Let every Igbo read and pass this educational piece to our children. Culled from Chike Ofilli. ANSWERS TO QUESTIONS ON THE IGBO: Clearing the Basic Confusions Honestly *Question: Is Southeast and Igboland the same thing?* *Answer* : Not at all. Southeast is only about 3/5th of Igboland. Igboland covers the whole of Southeast, parts of Rivers, Delta, Edo, Cross river, Benue, Kogi, and Akwa Ibom states. *Question: Why were we taught in school that Igbo people are easterners?* *Answer* : It is both an unfortunate parroting by teachers and careless adoption by Igbo educated class. Igbo people come from Southern Nigeria and not Eastern Nigeria. It may be correct to say that the Igbo are found predominantly in eastern Nigeria. However, by saying that the Igbo are easterners, the implication is that the Igbo in western Nigeria, numbering about 2.5 million (Agbor, Ogwashi Ukwu, Ibuzo, Okpanam, Asaba, Orimili, Ndokwa, Anioma, etc) are not Igbos. The best-known Igbo anthropologist Professor Mike Onwuejeogwu is from the western part of Nigeria, Chukwuma Nzeogwu, Dennis Osadebe, Okonkwo Adibe (the famous musician), Sony Odogwu, etc. are all from the western part of Nigeria. They are no less Igbo than those who live in the eastern part of Nigeria. The correct answer to your question is “the Igbo come from Southern Nigeria.” *Question: Why do some Igbo refer to themselves as “core Igbo?”* *Answer:* That is clearly arrant nonsense. Nobody is core and others peripheral. All Igbo are the same. It is both arrogant, thoughtless, and insensitive for anybody to regard others as marginal. *Question: Is Igboland landlocked?* *Answer:* Not at all. Igboland stretches from Port Harcourt to Agbor. The Atlantic ocean washes the shores of Igboland at the islands Opobo and Bonny, Africa’s second largest river – River Niger, traverses Igboland with one part of Igboland in the east and another part in the west of Nigeria. Oguta Lake has the potential to accommodate large ships and could be made a navigable port. If Igboland is landlocked, then all Nigeria is landlocked. *Question: Is there oil in Igboland?* *Answer:* Yes, indeed. There is a lot of oil & and gas in Imo, Abia, and currently in Anambra states and Igbo areas in Rivers and Delta States. Besides, Igboland has many other natural resources, including coal, iron ore, limestone, lead, zinc, brine, glass, etc. *Question: Are the Igbo a nation or a tribe?* *Answer:* The Igbo is a nation and a very large one. There are many dialects or tribes in Igbo nation, just like you have many tribes within Israel. *Question: Why do some Ikwerre people and other non southeastern Igbo say they are not Igbo?* *Answer:* First, it is not up to them to say what they are and what they are not. When God created them, He did not ask them who they wanted to be. He just created them Igbo. The only way you’ll know who belongs to what ethnic group in Nigeria is the name and what language the name comes from. Anybody whose name is Amadi or Onyeri, or Eke, or Odili, Wanodi (Nwanodi) does not need to tell you who he is. He is Igbo, notwithstanding their politics. *Question: But they claim that their language is Ikwerre, not Igbo.* *Answer:* That is politics. Ikwerre is a dialect of Igbo language. Just like an Ngwa man speaks Ngwa Igbo, Arochukwu speaks Arochukwu Igbo, Ika speaks Ika Igbo, Ibani speak Ibani Igbo etc. *Question: Some people say that Igbo language is not complete, is it true?* *Answer:* No language is complete. All languages borrow from each other. Igbo language is very rich. It has inexhaustible and rich linguistic features like idioms, proverbs, aphorisms, sayings, anecdotes, riddles, folklores, etc. Igbo language is one of the major languages of the world, being spoken by millions of people. *Question: How many are the Igbo?* *Answer:* The Igbo are very numerous. There is an educated guess that if Nigeria’s census is properly enumerated, the Igbo could easily be the largest ethnic group in the country. They may number up to 40 million. Everything right now is speculation. Nobody knows the true stratification or ethnic populations in Nigeria. The Igbo are the only ethnic group found in large numbers everywhere in Nigeria and foreign countries more than any other ethnic group in Africa. *Question: Do the Igbo have a culture of their own?* *Answer:* Yes, indeed. Igbo culture is perhaps one of the richest and all-encompassing cultures in this world. Igbo culture always observes the temporal and the spiritual aspects of cosmology. The study of Igbo culture reveals that it is extremely deep and original. *Question: Why do the Igbo wear Yoruba Agbada and Hausa babban riga, but the Yoruba and the Hausa do not ever wear Igbo national dress?* *Answer* : Unfortunately, this is the case. The Igbo have very attractive and resplendent national dresses. And they come in assortments that are extremely dignifying. The Igbo take up foreign cultures more readily than other Nigerians, and they seem not to care that nobody reciprocates their carefree attitude to life. Most ethnics promote their cultures and show off what makes them unique. Actually, it is still the same so-called educated Igbo class who behave in such disgraceful and devil-may-care attitudes. *Question: Why do the Igbo call themselves Biafrans?