My First Time (Episode 1)

It was just... my first time.

You see, growing up,
I built fences around my longings.
Barbed wires of scripture.
Walls of willpower.

Yes, I built my world on rules.
Not the ones written by men,
But the kind you etch in your spirit...
When you're desperate to stay pure in a defiled world.

I made promises to God...
With trembling lips and innocent hands.
Whispers at altars.
Tears during youth vigils.
I will stay virgin.
“No touching.”
“No tasting.”
Not even a kiss...
Until I say “I do.”

Chastity wasn’t just a principle.
It was identity.
It made me feel holy.
Set apart.
Safe.

I guarded it with fear,
Polished it with pride,
Wore it like a spiritual medal on my chest.

At first, it was easy.
Temptation was a rumour from afar.
I didn’t know I was bragging,
From the comfort of distance,
Until life dragged me closer...

Closer to the edge.
Closer to my first time.
So close, I slipped...
Into a moment that almost stained
everything I ever stood for.

And guess where it started?
Church.
Yes, church.
The holy ground.
Where fire falls,
And temptation hides in skirts.

I met her in the Lord’s house.
A sister dripping grace and beauty.
Golden.
Glowing.
Spirit-filled.
Fire-filled.
The kind of girl that makes angels blush,
And brothers lose their train of prayer.

You know those sisters...
That carry the Word like perfume?
The ones whose laughter feels like revival?

That was her.
Elegant.
Confident.
Convicted.
When she walked,
Even ushers paused...
Just to feel her presence again.

The first time I saw her,
My chest skipped.
But she didn’t see me.
Of course she didn’t.
I was just one humble brother in Christ.
So I did what humble brothers do.

I behaved.
Dodged eye contact.
Buried desire in devotion.
Tried to crucify my feelings like they were demons.

Every day, I looked away,
Praying she wouldn’t notice...
The war already starting in my soul.

Then Media Unit happened.
God called me... indirectly.
A leader pointed at me.
“You, join Media.”
I didn’t argue...
Who argues with destiny?

Guess who was already in Media?
Her.
Yes. Her.

We were teammates now.
Ministers.
Co-labourers in the vineyard.
Writing scripts.
Designing flyers.
Fighting battles I didn’t know existed.

Then that day...
That tiny moment that changed everything;
They asked, “Who here can write very well?”

I raised my hand.
And that was the beginning.
They gave me bulletins.
Flyers.
Devotionals.
And I was just writing.

Then, from behind me,
Came the voice I had only heard in daydreams:
“Oh! So you can write this well?”

I smiled... small.
Very small.
Calculated.
Not too wide.
Because any wider, would expose the war...
Already going on in my chest.

From that day, we started talking.
Nothing serious.
Just… holy conversations.
Holy laughter.
Holy friendship.

But there was a way she looked at me.
Or maybe the way I looked at her.
Whatever it was,
Emotions began rising like praise and worship
...on a revival night.

But we were just two fire-filled believers,
Caught in the web of silent attraction.
Too spiritual to confess.
Too emotional to ignore.

So, we bottled it.
Suppressed it.
Every glance.
Every brush of hand.
Every awkward silence that felt too loud.

Until…
That evening.

We had a design to finish;
Flyer for Sunday’s service.
The plan?
Meet in church.
Safe ground.

But she said,
“Your house is closer to me than church.
Let me just come there.”

My heart blinked.
My spirit cleared its throat.
Something whispered,
“Oga... be guided.”

But I brushed it off.
Because I had convinced myself...
I was stronger than I actually was.
I had recited enough memory verses
to believe temptation couldn’t find me.

Besides, I had vows.
I had standards.
I had said no so many times in my mind
that I thought it would be automatic.

I even muttered “In Jesus Name”
To make my foolishness sound holy.

She came.
Fifteen minutes early.
Because real sisters don’t keep time,
They beat it.

I served her water,
Like a good host.
We opened the laptop.
Opened Photoshop.
Started designing.

Everything was set.
Except our boundaries.

But that’s where I’ll stop...
Because what happened next, ehn...

...wait for Episode 2.

