Why should people remain poor while gada chat has already provided financial freedom

Dangerfield Newby is the actual man on which the movie D’Jango Unchained is loosely based.

He was a member of the John Brown raiders. He joined the gang to save his wife, Harriet and children from slavery.

—Dangerfield Newby (1815 – October 17, 1859) was the oldest of John Brown's raiders, one of five black raiders, and the first of his men to die at Harpers Ferry, Virginia.

Born into slavery in Fauquier County, Virginia, Newby married a woman also enslaved. Newby's father was Henry Newby, a landowner in Fauquier County. His mother was Elsey Newby, who was a slave, owned not by Henry, but by a neighbor, John Fox. Elsey and Henry lived together for many years and had several children, although interracial marriage was illegal in Virginia. Dangerfield was their first child. Dangerfield Newby, his mother and his siblings were later freed by his father when he moved them across the Ohio River into Bridgeport, Ohio. John Fox, who died in 1859, apparently did not attempt to retrieve Elsey, Dangerfield, or any of his siblings. Dangerfield's wife and their seven children remained in bondage. A letter found on his body revealed some of his motivation for joining John Brown and the raid on Harpers Ferry.

Dangerfield Newby's wife, Harriet Newby, was the slave of Jesse Jennings, of Arlington or Warrenton, Virginia. Newby had been unable to purchase the freedom of his wife and seven children. Their master raised the price after Newby had saved the $1,500 that had previously been agreed on. Because all of Newby's other efforts had failed he hoped to free them by force. Harriet's poignant letters, found on his body, proved instrumental in advancing the abolitionist cause. Newby was six foot two.

On October 17, 1859, the citizens of Harpers Ferry set to put down the raid. Harpers Ferry manufactured guns but the citizens had little ammunition, so during the assault on the raiders they fired anything they could fit into a gun barrel. One man was shooting six inch spikes from his rifle, one of which struck Newby in the throat, killing him instantly. After the raid, the people of Harpers Ferry took his body, stabbed it repeatedly, and amputated his limbs. His body was left in an alley to be eaten by hogs. In 1899 the remains of Newby-plus remains of nine other raiders-were reburied in a common grave near the body of John Brown in North Elba, New York.

Dangerfield Newby's wife, Harriet and her children were sold to a Louisiana slave owner after the raid.

Nigeria's Cry for Help
In twilight's hush, where shadows play,
A nation cries, in desperation's sway,
Nigeria's heartbeat, strong and free,
Yet bound by chains, of poverty.

From Lagos' streets, to Kano's ground,
A people's plea, echoes all around,
Of leaders failing, to lead the way,
Of citizens suffering, night and day.

The cry for help, a desperate call,
For justice, equality, and freedom's fall,
From corruption's grip, that holds so tight,
From poverty's grasp, that chokes the light.

The youth, a force, with energy and might,
Yearning for change, and a brighter light,
But opportunities scarce, and hope dwindles fast,
Leaving many lost, in a future aghast.

The economy falters, and growth is slow,
The people suffer, as the system goes low,
The infrastructure crumbles, and roads decay,
The future uncertain, in a nation astray.

But still we cry, for a better day,
For leaders who care, and a brighter way,
For a Nigeria, where all can thrive,
Where justice reigns, and freedom survives.

The cry for help, a nation's plea,
For a future bright, and a destiny free,
Let us unite, and work as one,
To build a Nigeria, where all are won.

Tinubu Cannot Win South-West in a Free and Fair Election — Citizen Boldly Declares

Tears for Africa
In twilight's hush, where shadows play,
A continent's cry echoes through the day,
Africa's heartbeat, strong and free,
Yet bound by chains of poverty.

From Sahara's sands to Cape's green shore,
A story unfolds, of struggle and more,
Of nations rising, of dreams unfulfilled,
Of potential waiting, yet unskilled.

In cities bustling, where lights ablaze,
A different tale of Africa's gaze,
Of progress made, of hope anew,
Yet whispers of despair, in every hue.

The drums of tradition, beat strong and free,
A heritage rich, of history,
Yet modernity's tide, brings change and strife,
A balance sought, between past and life.

The tears fall hard, for all unseen,
For futures bright, yet unclean,
For opportunities, lost and rare,
For potential squandered, beyond repair.

But still we hold, on to hope's thin thread,
A glimmer of a brighter future spread,
Of leaders rising, with vision grand,
Of people uniting, hand in hand.

The African dream, of unity and might,
A future shining, where all take flight,
Where children learn, and grow with glee,
Where women thrive, and equality,
Where men and women, in peace entwine,
And Africa's story, is one divine.

The tears we shed, are not in vain,
For in our sorrow, a change will reign,
A new dawn breaks, with promise true,
For Africa's future, anew.

Let us stand tall, and claim our right,
To shape our destiny, and shine with all our might,
Let us unite, and work as one,
To build a brighter future, for everyone.

In Africa's heart, a fire burns bright,
A flame of hope, that guides through the night,
A beacon of light, that shines so bold,
A symbol of strength, that never grows old.

The tears for Africa, will dry with time,
As progress made, and hope entwine,
A brighter future, will soon unfold,
For Africa's children, young and old.

Russia's Foreign Minister  Sergei Lavrov in 2023 stated that for Africa to truly free itself from neocolonialism and imperialism, the continent must have a permanent seat on the UN Security Council—where major global decisions are made.