* *Answer:* Great question. Some people have the idea that Biafra originates from the Bight of Biafra. But that is wrong. Biafra was the National name of Igboland given to Igbo by the Portuguese, just as Nigeria was named by the English of Britain. There was the Kingdom of Biafra that ruled most of the ancient subtropical Africa about 50,000 years ago. Unfortunately, nobody talks about it, for whatever reason (maybe because Portugal lost the colony right of Biafra to Britain who buried it, in other to promote Nigeria amalgamation), "I do not know". But, it is in the ancient maps of the world. If you wish, search it in Google. *Question: Were the Igbo also taken into slavery during the slave trade?* *Answer:* Yes. The Igbo slaves themselves gave account of their travails in slavery. Olauda Ekwuano, an Igbo ex-slave who bought his freedom in Britain, was the first slave to write about his experience in slavery. His book has become a classic. You ought to find it and read it. Also, other Igbos who were brought to America revolted, and some walked back on water and were said to have returned to Africa. Several books have been written about them. One of such books is “Ibo Landing.” It is available in bookstores like Barnes & Noble. In Haiti, the Igbo settled there and refused to be colonized by anybody. There are many places where the Igbo left their mark or their signature. *Question: How did the Igbo know days and years?* *Answer:* The Igbo invented an accurate, if not the most accurate, calendar called “Iguafo Igbo (Igbo Calendar).” In Igbo calendar, there are four market days – Eke, Afor, Nkwo, Orie that make one week. Four days make one week, seven weeks make one month, and thirteen months make one year. There are 28 days for each month, with the last month having 29 days. Each month starts the same day as the previous. Igbo calendar forms the perfect astronomical alignment with the cosmos and regulates the seasons, agriculture, navigation, astrology, geography, mathematics, travel, etc. *Question: Did the Igbo have their own alphabet?* *Answer:* Yes, indeed. It is called “Nsibidi.” *Question: How about mathematics; did the Igbo know mathematics?* *Answer:* Yes, indeed. There are such inventions as “Okwe” and “Mkpisi” which the Igbo used to resolve figures. *Question: Did the Igbo know anything about banking?* *Answer:* Yes. Igbo banking was more in the nature of savings and loans. The authentic Igbo savings and loans invention is called “Isusu’ in which contributions are pooled each week, and one person who has the need, collects, is still in practice. Igbo slaves took this invention to the Caribbean Islands, where they still practice it and call it “Sue Sue.” *Question: Some people say that Igboland is too small for the Igbo, that they have no alternative than to live as Nigerians: is this true?* *Answer:* False. Igboland is a large country. Do every Igbo need to stay and work in Igboland? No. Everywhere in the world, some will stay home while others venture abroad in search of opportunities. Igboland is large enough for the Igbo. It is a very rich and hospitable part of the world. It has rich soil for agriculture, abundant rainfall, good sunshine, and table land in many parts. Its land space and population are more than that of over half of the present countries in the world. *Question: Where did the Igbo come from?* *Answer:* That question is still being asked. There are very intriguing theories or histories now being studied. You may have heard of the Jewish angle & the Egypt angle which are connected, and the Origin of man angle. This twenty-first century, hopefully, will resolve the mystery. Share to educate others if you love Igbo👍🏾 @IzuchukwuCenter

BREAKING: Legendary Igbo folklore musician Mike Ejeagha has passed away at the age of 95. 🕊️🖤

Doyin Okupe left. He didn't leave without a fight. He had to go on Channels TV to drag Peter Obi. Isaac Balami left. He didn't leave quietly. He had to throw punches atOkupe's funeral. Then it got to your turn, & you had to drag the entire SW into your personal vendetta. Yours I’ll take personal. Why? "Because you are the one I had maintained was a mole from the start." We saw worse than this in 2022/2023. There was no tactics we didn’t see, no antics we didn’t experience. Still, we won. But Bola Tinubu had other ideas. He did the most unthinkable. He bought INEC & the Judiciary. Then he found additional change to buy the elders as well. Balami left, Okupe did, now you. But Peter Obi will always have millions in his corner. The Obidient Movement will continue to trudge on. You were never there when it all started. You didn’t start the movement, Nigerians (of immense goodwill did). It all started here on Twitter. At first, it was Chude. Then there was Jack. I came along, & we became a triumvirate so close to