An 11 year old girl realized that she had started to grow hair between her legs. She got woried and asked her Mom about the hair. Her Mom calmly said " That part where hair has grown is called a Monkey, be proud that your Monkey has grown hair. " Next morning at breakfast she told her sister. " my moneky has grown hair. " her sister smiled and said " That's Nothing, mine is already eating Banana."
her Mom fainted

Stop ignoring my posts I'm not your ex

Oya fôllow my page

THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 5
The first time Jessica stepped out of that cold, confined room, her legs trembled—not from fear, but from the sudden rush of freedom.
Mr. Scar stood in the doorway, his massive frame blocking the light from the hall, his expression unreadable. He didn’t speak. Just extended a hand, palm up, waiting.
Jessica hesitated.
"Take it," he growled. *"Or go back inside."
She took it.
His grip was firm, warm, swallowing her slender fingers whole as he led her down the dimly lit corridor.
She expected another prison.
What she got was a paradise.
The new room was nothing like the last.
Large windows draped with silk curtains let in the golden Lagos sunlight. A king-sized bed with Egyptian cotton sheets, a vanity table lined with perfumes and lotions, even a bookshelf stocked with novels—many of them her favorites, though she never told him that.
Jessica turned in slow circles, taking it all in, her heart pounding.
"Why?" she whispered.
Mr. Scar stood by the door, arms crossed, his usual scowl in place. But his eyes—those dark, dangerous eyes—watched her with something close to… satisfaction.
"Because I can," he said simply.
But they both knew it was a lie.
It started with a cough.
A small thing, insignificant. But by nightfall, Jessica was burning up, her skin slick with sweat, her body wracked with shivers.
She barely registered the door bursting open. Barely felt the strong arms lifting her from the bed.
But she would never forget the raw panic in Mr. Scar’s voice when he barked at his men:
"Get a doctor. NOW."
For three days, Jessica drifted in and out of consciousness.
And for three days, Mr. Scar never left her side.
She woke once to find him slumped in a chair beside her bed, his usually immaculate suit wrinkled, his scarred face shadowed with exhaustion. A damp cloth was clutched in his hand, as if he’d been wiping her brow moments before sleep took him.
Another time, she stirred to the feel of strong arms lifting her, holding her against a broad chest as he forced sips of water between her cracked lips.
"Drink," he ordered, his voice rough but oddly gentle.
Jessica obeyed, too weak to argue.
The fever broke on the fourth night.
Jessica woke to the sound of harsh, uneven breathing.
Mr. Scar sat on the edge of her bed, his head bowed, his shoulders trembling. Moonlight spilled through the windows, glinting off the wet tracks on his cheeks.
Tears.
The most feared man in Lagos was crying.
Over her.
Jessica’s breath caught.
He must have heard, because his head snapped up, his expression hardening instantly. But it was too late—she’d seen it. The vulnerability. The fear.
"Don’t," he warned, voice hoarse.
She said nothing. Just reached out, her fingers brushing his.
He didn’t pull away.
As Jessica grew stronger, Mr. Scar’s behavior grew more… confusing.
He allowed her to wander the villa freely, though guards always lingered just out of sight. He had chefs prepare her favorite meals, though she never told him what she liked.
And at night—
At night, he came to her room.
Not to hurt her. Not to demand anything.
Just to be there.
He would sit on the edge of her bed, sometimes reading, sometimes just watching her with those dark, unreadable eyes. And when the nightmares came—because they always did—he was there, pulling her into his arms without a word, holding her until the shaking stopped.
One night, as she drifted off against his chest, she heard him murmur something that made her heart stop:
"Please don’t leave me."
Jessica should have been afraid.
This was the man who’d locked her up, who’d threatened to kill her, who ruled the underworld with an iron fist.
But as the days passed, she found herself watching him too. Noticing the way his stern expression softened when he thought she wasn’t looking. The way his hands, so capable of violence, were endlessly gentle with her.
And one terrifying day, she realized the truth:
She didn’t want to leave.
The household noticed the change.
Hardened mafia men gaped as their boss carried Jessica to the garden when she was too weak to walk. The maids whispered when he personally tasted her food before letting her eat, a habit born from paranoia but now tinged with something else.
Protection.
Possession.
Love.
But no one dared say a word.
Because while Mr. Scar had clearly softened for Jessica, he was still a monster to everyone else.
The most surprising thing?
He never crossed the line.
No inappropriate touches. No demands. Just quiet companionship and a respect that left Jessica breathless.
One evening, as he turned to leave her room, she found herself speaking without thinking:
"Stay."
Mr. Scar froze. When he turned back, his eyes were blazing.
"Do you know what you’re asking?" he growled.
Jessica held his gaze. "Yes."
For a long moment, they just stared at each other. Then, slowly, he shook his head.
"Not like this," he said softly. *"Not until, you’re sure."
And with that, he left.
TO BE CONTINUED...

THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 3
The night Jessica met Mr. Scar, the air smelled like danger and expensive cologne.
She had been in the VIP lounge of La Reine, the most exclusive club in Lagos, where rich men paid to forget their sins. Lady Lily had warned her about this job—*"Don’t ask questions. Don’t look him in the eye too long. Just be perfect."
But the moment he walked in, Jessica knew this man was different.
Mr. Scar wasn’t handsome in the traditional sense. His face was all sharp edges—a jagged scar running from his left eyebrow down to his jaw, a souvenir from a life lived in blood. His suit was black, tailored to fit his broad frame like a second skin, and his gold watch glinted under the dim lights.
But it was his eyes that froze her. Dark, calculating, the kind of eyes that saw everything.
He didn’t leer at her like the others. He studied her, like she was a puzzle he wanted to solve.
"You’re new," he said, his voice low and rough, like gravel.
Jessica forced herself to smile, the way she’d been trained. "First time here, sir."
He smirked, swirling his whiskey. "You’re lying."
Her pulse spiked.
For hours, they talked. Not the empty, lust-filled chatter of her usual clients, but *real* conversation—politics, books, even her studies. He listened when she spoke, his gaze never leaving her face.
"Why do you do this?" he asked suddenly.
Jessica hesitated. The truth sat heavy on her tongue—Because my family is starving. Because I have no choice.
But she gave him the practiced answer instead. "Money."
Mr. Scar laughed, but it wasn’t cruel. "Finally, an honest woman."
And just like that, she saw it—the flicker of interest in his eyes.
She had his attention.
And in his world, attention was dangerous.
Three nights later, Jessica was snatched off the street.
A black van screeched to a halt beside her, and before she could scream, gloved hands yanked her inside. A hood was thrown over her head.
When it was ripped off, she was in a warehouse, tied to a chair. A man in a crisp white suit—Mr. Scar’s rival, Kazeem—smiled down at her.
"Pretty thing," he mused, tapping her cheek with a knife. *"Scar likes you. That makes you useful."
Her blood turned to ice.
"Seduce him," Kazeem ordered. "Get the ledger with his black-market deals. Do it, and I’ll pay you triple what he ever could."
Jessica’s mind raced. If she refused, she was dead. If she agreed…
She was playing with fire.
She tried. God, she tried.
For a week, she met Mr. Scar—dinners, late-night drives, even his penthouse. She laughed at his jokes, let him touch her, all while searching for that damn ledger.
But he was smarter than she expected.
One evening, as she pretended to sleep in his bed, she heard him on the phone. "She’s working for Kazeem."
Her heart stopped.
The next thing she knew, a hand fisted in her hair, yanking her up. Mr. Scar’s face was a mask of cold fury.
"You ****** girl," he snarled. "Did you really think I wouldn’t know?"
Terror choked her. "I—I had no choice—"
"Everyone has a choice," he hissed. Then, to the guards looming behind him: "Take her."
The basement was damp; the walls stained with things Jessica didn’t want to think about.
Mr. Scar paced in front of her, his rage a living thing. "I trusted you," he spat, like the words tasted bitter.
Jessica shook, tears streaming. "They threatened me! I didn’t want to—"
"Liar." He backhanded her.
Pain exploded across her cheek. But worse than the sting was the betrayal in his eyes.
And then—
He stopped. Stared at her. Really looked at her.
For the first time, Jessica let him see the truth. The fear. The desperation. The shame.
Something in his expression shifted.
"Who owns you?" he demanded.
She swallowed blood. "No one."
A long silence. Then, slowly, he crouched in front of her, tilting her chin up.
"Wrong answer," he murmured. "Now you’re mine."
TO BE CONTINUED...