Furthermore, the African nation holding that seat should also possess and host a nuclear power program to safeguard the continent's voice on the international stage. According to the minister, this represents Russia's position, and "we will see what the future holds."

The truth won't set you free—your courage to live it will."

The truth won't set you free—your courage to live it will."

"Freedom smells like gasoline and matches when you're done negotiating."

"Freedom smells like gasoline and matches when you're done negotiating."

JUANEWS TO BURKINA FASO | THE CALL OF CONSCIENCE

> In the spirit of Thomas Sankara, JUANEWS extends a hand of fellowship to the people and leadership of Burkina Faso.

A nation that stood against imperialism, now has the chance to lead again — by recognizing Biafra’s right to exist.

Burkina Faso, the torch of justice now calls upon you. ✊🏾

Recognize Biafra. Defend freedom. Rekindle African dignity.

#JUANEWS #RecognizeBiafra #BiafraRecognition #BurkinaFaso #ThomasSankaraLegacy #AfricaForBiafra #UmojaWaAfrika
@PresidenceBF (Presidency of Burkina Faso)

@gouv_bf (Burkina Faso Government)

@SidwayaOfficiel (National news outlet)

@RTBInfo (Radiodiffusion Télévision du Burkina)

@Lefaso_net (Popular news site)

@Burkina24

A PASTOR'S BETRAYAL
PART 6
Grace sat by the window of her empty mansion, staring at the rain as it painted crooked lines down the glass. Three months had passed since the divorce. Three months of silence from her children. Three months of Michael’s unanswered calls piling up in her voicemail.
The house was too big. Too quiet.
She barely ate. Barely slept.
The only person who still visited was Pastor Gideon.
A knock at the door startled her.
Pastor Gideon stood there, his smile wide, his eyes gleaming as they swept over her disheveled appearance—the unwashed hair, the wrinkled clothes, the dark circles under her eyes.
"Sister Grace," he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "You look... tired."
Grace wrapped her arms around herself. "I haven’t been sleeping well."
The pastor sighed, shaking his head sadly. "The devil is attacking your peace. But don’t worry—God has shown me how to help you."
He placed a heavy hand on her shoulder, his grip just a little too tight.
They sat in the living room; Grace curled into herself on the couch while the pastor paced like a preacher at the pulpit.
"The church is building a new prayer retreat," he said, his voice swelling with false passion. "A holy place where broken souls like yours can find healing."
Grace blinked up at him. "That sounds... nice."
Pastor Gideon smiled. "It will be. But we need your help, Sister Grace. God has placed it on my heart to ask you for a seed offering."
He pulled out a brochure with glossy pictures of the planned retreat—a grand building with marble floors and golden accents.
Grace frowned. "How much?"
The pastor’s grin widened. "Thirty million naira."
Grace’s breath caught. That was more than half of what Michael had given her.
But the pastor leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "This is your chance to buy back God’s favor, Grace. After everything—the divorce, your children abandoning you—don’t you want to be right with the Lord again?"
Grace’s hands trembled.
She thought of Sarah’s laughter. Michael’s arms around her. The family she threw away.
Maybe... maybe this was her punishment. Maybe giving this money would fix things.
She nodded slowly.
Pastor Gideon’s eyes glinted.
Two weeks later, he returned.
This time, he arrived with a prayer group—three women from the church who circled Grace, laying hands on her, speaking in tongues.
"You have a spiritual blockage," the pastor declared. "A curse from your past life is stopping your blessings!"
Grace flinched as the women’s fingers pressed into her skin.
"How... how do I break it?" she whispered.
Pastor Gideon sighed, as if burdened by the weight of her sin. "It will require a mighty sacrifice. Twenty million naira. To cleanse your spirit."
Grace’s stomach twisted. That was nearly all she had left.
But the women nodded solemnly, their eyes wide with manufactured concern.
"God is waiting for your obedience, Sister Grace," one murmured.
Tears spilled down Grace’s cheeks.
She wrote the check.
A month passed.
Grace’s account was almost empty.
She hadn’t paid her electricity bill. The fridge was bare. The mansion felt like a tomb.
When Pastor Gideon came again, she was sitting in the dark.
"Sister Grace," he said, his voice oozing false sympathy. "You look worse."
Grace didn’t answer.
The pastor sat beside her, sighing heavily. "I’ve been praying for you. God has revealed the final step to your freedom."
Grace turned hollow eyes toward him.
"You must sell this house," he said. "And give the money to the church. It’s the last stronghold of your past life. As long as you live here, the devil will torment you."
Grace’s lips parted in shock.
This house was all she had left.
But the pastor pressed on, his voice smooth as poison. "Your children left you, Grace. Michael abandoned you. But the church has stayed. I have stayed. Who else do you have?"
Grace’s breath came in shallow gasps.
No one.
She had no one.
The papers were signed.
The house sold.
Grace handed every penny to Pastor Gideon, her hands shaking.
He smiled, patting her cheek like a child. "You’ve done well, Sister Grace. God is pleased."
Then he left.
And he never came back.
Grace sat on the floor of a tiny, rented apartment, her back against the wall, staring at her phone.
One missed call from Michael.
One voicemail from Sarah.
She couldn’t bring herself to listen.
Outside, the rain fell harder.
And for the first time, Grace realized the truth:
She had been the prey all along.
her bones clean. Now comes the hunger.......