greatness. You know what that means? It says that Peter is incredible, we all are running through him. No one is stopping you from leaving, & no one will notice if you leave. But leave quietly; do not make it about you. You didn’t leave because of what random folks did/said online; that’s a lie. You left because it was your personal decision. Don’t insult anybody, we are not the reason for your bitterness. None of us is paid to support. We are the future leaders you haven’t met. Agbados have done & said worst things, still do. They attacked people who look a certain way in Lagos (at the polls). They attack even their own blood for choosing to support Peter Obi. In 2011, Buharists attacked & killed many across the North. We saw the blood of baboon soak the streets. Yet, the Obidients have no single bone of violence in us. We remain calm, despite the provocation. But we are no Stoic, don’t take out inaction as cowardice. You left not because Peter Obi is incompetent, neither did you leave because of what he said. You left because that’s your prerogative, & rightfully so. But some of you won’t leave quietly. You wanna make some noise & create quiet a buzz. You wanna rave mad (before & after you leave). The Obidients are no Stoic, we will match the energy. The same privilege you enjoyed can/will always be taken away. Why? Because none of us were recruited by Peter. We joined because we want a New Nigeria that is POssible. It's a powerful dream, the noblest of idea; there is nothing better than that. You only need whisper it, & it'll come alive. “He can’t win 2027! 2027 is now different! He is no longer popular! He has lost his voting bloc! He succeeded because of sympathy votes.” Do not arrogate to yourself, the powers you don’t have. The Obidients were here before you joined. We will be here long after you are gone. And when the time comes, we shall know who is who. A New Nigeria is Alive & POssible. 💪

The World Loves to Hate, Then Copy, Then Hate Again 😆 The sweet taste of success! It's like a delicious cake that everyone wants a slice of, but only after you've baked it and proven it's edible. You know, that moment when everyone's like, "Oh, you're so lucky!" or "You're so talented!" But what they won't say is, "I was wrong to doubt you." Let's face it, folks! When you choose a path that's unconventional, a career or business that raises eyebrows, people will think you're crazy. They'll whisper behind your back, "What is wrong with this one?" or "Has this person gone mad?" But you know what? That's when the magic happens. You see, when you're brave enough to take the road less traveled, you'll encounter two types of people: the Haters and the Copycats. The Haters will, well, hate. They'll mock, ridicule, and predict your downfall. But the Copycats... ah, they're a special breed. At first, they'll pretend they're not interested in what you're doing. They'll scoff, roll their eyes, and mutter under their breath. But secretly, they'll be watching, studying, and taking notes. They'll try to reverse-engineer your success, to figure out what makes you tick. And when they think they've cracked the code, they'll start copying you. But here's the thing: when they copy you and fail (and they will fail, because they didn't put in the work or understand the vision), they'll start spoiling your name. They'll claim you're a fluke, that you're not as smart or talented as everyone thought. They'll try to bring you down, to make you feel like you're not good enough. BUT (and this is a big BUT), you mustn't let them get to you! You mustn't let their hate or their copying bring you down. Why? Because you're a trailblazer, a pioneer, a game-changer! You're the one who dared to be different, who refused to follow the crowd. So, when the Haters hate and the Copycats copy, just smile, nod, and keep on keeping on. Remember, success is not about what others think of you; it's about what you think of yourself. And if you believe in yourself, your vision, and your abilities, then nothing can stop you. Kniw this, choosing your path and achieving success is not for the faint of heart. There will be doubters, haters, and copycats along the way. But if you stay focused, stay true to yourself, and keep pushing forward, you'll prove them all wrong. And when you do, just enjoy the sweet taste of success, knowing that you earned it, and you deserve it. AnoDaily Dose Farming4TheFunAnd Money 💰

Middle of the night sex…That soft, sacred hour when the world is silent and the only sound is the rhythm of your breathing—syncing slowly as you drift between sleep and desire. No words are spoken, none are needed. Just the language of touch. A hand reaching for a familiar curve. A body instinctively leaning into warmth. Caresses melt into kisses, and kisses evolve into something deeper… slower… more intense. It’s not rushed. It’s not forced. It’s felt. Two souls tangled in quiet passion, where every movement speaks louder than any whispered “I want you.” This is grown folks love. Pure. Unfiltered. And oh, so unforgettable.