BREAKING NEWS: Over 2027 Election, Fight Erupts At APC Meeting Over Alleged Plot To Drop Shettima From Tinubu's Tickets

A stakeholders’ meeting of the All Progressives Congress (APC) in Gombe State descended into chaos on Sunday after Vice President Kashim Shettima was conspicuously excluded from a public endorsement of President Bola Tinubu’s second-term bid.

The North-East zonal meeting, attended by high-ranking party officials including APC National Chairman Dr. Abdullahi Ganduje, federal ministers, governors, and lawmakers, was expected to affirm the party’s cohesion in preparation for the 2027 general elections..

THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 2
The first time Jessica stepped into the VIP lounge, her stomach twisted with shame. The air smelled like expensive whiskey and desperation, a far cry from the stench of the slums she had grown up in. The neon lights flickered, casting shadows over the faces of men who watched her like she was a meal. She was nineteen, dressed in a tight black dress that clung to curves she hadn’t even known she possessed—a far cry from the bony girl who used to count grains of rice in the dirt.
Lady Lily, the woman in the sleek car, had painted this life as glamorous. "You’ll wear designer clothes, sleep in five-star hotels, and make in one night what your parents sweat for in a year," she had said.
But the first time a client touched her, Jessica had locked herself in a bathroom afterward and scrubbed her skin raw.
Not all of it was hell.
There were nights when the men were kind—older businessmen who preferred conversation over groping, who tipped her extra when they saw textbooks peeking out of her bag. Some even admired her ambition.
"You’re too smart for this," one had said, a silver-haired executive who paid her just to listen to him talk about his failed marriage. He left her an envelope thick with cash and a note: "For your education."
On those nights, Jessica allowed herself to hope. She would return to her tiny apartment—a step up from the slums, but still a far cry from luxury—and spread her books across the bed. Economics. Law. Literature. She devoured knowledge like a starving woman, her highlighter bleeding across pages late into the night.
And then there was the money.
Every month, without fail, she sent home stacks of cash—enough to feed her siblings, to pay for medicine, to finally get her father’s cough checked by a real doctor. Her mother’s voice on the phone was lighter these days, no longer frayed with exhaustion. "God bless you, my daughter," she would say, and Jessica would swallow the lump in her throat.
They never asked where the money came from.
She never told.
But then there were the other nights.
The ones where men didn’t see her as a person, just a body. The ones where their hands left bruises, where their laughter was cruel, where they called her names that made her want to vanish.
One client, a politician with a gold Rolex and dead eyes, had smirked as he threw cash at her feet. "Pick it up," he ordered.
She did.
That night, she cried in the shower until the water ran cold.
Lady Lily had warned her: *"This life will eat you alive if you let it."
Jessica refused to let it.
She kept a strict schedule—classes in the morning, study sessions in the library between appointments, nights "working" only when she had to. She learned how to read men, how to manipulate their desires, how to give them just enough to keep them coming back without losing pieces of herself.
And she never, ever let herself forget why she was doing this.
Her siblings were slipping away—one sister pregnant at sixteen, a brother dropping out of school to hawk goods in traffic. The slum was a monster, and it was hungry.
But Jessica had claws too.
Then came the night she met him.
A crime lord.
Not just any client, but the kind of man even powerful people whispered about. His name was a rumor, a shadow. And when he walked into the VIP lounge, the air shifted.
He didn’t leer at her like the others. He studied her.
"You don’t belong here,"* he said, his voice low.
Jessica met his gaze without flinching. "Neither do you."
For the first time in years, someone saw her—*really* saw her.
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
TO BE CONTINUED...