Depot marketers lamented over Dangote's direct fuel distribution strategy, declaring it a “death sentence.”
After Dangote Petroleum Refinery announced it would start directly distributing petrol and diesel nationwide beginning August 15, members of the Dangote Marketers Group, an association of licensed depot marketers, have voiced significant concerns. They described this change as a "death sentence" for their part in the downstream value chain.

The marketers, who act as links between depot proprietors and fuel station managers, are concerned that the refinery's new approach of sidestepping traditional middlemen to provide direct sales and logistics to consumers will threaten their livelihood.

In a group chat, one marketer straightforwardly claimed that "the supply chain is dead." Others described it as an "evolution masked as a revolution" and cautioned that the resulting ripple effects could impact jobs, businesses, and even families.

Traditionally, independent marketers act as essential links by providing financing and logistical support between fuel depots and retail stations. Owners of fuel stations frequently depend on them for credit, assistance with loading processes, and managing transportation logistics.

Dangote's innovative approach eliminates the need for middlemen by providing direct sales, integrated logistics with a fleet of 4,000 trucks powered by CNG, and even offering credit options for bulk purchasers.

“Now imagine manufacturers boycotting middlemen and going straight to end users,” lamented Black Bishop, another group member. “End users will receive sealed, tamper-proof products delivered on time. All hell is about to break loose.” Mide Leo exclaimed.

Another marketer, Mide Loe, narrated how one of his clients, who owns over 15 haulage trucks, went silent after hearing the news.

“His silence was deafening,” Joe wrote. “Businesses will fold up. Homes will be broken. Fathers and mothers will be rendered jobless. This is sad.”

“Everyone dey collect… depot owners, importers, marketers, truckers, PTD, baranda” said Peter Akande, voicing frustration over the perceived monopoly.

Some marketers also questioned the silence of industry regulators like NMDPRA and the defunct PEF, which had developed the Aquila tracking platform. “What are the regulators doing? Someone should provide rules of the game,” said Stephen, emphasizing the need for policy safeguards to protect existing players.

“This isn’t a revolution. It’s the beginning of a one-man show in the downstream sector,” warned another group member. “May Nigeria succeed, but the market must remain competitive.”

“Let’s ask him how he intends to cover the cost of transportation. Is it embedded in product pricing? Will it lead to a price increase?” asked Black Bishop

THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 7
The mansion was quiet.
Jessica sat on the edge of her new bed, the silk sheets cool beneath her trembling fingers. The echoes of her family’s laughter still lingered in the air, the warmth of their embraces still imprinted on her skin.
But her mind was elsewhere.
It was fixed on him.
Mr. Scar.
The man who had given her everything.
The man who had torn apart the world and rebuilt it just to see her smile.
Her chest ached.
She couldn’t breathe.
Before she knew what she was doing, she was on her feet, her bare feet padding silently across the marble floors, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure the entire household could hear it.
She stopped outside his door.
Raised her hand.
And knocked.
A deep voice rumbled from within. "Come in."
Jessica pushed the door open.
Mr. Scar stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to her, his broad shoulders outlined by the moonlight. He was shirtless, his scarred skin a map of violence and survival, his muscles tense even at rest.
He didn’t turn.
"You should be with your family," he said quietly.
Jessica swallowed. Then, before she could lose her nerve, she sank to her knees.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice breaking. "For everything. For my family. For—for me."
For a long moment, there was only silence.
Then—
Strong hands gripped her arms, hauling her to her feet. Mr. Scar’s face was unreadable, his dark eyes burning.
"Don’t," he growled. "Never kneel to me."
Jessica trembled. "I don’t know how else to—"
"It was nothing," he interrupted, his voice rough. *)"I had my men dig deeper after that night in the basement. I know now that Kazeem threatened you. That you had no choice." His grip tightened. "You and your family will never be unsafe again. That’s my promise."
Something inside Jessica snapped.
Tears spilled over, hot and uncontrollable. A sob tore from her throat, then another, until she was shaking apart in his arms.
Mr. Scar froze.
Then, slowly—so slowly—his arms came around her, pulling her against his chest.
"Jessica," he murmured, his voice softer than she’d ever heard it.
She clung to him, her fingers digging into his bare skin, her tears wetting his chest.
And then—
She kissed him.
Mr. Scar went rigid.
For one heart-stopping second, he kissed her back—his mouth hot, desperate, hungry.
Then he wrenched away.
"Go to your room," he ordered, his voice strained.
Jessica stumbled back, her lips still tingling. "W-what?"
"This isn’t why I did any of it," he snarled, turning away. "I don’t want payment."
The words stung.
Jessica’s face burned. "That’s not—I didn’t—"
"Goodnight, Jessica."
Humiliation and hurt crashed over her. She turned to leave, her vision blurring.
She barely made it two steps before an iron grip seized her wrist.
Jessica gasped as Mr. Scar yanked her back, spinning her around so fast her head swam.
His eyes were wild.
"You don’t get to do that," he hissed. "You don’t get to kiss me like that and walk away."
Then his mouth crashed down on hers.
It wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t sweet.
It was ruin.
Mr. Scar kissed her like a man starved, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, his tongue claiming her mouth with a possessiveness that stole her breath. Jessica melted into him, her fingers tangling in his hair, her body arching against his.
Then he was lifting her, carrying her to the bed, his mouth never leaving hers.
"Tell me to stop," he growled against her lips.
Jessica shook her head, her eyes burning with tears. "Never."
That was all he needed.
He worshiped her.
With his hands. His mouth. His body.
Every touch was a brand, every kiss a vow. He tore her apart piece by piece, then put her back together again, his name a prayer on her lips as she shattered beneath him.
"Scar—!"
"Mine," he snarled in response, his fingers laced with hers, pinning her to the bed as he moved inside her. "Say it."
Jessica sobbed. "Yours."
He kissed her tears away.
Sunlight streamed through the windows, painting golden stripes across the rumpled sheets.
Jessica blinked awake, her body deliciously sore, her heart full to bursting.
Mr. Scar slept beside her, his arm draped heavily over her waist, his face younger in sleep, the harsh lines softened.
She smiled.
Then, carefully, she tried to slip away.
A strong arm yanked her back.
"Where do you think you’re going?" Mr. Scar murmured, his voice sleep-rough.
Jessica’s cheeks heated. "I—I thought—"
He rolled her beneath him, his dark eyes blazing with possession. "This is your room now, my sweet little lioness."
Her breath caught. "Really?"
Instead of answering, he kissed her.
And when he slid inside her again, slow and deep this time, Jessica knew—
She was home.
TO BE CONTINUED....

“Dialogue and Reconcile” are two of the most insensitive and irresponsible words ever used by a sitting president in the wake of a massacre by a notorious terrorist organization.

But no one is surprised: he once asked in Ondo - where are the cows?

For a man who once publicly claimed that the buck stops at the president’s table, his actions in the last 24 hrs reflects an abdication of responsibility, lack of empathy and glaring incompetence in restoring peace and stability.

This is shameful to say the least.

The death, killing and massacre in the middle belt is one too many. Perhaps the president needs reminding that the primary role of government is ensuring the safety and protection of lives and property.
These killings are unacceptable and a reflection of the failure of leadership to live up to its most basic responsibility.

Is Your Tomato Paste Really Made from Tomatoes?

By Israel Mensah Gothar – Good Living Ghana

Tomato paste is one of the most common ingredients in our kitchens — used in stews, soups, jollof, and more. But did you know that many of the tomato pastes sold on the market today contain very little actual tomato?

Instead, some brands are blending in: Wheat flour or corn starch
Refined sugar
Artificial coloring
Preservatives

The result? A thick red mixture that looks like tomato paste but lacks the nutritional value and purity of real tomatoes.

Why You Should Be Concerned

These adulterated pastes can: Raise blood sugar (because of hidden sugars)
Add empty calories (from starches)
Trigger inflammation or allergies (due to chemicals and dyes)
Deprive you of key nutrients like lycopene, vitamin C, and potassium

What’s worse — it’s often marketed as “pure tomato paste.”

What to Look Out For

Before you buy, read the label carefully. A quality tomato paste should list: Tomatoes
(Optional: salt)
No sugar, no flour, no starch, no coloring

If it includes anything else, it’s not the real deal.