I was jogging this morning, and I noticed a person about half a kilometre ahead. I could tell he was running a little slower than me, and I thought, good, I shall try to catch him. I had about a kilometre I needed to turn off. So, I started running faster and faster. Every block, I was gaining on him just a little bit. After just a few minutes, I was only about 100m behind him, so I really picked up the pace and pushed myself. You would have thought I was running in the last leg of an Olympic competition. I was determined to catch him. Finally, I did it! I caught and passed him. On the inside, I felt so good. "I beat him." Of course, he didn't even know we were racing. After I passed him, I realised I had been so focused on competing against him that I had missed my turn. I had gone nearly six blocks past my turn, and I had to turn and go back. Isn't that what happens in life when we focus on competing with co-workers, neighbours, friends, family, trying to outdo them, or trying to prove that we are more successful or more important? We spend our time and energy running after them, and we miss out on our own paths to our God-given destinies. The problem with unhealthy competition is that it's a never-ending cycle. There will always be somebody ahead of you, someone with a better job, nicer car, more money in the bank, more education, a prettier wife, a more handsome husband, better behaved children, etc. But realize that "You can be the best that you can be, you are not competing with anyone." Some people are insecure because they pay too much attention to what others are, where others are going, wearing and driving. Take what God has given you, the height, weight, and personality. Dress well and wear it proudly. You'll be blessed by it. Stay focused and live a healthy life. There is no competition in Destiny. Run your own race and wish others well. #2025, I am running my own race. I am not competing with you, folks. HAVE A BLESSED WEEK AHEAD.

Stop thinking you’re behind. Just because the people around you are stealing, scamming, selling drugs, or selling sex to afford a certain lifestyle — that doesn’t mean you’re losing. Everything that glitters ain’t gold. A lot of folks are risking their freedom, peace, and soul just to look like they’re winning. You’re choosing the hard route: building something real, legal, and long-lasting. And trust me — it hits different when your lifestyle comes with peace of mind, not paranoia. Keep grinding. Your time is coming. And when it does, you’ll enjoy every part of it knowing you did it the right way. ➥𝐼𝑓 𝑖𝑡'𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑝𝑓𝑢𝑙 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐𝑡 & 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑒⇅

PRAISE AND PASSION PART 6 The camera flashes exploded like gunfire, each one searing Bukola’s vision with white-hot judgment. She could feel the crowd’s hatred like physical blows—the hissed prayers, the iPhones thrust in her face, the way Pastor Adeleke’s smirk deepened as her fingers trembled in Tobi’s grip. "Repent now!" a woman shrieked from the mob, waving a Bible like a weapon. "Confess your sins before hell claims you!" Tobi’s arm tightened around her waist. "Keep walking," he muttered through clenched teeth. But then— "BROTHER TOBI!" A voice sliced through the chaos. A young woman in a ripped choir robe fought against security, her braids wild around a face streaked with tears. "You promised!" she screamed. "You promised he’d pay for what he did to me!" Tobi went rigid. Bukola felt the shift in him—the way his breath stopped, the way his fingers dug into her hip hard enough to bruise. "Tobi? Who is—" Pastor Adeleke’s microphone shrieked with feedback as he stepped between them and the girl. "Another deceived soul! But we must focus on the sinner before us!" He gestured grandly at Bukola. "Will you repent, Gospel Girl?" The crowd roared. Bukola opened her mouth— CRACK. A sound like lightning split the air. Every head whipped toward the hotel’s giant LED screen. Where Bukola’s face should have been, there was… Audio waves. And then Pastor Adeleke’s voice, slick with sin, filled the lobby: "You’ll sleep with me, or your brother loses his scholarship. Unless you want his blood on your hands?" The girl in the choir robe—Tobi’s sister—burst into fresh sobs. The crowd’s fury turned