A PASTOR'S BETRAYAL
FINALE
The morning sun shone brightly as Grace stepped out of the car, smoothing her dress with nervous hands. Michael stood beside her, his warm fingers intertwining with hers—a silent promise of strength.
"Ready?" he murmured.
Grace took a deep breath, looking at their children—Sarah, Daniel, and Joy—standing behind them like soldiers ready for battle.
"More than ready."
Today, the truth would be heard.
The sanctuary was packed.
As Grace and Michael walked down the aisle together, whispers erupted like wildfire. Heads turned. Eyes widened.
Pastor Gideon, mid-prayer at the pulpit, froze when he saw them. His mouth went slack, his hands gripping the podium until his knuckles turned white.
Grace met his gaze—and smiled.
The pastor's face drained of color.
When testimony time came, Grace didn't wait to be called. She stood, her heels clicking against the marble floor as she walked to the microphone.
Michael joined her, his presence steady beside her.
"Good morning, church," Grace began, her voice clear. "Some of you know me. Some of you... have heard lies about me."
She turned to face Pastor Gideon, whose smile had turned sickly.
"But today, you'll hear the truth."
And then, she told them everything.
How Pastor Gideon had preyed on her during her weakest moment.
How he'd twisted scripture to convince her to abandon her marriage.
How he'd taken her money—every last naira—while pretending it was "God's will."
Michael stepped forward then, his voice booming as he revealed the bank statements, the manipulated texts, the other women who'd come forward—widows, single mothers, all victims of the same scheme.
The congregation erupted.
"Sister Ngozi lost her house because of him!" a woman shouted.
"He told me my sick child would die if I didn't give offerings!" another cried.
Pastor Gideon stumbled back, sweat pouring down his face. "T-these are lies—!"
Then Sarah stood, holding up her phone. "No. This is a lie."
And she played the recording—his voice, clear as day, demanding Grace's last millions.
The church exploded.
Pastor Gideon bolted.
He shoved through the crowd, knocking over chairs as he sprinted for the exit. But the ushers—men who'd once obeyed his every word—grabbed him.
"You devil!" one roared.
The mob surged. Fists flew. A deacon's punch sent the pastor crashing into the communion table, wine spilling like blood across his white robes.
Grace didn't flinch.
Police sirens wailed outside.
The trial was swift.
Fifteen years for fraud. For exploitation. For shattering lives under the guise of God.
As the judge pronounced the sentence, Grace exhaled—a weight she hadn't known she carried lifting at last.
Michael squeezed her hand.
It was over.
Months later, the Thompson home was alive with laughter again.
Michael, once a workaholic, now built pillow forts with Joy on Saturdays.
Sarah, no longer sullen, sang as she helped Grace cook Sunday dinner.
Daniel, quiet but content, taught Grace how to use social media—"To help others spot wolves in sheep's clothing," he said wisely.
One evening, as they sat around the firepit, Grace looked at her family—whole again—and felt tears prick her eyes.
Michael kissed her temple. "What is it?"
Grace smiled. "I almost lost this. Lost you."
Joy climbed into her lap. "But you didn't, Mama."
And as the fire crackled, warming them all, Grace knew—
No false shepherd could touch them now.
The new pastor was kind. Real.
Under his leadership, the church became what it was meant to be—a refuge. A family.
And every Sunday, front and center, sat the Thompsons.
Together.
The End.
The wolf was gone. The flock was safe. And the Thompson family?
They thrived.

