in here?” she snapped.

    “I just… I didn’t know you were taking medication,” I stammered.

    “I have headaches,” she replied too quickly.

    Headaches?

    Every night?

    For the last eight months?

    I didn’t push it then. I just nodded. But that night, while she slept soundly beside me, I stayed awake. Thinking. Watching. I remembered moments—how she’d sometimes stare at the wall for minutes before blinking. How she flinched when I touched her unexpectedly. How she sometimes forgot things we talked about hours earlier. I told myself it was stress. Work. The pressure of trying to conceive.

    But deep inside, something didn’t feel right.

    I started watching more closely. She never missed a dose. Two pills, same time, same order. Always before sex. Always before sleep. And after each dose, she became warmer, looser, more intimate. But if she skipped it—like the night we got home late from a wedding—she avoided my touch entirely, claiming exhaustion.

    I tried asking again. She shut down.

    “I said it’s nothing,” she hissed. “Stop treating me like a patient.”

    But I couldn’t stop.

    One day, when she left for work, I searched the bathroom. I found the pills tucked deep inside an old lipstick box. No label. Just small, round, off-white tablets. I took one to a pharmacist friend. He examined it, then looked at me oddly.

    “These aren’t for headaches,” he said. “This is Diazepam. A strong sedative. People use this when they can’t sleep. Or when they’re battling anxiety. But in some cases… it’s abused. Especially in combination with other substances.”

    Abused?

    By Simi?

    My Simi?

    When I confronted her that night, she didn’t even deny it. She just stared at me with eyes so tired they looked older than her face.

    “I need it,” she said quietly. “I can’t sleep without it. I can’t… be touched without it.”

    My heart dropped.

    “What do you mean?”

    She looked away. And whispered the words that would haunt me forever:

    “Because when I close my eyes, I don’t see you—I see them.”

    To be continued
    She Always Uses Drugs Twice Before Coming to Bed Every Night Episode 1 The first time I noticed it, I thought it was harmless. Maybe even normal. My wife, Simi, would excuse herself every night around 10:15 p.m., just before we went to bed. She’d disappear into the bathroom, and I’d hear the tap run, the medicine cabinet creak, and then silence—followed by two sharp clicks. Sometimes, a faint sound like something being unwrapped. Then she’d come out with a smile, kiss me softly on the cheek, and slip into bed like nothing happened. At first, I thought she was just brushing her teeth or taking her vitamins. I mean, she’d always been a little obsessive about nightly routines. Skincare, candles, prayer. But one night, curiosity got the best of me. She had forgotten to lock the bathroom door. I walked in. And I saw it. Two small white pills. Her hand shaking as she brought them to her lips. Her eyes closed tightly. She wasn’t calm—she was desperate. She swallowed them dry, without water, like someone used to the bitterness. Then she turned to find me standing there. Frozen. Her face changed instantly. “Why are you in here?” she snapped. “I just… I didn’t know you were taking medication,” I stammered. “I have headaches,” she replied too quickly. Headaches? Every night? For the last eight months? I didn’t push it then. I just nodded. But that night, while she slept soundly beside me, I stayed awake. Thinking. Watching. I remembered moments—how she’d sometimes stare at the wall for minutes before blinking. How she flinched when I touched her unexpectedly. How she sometimes forgot things we talked about hours earlier. I told myself it was stress. Work. The pressure of trying to conceive. But deep inside, something didn’t feel right. I started watching more closely. She never missed a dose. Two pills, same time, same order. Always before sex. Always before sleep. And after each dose, she became warmer, looser, more intimate. But if she skipped it—like the night we got home late from a wedding—she avoided my touch entirely, claiming exhaustion. I tried asking again. She shut down. “I said it’s nothing,” she hissed. “Stop treating me like a patient.” But I couldn’t stop. One day, when she left for work, I searched the bathroom. I found the pills tucked deep inside an old lipstick box. No label. Just small, round, off-white tablets. I took one to a pharmacist friend. He examined it, then looked at me oddly. “These aren’t for headaches,” he said. “This is Diazepam. A strong sedative. People use this when they can’t sleep. Or when they’re battling anxiety. But in some cases… it’s abused. Especially in combination with other substances.” Abused? By Simi? My Simi? When I confronted her that night, she didn’t even deny it. She just stared at me with eyes so tired they looked older than her face. “I need it,” she said quietly. “I can’t sleep without it. I can’t… be touched without it.” My heart dropped. “What do you mean?” She looked away. And whispered the words that would haunt me forever: “Because when I close my eyes, I don’t see you—I see them.” To be continued
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  • A lawyer sold his well to a teacher. Two days later, the lawyer came to the teacher and said, "Sir, I sold you the well, but it's not with the water inside! If you want to use the water, you will have to pay extra."

    The teacher smiled and replied, "Yes, I was about to come to you. I was going to say that you should please take your water from my well, or else you will have to start paying rent of keeping your water in my well from tomorrow because I only need the well but not the water inside.

    Hearing this, the lawyer got nervous and said, "Oh, I was just joking sir!".

    The teacher laughed and said, "You started your knowledge from us before becoming lawyers."

    Salute to teachers! #teachers #FearGod #digitalart
    A lawyer sold his well to a teacher. Two days later, the lawyer came to the teacher and said, "Sir, I sold you the well, but it's not with the water inside! If you want to use the water, you will have to pay extra." The teacher smiled and replied, "Yes, I was about to come to you. I was going to say that you should please take your water from my well, or else you will have to start paying rent of keeping your water in my well from tomorrow because I only need the well but not the water inside. Hearing this, the lawyer got nervous and said, "Oh, I was just joking sir!". The teacher laughed and said, "You started your knowledge from us before becoming lawyers." Salute to teachers! 🙏🙏😂 #teachers #FearGod #digitalart
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