like a tidal wave. "Liar!" Adeleke shouted, but the recording continued: "Such a pretty little mouth. Open it for your pastor, eh?" Silence. Then— Chaos. Tobi moved like a man possessed, shoving through the now-enraged crowd, dragging Bukola behind him. Mama Nkechi materialized at their side, shoving car keys into his hand. "Take her. Now." Bukola barely had time to process before she was thrown into a black SUV, Tobi peeling out as fists pounded on the windows. "Who was that girl?" Bukola demanded, her voice raw. Tobi’s knuckles whitened on the wheel. "My baby sister. Adeleke raped her three years ago. When I confronted him, he had me thrown out of three churches." A muscle jumped in his jaw. "I joined your tour to get close to him. To destroy him." The confession hit like a slap. "So I was… what? Bait?" Tobi swerved down a dark alley, killing the headlights. Then he turned to her, eyes burning. "At first." His hand cupped her cheek. "Then I fell for you. Hard." Bukola wanted to pull away. She couldn’t. The abandoned church on Lagos’ outskirts smelled of dust and old hymns. Moonlight bled through stained glass, painting Tobi’s skin in fractured colors as he backed her against the peeling altar. "You used me," she whispered. "I saved you," he corrected, hands caging her hips. "That recording was mine. I’ve waited years to ruin him." Bukola’s pulse pounded in her throat. "You lied." "So did you." His thumb traced her lower lip. "All those pretty sermons about purity. While you moaned my name in the studio." A whimper escaped her. Tobi’s mouth crashed down. This wasn’t love. This was war. His teeth scraped her neck as he lifted her onto the altar, her legs wrapping around his waist. The wood creaked beneath them, a blasphemous counterpoint to their ragged breaths. "Tell me to stop," he growled, hands tearing at her dress. She arched into him instead. When he entered her, it was with a groan that sounded like **prayer and punishment** tangled together. Each thrust was a vow— lied, I want you, I’ll burn for this. Bukola clawed at his back, her cries echoing off the vaulted ceiling like a corrupted choir. Above them, a broken stained-glass angel watched, its face shattered. She came with a sob. Tobi followed, his forehead pressed to hers, their sweat mingling like holy water and sin. After, as they lay tangled on a pew, Bukola’s phone buzzed. A notification from Mama Nkechi: "Adeleke arrested. But he has powerful friends. They’re coming for you both. RUN." Tobi sat up, muscles tense. "We need to—" Sirens wailed in the distance. Bukola’s blood froze. Tobi grabbed her hand. "Back door. Now." They barely made it to the car before headlights flooded the parking lot. As tires screeched into the night, one question burned hotter than guilt: Who betrayed them this time? TO BE CONTINUED… WILL THEY TRUST EACH OTHER—OR WILL THE PAST TEAR THEM APART? #fictionalwritter #fictionalstories #africanstoryteller #africantales #talesmoonlight #africanlovesaga #hotromancedrama #storytelling #Storytime #kenyanfolktales #ghanianfolktales #zambianfolktales #gambianfolktales #nigeriafolktales #ugandanfolktales

The Story of Saturdays Once upon a time, in the heart of a busy little town, lived a boy named Theo who believed Saturdays were magic. To everyone else, Saturday was just a day off. But for Theo, Saturdays were treasure chests of possibility. Every Saturday morning, he'd wake before the sun, pull on his favorite red hoodie, and tiptoe past his still-sleeping parents. His adventures changed every week—some days he’d ride his bike to the farthest hill and pretend it was a mountain summit. Other Saturdays, he'd sit by the old oak tree with his sketchbook, drawing fantastical creatures no one had ever seen. Once, he even built a tiny city out of pebbles and twigs behind the library and named it "Theopolis." The townsfolk often saw Theo running with the wind or staring at clouds like they were ancient maps. They'd chuckle and say, “There goes Saturday’s child.” Years passed, and Theo grew up. He went to college, then to a job in a tall glass building, where days blurred into one another. But every Saturday, no matter what, he’d wake early, pull out his red hoodie—now a little worn—and let the magic begin again. For Theo knew what few remembered: Saturdays are not just breaks from the week. They're invitations to dream.