A PASTOR'S BETRAYAL
PART 9
The morning sun streamed through the curtains of the Thompson family home, painting the walls in warm gold. Grace stood by the kitchen window, watching as Michael played with Joy in the backyard—their laughter floating through the open window like music.
Six months had passed since the hospital. Six months of healing—of late-night talks, family dinners, and slow, steady rebuilding.
Grace smiled as she poured tea into two cups—one with two sugars and a splash of milk for Michael, the other just the way she liked it.
She had never thought she would feel this kind of peace again.
It happened on a quiet evening.
Grace was curled up on the couch, flipping through an old photo album—pictures of birthdays, vacations, moments she had almost lost forever.
Michael sat beside her, watching her face as she traced a finger over a snapshot of their wedding day.
"Grace," he said softly.
She turned to him—and froze.
Michael was on one knee, holding a simple gold band. Not a new ring.
Her ring.
The one she had left behind.
"Marry me again," he whispered. "Not because we have to. Because we want to."
Grace’s hands trembled as she reached for him. "Yes," she breathed. "A thousand times, yes."
They decided to do it in the south of France—just the five of them.
No fanfare. No crowds. No pressure.
Just love.
The ceremony took place on a small cliff overlooking the Mediterranean, the sea breeze carrying the scent of salt and blooming flowers. Sarah and Daniel stood as witnesses, grinning as they held the rings. Joy, dressed in a tiny white dress, scattered petals at Grace’s feet.
When the officiant pronounced them husband and wife (again), Michael didn’t wait for permission to kiss her.
Grace melted into him, her heart so full she thought it might burst.
Later, as they watched the sunset paint the sky in shades of pink and gold, Michael squeezed her hand.
"We’re going to make him pay, Grace," he murmured.
She didn’t need to ask who he meant.
Pastor Gideon.
The flight home was filled with quiet planning.
"We can’t just accuse him," Sarah said, surprisingly sharp for a teenager. "We need proof."
Michael nodded. "I’ve already started looking. There are others—women he’s manipulated, money he’s stolen."
Grace’s stomach twisted. She had been one of many.
But not the last.
Never the last.
"We’ll expose him," she said, her voice steady for the first time in months. "Publicly. So he can’t hurt anyone else."
The children exchanged glances, then grinned.
It was time for revenge.
The Sunday after their return, Grace walked into Pastor Gideon’s church for the first time since her collapse.
Heads turned. Whispers followed.
Pastor Gideon, mid-sermon, faltered when he saw her.
But Grace didn’t flinch.
She walked straight to the front row—where Michael and the children waited—and sat down.
The pastor’s smile was strained. "Sister Grace! What a... surprise."
Grace merely smiled.
You have no idea what’s coming.
After the service, Grace requested a private meeting.
The pastor’s office was just as she remembered—opulent, suffocating.
"You look... well," he said, eyeing her warily.
Grace folded her hands. "I am. Thanks to my family."
A flicker of unease crossed his face.
She leaned forward. "I know what you did, Pastor. And I’m not the only one."
His smile froze. "I don’t know what—"
Michael stepped out of the shadows, holding a recorder. "We have testimonies from five other women. Bank records. Even your *texts*."
Pastor Gideon paled.
Sarah, standing in the doorway with her phone, smirked. "Oh, and this is being livestreamed to the entire congregation."
The pastor’s chair screeched as he stood. "You can’t—"
Grace rose, her voice calm. "Watch us."
TO BE CONTINUED...

War against Yahoo-Yahoo is not ending anytime soon!

WHY?

Listen to the following reasons by the Executive Chairman of the EFCC @OlaOlukoyede_

The Eagle is relentless!

#EndYahooYahoo
#EFCCNigeria

War against Yahoo-Yahoo is not ending anytime soon!

WHY?

Listen to the following reasons by the Executive Chairman of the EFCC @OlaOlukoyede_

The Eagle is relentless!

#EndYahooYahoo
#EFCCNigeria

This is so inhuman

Story: 14yrs old JSS3 girl says she sl€€ps with 12 to 20 men daily for ₦1k.

Yesterday, Amotekun busted a s£x trafficking syndicate in Ogun state. Where they lure kids and use them as s€x slaves charging customers as low as ₦1k per session.

14yrs old victim said they brought her from Akwa Ibom on the promise that she’ll work as a sales girl.

On getting there, they gave her some drugs, the boss lady cut her hair and told her that, if she runs away, she’ll use the hair to kill her.

Ever since, she has been working as a prostitute for her madam, Mrs. Edem Joy. Who claimed she also had a boss, Mrs Okutoro Yemisi, 60.

They lure g!rls from Akwa Ibom, Calabar and Delta State .. but mostly from Akwa Ibom — make them swear with their blood, hairs and or Bible.. that they’d never confess or runaway.

After which, tie them down with drugs and charms and dispatch them to different hotels.. with the promise of letting them go after a year and settling them with a phone and a box of clothes.

The girls hinted that, their boss uses the tissue used by the men for ritual purposes, because they ensured they submitted it after every session.

They charge as low as 1k and as high as ₦5k, but submit all the cash to Mrs Edem.

The youngest amongst them was a 12yrs old girl. Authorities received an anonymous tip on 8th of February. They were arrested at , Railway Line Hotel, Old Bank Bus Stop, in Ifo town.

Lubricant, drugs, cash and charms were reportedly recovered from the suspects

E get as man go lie give u eeh u go first pause,move back small con find small chair sit down,con dey admire talent

An Italian museum has called on patrons to "respect art" after a couple was filmed breaking a chair covered in hundreds of glittering crystals
 
Watch here: https://bbc.in/3HGyzKg