Better still, prepare your own paste at home using fresh tomatoes — it’s healthier, safer, and more nutritious.
“Let’s stop being fooled by red coloring. Our kitchens deserve real food, and our bodies deserve real nutrition.”
Cc

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.

In 1999, the United Nations, through the International Labour Organization (ILO), adopted Convention No. 182 — calling on all nations to take urgent and immediate action to eliminate the most harmful and exploitative forms of child labour.

This includes slavery, trafficking, exploitation, hazardous work, and forced recruitment of children in armed conflict.�

✍🏾 Today, this convention is among the most widely ratified in the world — yet, millions of children remain unprotected.

In Africa alone, according to UNICEF, over 92 million children — 1 in every 5 — are still engaged in child labour.

�Many are out of school, exposed to danger, and stripped of their right to a safe, healthy childhood.

Despite progress, global trends have reversed in recent years — a stark reminder that words must become action.

With Sustainable Development Goal 8.7, the world pledged to end child labour in all its forms by 2025. But the deadline is here — and the urgency is real.

Now is the time to act boldly, implement fully, and protect every child’s right to be a child.

UNICEF

United Nations

#WorldDayAgainstChildLabour #UNICEF #ILO #Convention182 #Convention138 #ChildRights #Africa4Children #EndChildLabour #SDG8 #EducationNotExploitation #2025Deadline #ActNow

*HAPPY FATHER'S DAY, to all our Dad's in the world*

You are the architect of our resilience and the quiet pillar of our aspirations,

Your unwavering dedication has been a profound wellspring of inspiration, fostering within us the courage to navigate life's intricate currents and embrace its myriad challenges with grace and conviction. Your presence has not merely been a constant, but a transformative force, shaping the very contours of our being.

Beyond the tangible lessons and invaluable guidance, it is the quiet strength of your character and the boundless depth of your love that resonates most profoundly.

You have illuminated the path forward with an enduring luminescence, bestowing upon us the invaluable gift of unwavering support and an unshakeable belief in our potentials. For all this, and for simply being you, heartfelt gratitude knows no bounds.

Happy day to you once again!

*May God keep you safe and strong always*

Beloved, let us turn to God for protection. We can't rely on our own strength and abilities to keep us safe. We must trust in God's power and grace to guide us. The Bible reminds us that even the most vigilant can stumble, so let us put our faith in God. In these uncertain times, trusting in God is the best way to ensure our safety. (psa 16 v 1)

Heavenly father, l am so grateful for all you have done in my life. You have kept me safe and prevented the worst from happening. I trust that you will always shield me from evil and anything that could cause me harm. Please guide me to make wise decisions so l can stay out of harm's way... Amen.
Good morning, have a blessed day.

SOMETIMES THE PROBLEM IS YOUR MOUTH

We often talk too much, sharing more than we should. We expose our lives, our business, and even the intimate details of our marriages. But in doing so, we risk making ourselves vulnerable to harm. Remember, a person who knows nothing about you can never truly hurt you.

Not every success needs to be shared. Some victories are for you to enjoy in private, without the need for validation or praise from others.

Be mindful of how much you reveal. Not everyone who smiles at you is your friend. People can change, and the friend you trust today might become your adversary tomorrow.

Take Joseph’s story, for example. His dreams could have remained safe if he had kept his mouth shut. He wouldn't have been sold into slavery by his own brothers if he had practiced discretion.

A fish that keeps its mouth closed will never get caught. The same principle applies to our lives. Keep your thoughts, plans, and ambitions to yourself until the time is right.

Share your growth and success with wisdom. Not every coworker is a friend, and not everyone who congratulates you wishes you well. Be careful who you trust, and set healthy boundaries in all areas of your life.

Don't let a lack of wisdom cost you your job or your marriage. Protect your peace, and safeguard your relationships with discretion.

Remember, there’s power in silence, and sometimes saying less can lead to more.

Enjoy your weekend, and stay wise.

I wish you all love and peace.

https://whatsapp.com/channel/0029Vak8fCV9xVJbSFCiGN1K

The name of the Lord is a strong tower, the righteous run into it and are safe.