Ikaki Akwa: The Drum That Opened The Skies . …as told by the ancient griot of the creeks to the young griot in his dream. Listen- Not all drums beat for dance. Some call back the soul of the land. Before Oil explorers lit their towers, before flares kissed our stars, there was a time when the gods walked in the winds and the waters still whispered secrets. It was in this time that the people of Isoma-bou-a town cupped gently by mangroves-faced a silence they had never known The Silence of the Sky. For seven moons, the rain refused to fall. The yam mounds cracked. The fish vanished into deep holes. Children coughed dry tears. Even the moon looked thirsty. The town folks tried all they could, burnt sweet smelling grass, sang ancestral songs, even offered the biggest ram to the god of the storm. But the sky remained sealed like a gourd with no mouth. On the outskirts of Isoma- bou , on the fringes of a sacred wilderness lived Oru-yai. He was the oldest man alive in the town. No one could tell his story with certainty anymore as he was older than second oldest person- a woman named Minjita by a whole generation. From the little accounts passed down, he was once a warrior drummer, whose rhythm stirred crocodiles from the riverbed and made maidens dance until dawn. But Oru-yai no longer drummed. His hands, once thunderous, now trembled with grief. Why? Because a long time ago, his only son,Abadibo, was taken by the Bumo-Seki , a crocodile known as the terror of the Ogulagha lake . The boy had gone fishing during the Harmattan. Oru -yai never drummed again after his son died . He buried not just his son but also the sound and rhythm of his soul. But one night, after the seventh moon of drought, Oru- yai woke from a dream. In the dream,he saw his long dead son , smiling, standing in the rain. “Dau! Adabe! the boy said, “Call the rain back. The land is dying.” He awoke with tears on his cheeks and salt on his tongue. He could not refuse his son’s plea. He stood up, barefoot, and made his way to the shrine at the back of his compound. It was overgrown with long grasses,sorrow and silence. There, behind old raffia curtains and the dust of forgotten supplications , he pulled out Ikaki, the drum of his ancestral lineage. Its turtle skin still glistened faintly, as though it had not forgotten its voice. While it was still dark and the town slept,he climbed the sacred stone of his ancestors where they once held court with the guardian spirits of the lineage. Oru- yai carressed the drum like a long lost lover. He drummed. But not like before. This time, he didn’t just play rhythms. He wept through the ancient drum. He beat sorrow into the stars. He struck memories into the dry earth. He wailed without words. The townsfolk stirred from their slumber,they began to move one after the other towards the house from where the rythm echoed . They gathered, eyes wide, hearts pleading and trembling. They watched in silence. They hopped. Suddenly! A huge cloud wizzed past. Then another. The wind shifted. The trees shivered,swayed and bowed. And from the deep belly of the sky came a rumble… The Rain Returned. Everyone except Oru- yai ran into their homes for shelter. The rain fell with rage and mercy at the same time. It soaked the ancestors’ graves. It kissed the lips of the thirsty. It filled the empty gourds and created rivulets. It danced on rooftops and burst open the dry seed pods. When the rain subsided, the villagers began to make their way back to Oru-yai’s house to thank him. He was gone. Only Ikaki-Akwa remained, sitting on the sacred stone. No footprints. No farewell. The wise one of the town said he followed the rivulets into the lake to join his son in the realm where water nurtures and holds all. He spoke to the worried crowd and asked them to go home and make sacrifices in their individual ancestral lineage altars to Ogina , the god of the sky. Before they dispersed , he taught everyone a three part proverb. From that day, it became mandatory to teach every child born to Isoma-bou parents the proverb: “He who drums with truth in his grief can speak to the sky.” “And the gods will stir up , if one’s grief and plea is honest.” “Some drums sound louder than thunder because they echoe from the soul. Reflection: Your town or village is your Isoma-bou. There are many Oru-yai among us-people who carry wisdom wrapped in wounds. Do not wait for drought to seek their voice. And never mock the silence of a grieving kin. He or she may hold the rain your harvest needs. Remember, some drums sound louder than thunder because they echo from the soul.

SUN WILL SOON DESTROY EVERYBODY ON EARTH, BUT PEOPLE ON MARS WILL SURVIVE If you are domiciled on earth, you are just living on borrowed time because the sun will soon kill everyone. Folks, the above words are not the words of Chief Ugwokeh Nnaemeka. Rather, they are the words of the world's richest man and founder of #SpaceX, #ElonMusk, who has given his cosmic forecast. Musk made it explicit that all life on earth would be destroyed by the sun, adding that the sun is gradually expanding. He said that a multi-planet civilization would be the only remedy because earth would be incinerated. The #Tesla boss minced no words in saying that the clock is already ticking. In the coming years, the earth will become uninhabitable by human beings. So, another planet called Mars will be where human beings can survive. Only people who can afford it will take their family members and land on the Mars. Others will be burnt to death by the expanding sun. To make life easy for few people that will land on the Mars, Elon Musk's company has started building a city called #Terminus on that planet.

I SAW MY GRANDMA TÚRN INTO A CÁT AT NIGHT😳 My name is Kpokuechukwu. I'm the only son of my father. Or rather, I'm the only product of an intertribal union of an Igbo man and a Yoruba woman. According to my mother, she'd been childless for 8 years and had experienced 3 m¡scarriages before I was finally born. So she called my name Oluwasindara . My parents and I used to live in the faraway city of Lagos. But one December when I was just six years old, we traveled down East to celebrate Christmas with grandma… And that was it, we didn't return to the city😭 Before we embarked on that journey, there was this particular dream I usually have, of a cr££py old woman scaring me. Sometimes she will throw me into a stream, thr£atening to drown me, other times she will be chasing me around a forest with either a long knife or a tongue of fire. Such a night, I will wake up sweating and crying. My mom would be there to comfort me. She would apply some ointment on my forehead, muttering silent prayers. It's as a result of these repeated occurrences that I started sleeping in my parents room. . This story belongs to Joy Ifunanya. One Thursday evening in October, mummy was helping me do my homework in the dining room when dad walked in and told her to start making preparations. “We shall be celebrating Christmas in the East this season”. He announced. I was overwhelmed with excitement. I'd only heard about the village, but never really visited it. During holidays, mom usually takes me down to Badagry to stay with her elder sister who had 4 grown-up children. Although I do enjoy my times with them because there, everyone pampers me, I think traveling to the village will be more fun. I have heard fascinating stories about the rural areas from my friends at school who were privileged to visit their hometown every holiday season. They won't stop talking about how they swim in their village streams all day long, how they go out to watch masquerade, how they go palm kernel hunting, snail hunting, crab hunting and a lot of other adventures. More interesting was how children would gather round the fireplace at night to listen to interesting folktales from the elderly women. I have been hoping to have such an experience one day. So when dad made that announcement that evening, I couldn't control myself. I lifted my hands in the air.. “Yeah, I'm going to see grandma!”. I Daddy smiled and patted my back. However, mummy didn't seem nearly as excited. In fact, she looked rather apprehensive. “Dave, I'm not going to the village with you”. She asked. Daddy frowned at her. “Why? We haven't been to the village for ages” He asked. “Are you asking me why? How do you even want me to travel all the way to the East in this condition?” She quarreled. At that time, I wasn't aware that she was weeks pregnant. “I know, dear. But trust me, you will be safe. Nothing will go wrong, I promise”. He said. “I am still not going. I won't be traveling like this”. She insisted. “Wuraola, I am traveling this December, I missed my mother, it's been five years. Don't you understand?”. Daddy said. “But I'm not stopping you. I just said I am not going. That doesn't mean you can't go and see your mother”. She argued. Daddy heaved a sigh, sat down on the chair close to her and held her hand. He then lowered his voice and began to talk to her. Though I didn't understand what he was saying because he was speaking Igbo language (I was only fluent in Yoruba language), I knew he was trying to persuade her, to make her see the reason she should embark on that journey. I watched them, my heart filled with silent.prayers that she should concur because if Mummy won't be traveling to the village, I won't be traveling either. I'm sure of that. It was during the weekend when Mom and I were visiting her sister in Badagry that I discovered her major reason for not wanting to travel with us. Her sister and her friends were gisting in the living room by the time we came. When Mummy announced about the intending journey to the East, her sister's reaction was intense. She seemed really upset. “What is wrong with your husband?”. She raged. And in order to carry her friends along, she began to recount the events that transpired long before I was born. Since no one asked me to escused them, I sat there in their midst, listening attentively and watching their lips move. I learnt that my grandma never liked my mom. She had wanted to be the one to choose a wife for her son, HER ONLY SON, from amongst our people. But my daddy did not only reject Mama's choice, but went ahead to bring home a woman from a different ethnic background. “Mama, this is the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. Her name is Wuraola”. Daddy had said the first day he brought mum home. “Eka aso, Mami”. My mummy had greeted, prostrating before Grandma. Grandma's eyes turned red with rage. “Over my dead body would my only son marry onye ofe mmanu”. Grandma had responded. She couldn't even hide her feelings. NOTE:. OFE MMANU IS THE IGBO MAN'S NAME FOR YORUBA’S OMI OBE AND EWEDU SOUP. NO OFFENSE But despite his mum's disapproval, daddy went ahead to marry my mom. Nobody in my father's family agreed to see reason with her. This made her h@tred of mom very strongly. So strong that she was absent during their introduction and traditional marriage ceremony. A few weeks before their wedding, dad and mum traveled to the village to make peace with her. They knelt before her and apologized for getting married without her blessings. She accepted their apology, and promised to attend their wedding, but with a strict condition. “Your wife will stay back here with me for some time after the wedding”. She had told my dad. “Hmmm, it won't be possible”. Dad said. They returned to the city 2 days later and did their wedding without her. But barely two weeks later, they found themselves back in the village… Dad's business has collapsed. “Nwanyi ofe mmanu bû bádluck bia n' uloa(This Yoruba woman came with bádluck)”. Grandma would taunt dad. But dad didn't take her word to heart. Even when Mom started having a series of m!scarriages, and grandma wouldn't stop bothering him to take a new wife, he refused to give up on mum. “You're my only son, Onyekachi. The nwanyi ofe mmanu you married is bárren! Why don't you marry Akuabata, and start giving me children. I'm not getting any younger”. Grandma would always tell him. It wouldn't end there, she would go ahead to bring the akuabata home to do chores for her. The lady would be parading the compound in a skimpy skirt or gown. Grandma finds pleasure in making mum shed tears. She neither eats her food nor allows her to touch her belongings. Once she returned from the farm and noticed that mom was cooking soup with her pot, she got really angry, stormed into the kitchen, set the pot down from the fire, and threw the soup on the ground. “Ahh! Mami?”. Mummy exclaimed. “Mami micha gi onu there! Ekwensu!”. Grandma cμrsed. With that, she went inside and came out again with a hammer and nails with which she pierced the pot in several places before flinging it into the bush. Morning and night, mom would cry, but my dad would always be there to comfort her. It was after six wásted years that uncle Tunde, my mummy's elder brother who resided abroad, remembered his sister. It was him who sponsored them financially. They left the village, back to Lagos, and started afresh. With time, things began to normalize, and that was when I came into the picture. Mom's pregnancy journey wasn't easy, she was hospitalized thrice due to threatened m¡scarriages. However, with Divine intervention I was brought into this world, a year after they returned to the city. **********”******* Though I feel sorry for her, hearing all these stories about mom's mystery didn't deter me from wanting to visit the village. In fact, my excitement only grew stronger. I was still eager to experience village life and make new memories. I couldn't wait shåre my own village experience with my friends. Thankfully, at last, Mummy agreed to the journey. Then came D-Day. It was on December 20th. Very early in the morning, we set out for the East in my dad's car. Myself and my parents, with one woman and her infant son. The journey was tiring. I didn't imagine it was going to be so.I sleep and wake up occasionally and still find ourselves on the road. At one point, I began to cry. “The masquerades in the village will b!te you if they see tears in your eyes”. Mom said. I stopped crying instantly and wiped my tears. As the evening drew in, we continued driving until the woman and her son dropped off at a junction. We then turned onto an untarred road, which seemed to stretch on forever. This story belongs to Joy Ifunanya. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, we drove into a wide compound and halted in front of a thatched-roofed bungalow. An old woman was sitting by the side of the wall, picking something from a calabash on the ground in front of her. “Here we are!” Daddy announced. “Village?” I asked, excitement building inside of me. “Yeah! Grandma is here”. Daddy said, pointing towards the old woman. By now, the woman had looked up from the calabash and was staring at our car. “Grandma!”. I screamed out excitedly, and without waiting, I threw open the car door and leaped out “Grandma, grandma!”. I chanted as I ran towards her. But as I drew closer enough to behold her face, my feet seemed to freeze of their own accord. A chill rippled through my body, raising goosebumps on my skin. Grandma was the same woman who had haμnted my dreams…. Typing 2……….. Please, shåre 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏 #Story from Joy Ifunanya's story room.