Psalms 119:89 For ever, O LORD, thy word is settled in heaven.

THE 48 LAWS OF POWER.

A Book written by Robert Greene that offers a Series of Strategies for Obtaining and Maintaining Power in various situations. Here I leave you a summary of the 48 Laws:

1. Don't Outshine the Boss: Make your Superiors feel Superior. Don't expose your Talent too much or you might Trigger their Insecurity.

2.Don't Trust friends too much, use your Enemies: Friends Betray you more easily, but if you Manage to WIN an Enemy, they will be more Loyal.

3. Hide your Intentions: Keep People Off Balance so they can't anticipate your Actions.

4. Always say Less than Necessary: Silence Breeds Power, and Talking too much Reveals your Plans.

5. Protect your Reputation at all Costs: Reputation is the Cornerstone of Power.

6. Call Attention at all Costs: Be Visible to be Relevant.

7. Make others Work for you and Attribute it: Take Advantage of the Work and Effort of others to your Advantage.

8. Make others come to you: Don't Run after Others, make them Look for you.

9. Win with Actions, Never Arguments: Prove your Point through Actions, Not Words.

10. Avoid Losers and Unhappy: The Misfortune of others is Contagious; stay away from those who Bring you Down.

11. Make People Depend on you: If others Depend on you, you're in Control.

12. Disarm with Sincerity and Selective Generosity: Emotional Disarmament will give you an Edge.

13. When you ask for Help, Appeal to the Interests of Others: Appeal to what Benefits Others, not Gratitude or Compassion.

14. Introduce yourself as a Friend, act as a Spy: Learn to Extract Valuable Information from others without them Noticing.

15. Crush your Enemy Completely: Do not let your Enemy Recover, or he will seek Revenge.

16. Use Absence to Increase Respect: The Value of something Increases with Scarcity..

17. Keep Others in Suspense: Be Unpredictable, you will Confuse Others and Gain Power.

18. Do Not Isolate yourself: Loneliness Weakens you; Engage yourself in the Web of Influence.

19. Know Who You’re Dealing With: Choose Your Opponents And Partners Wisely.

20. Don't compromise with anyone: Maintain your Independence so you don't get Caught up in other People's Affairs.

21. Pretend to be a Fool to Catch the Sly: Let others think they have an Advantage over you.

22. Use the Surrender Tactic: Sometimes giving in at the Right Time gives you the Advantage.

23. Focus your Forces: Keep your Energy Focused on what really Matters.

24. Be a Master at Simulation and Disguise: Don't reveal all your cards.

25. Recreate your own identity: Be the architect of your own destiny.

26. Keep your hands clean: Make sure the responsibility for the problems falls on others.

27. Play with people's needs to create devotion: Satisfy their deep desires to earn you their loyalty.

28. Be bold in acting: Timidity is dangerous, boldness is powerful.

29. Plan everything to the end: Having a detailed plan allows you to avoid unpleasant surprises.

30. Make your accomplishments look easy: Minimize the effort you put in to make others think you have innate talent.

31. Control Other People's Options: Guide the decisions of others by giving them limited options.

32. Play with people's fantasy: Appeal to people's emotions and dreams to gain clout.

33. Discover the weaknesses of others: Identify what drives people to manipulate their actions.

34. Be rule in your behavior: Power lies in the appearance of greatness and dignity.

35. Master the art of timing: Don't rush; everything has its right time.

36. Despise what you can’t have: Don’t obsess over things that are out of your reach.

37. Create engaging spectacles: Theatrics and spectacles capture attention.

38. Think as you wish, but behave like everyone else: Do not openly defy social norms.

39. Stir the waters to catch fish: Destabilize others to make mistakes.

40. Despise free: What is free usually comes with a hidden cost.

41. Avoid imitating great men: Forge your own path instead of following in the footsteps of others.

42. Beat the shepherd and the sheep will scatter: He demolishes leaders to weaken his followers.

43. Work on the hearts and minds of others: Conquer the spirit of people to control them.

44. Disarm and anger with mirror effect: Reflect the actions of others to destabilize them.

45. Preach the need for change, but never reform too much: Radical change can generate resistance.

46. Never look too perfect: Perfection breeds envy and haters.

47. Don't exceed your goal: When you achieve what you want, retire on time.

48. Be amorphous: Be adaptable, don't limit yourself to a rigid form.

These laws are designed to handle situations of power, but it's important to consider context and personal ethics when applying them.

Since they say drinking garri makes people go bl1nd my Neighbour advice me to add onions to make my eyes clearer

One word for my Neighbour.....

THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 6
The morning of Jessica’s birthday dawned bright and golden, but her heart felt heavy.
She sat by the floor-to-ceiling windows of Mr. Scar’s villa, watching the sun rise over Lagos, her fingers tracing absent patterns on the glass. Birthdays had always been a quiet affair in the slums—if they were celebrated at all. Her mother would save for weeks just to buy a small cake, her father would whisper prayers of gratitude over her head, and her siblings would crowd around her, their laughter loud enough to shake their tiny one-room home.
Now, surrounded by luxury, she missed them more than ever.
A single tear slipped down her cheek.
She didn’t hear him enter.
Mr. Scar stood silently, watching her.
He had noticed the change in her these past few days—the way her smiles didn’t quite reach her eyes, the way she stared at her phone but never dialed, the way she flinched whenever someone mentioned family.
He knew why.
And he had planned something.
Clearing his throat, he stepped forward. Jessica quickly wiped her face, forcing a smile.
"You’re up early," she said softly.
Mr. Scar didn’t respond. Just studied her for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable. Then, without a word, he turned and left.
Jessica’s shoulders slumped.
She shouldn’t have expected anything.
Two hours later, a sleek black dress was delivered to her room.
Silk. Designer. The kind of thing she used to admire in shop windows but could never afford.
A note was pinned to it:
"Wear this. Be ready by 7."
Jessica’s heart skipped.
The restaurant was breathtaking.
An entire five-star venue, emptied of all other guests, decorated in soft gold and white. Crystal chandeliers cast shimmering light over tables laden with food—not just any food, but her favorites. Jollof rice, peppered snails, even the small coconut cakes her mother used to save up to buy her.
Jessica turned in a slow circle, her mouth open.
"What… is all this?"
Mr. Scar stood beside her, his usual scowl in place, but there was something softer in his eyes.
"You thought I forgot," he said.
It wasn’t a question.
Jessica swallowed. "I didn’t think you… cared."
A muscle ticked in his jaw. Then, so quiet she almost missed it:
"I do."
For the first time in months, Jessica laughed.
Really laughed.
Mr. Scar’s men—usually so intimidating—had awkwardly attempted to decorate, hanging lopsided balloons and streamers. A massive cake was wheeled out, and though Mr. Scar refused to wear the ridiculous paper crown the chef offered, Jessica caught the faintest smirk when she put hers on.
Music played. She danced. And for a few hours, the weight on her heart lifted.
But as the night wound down, a familiar sadness crept back in.
Mr. Scar noticed.
"Come," he said, holding out his hand.
"Where are we going?"
"You’ll see."
The drive was quiet.
Jessica watched the city blur past, her mind racing. They left the bustling streets behind, winding into an upscale residential area—the kind where diplomats and billionaires lived.
Her pulse quickened when the car slowed.
A mansion loomed ahead, its gates ornate, its gardens lush under the moonlight.
"Whose house is this?" she whispered.
Mr. Scar didn’t answer. Just stepped out and offered his hand.
Jessica took it, her legs unsteady.
The doorbell echoed like a gunshot in the silent night.
Jessica held her breath.
Then—
The door opened.
And her mother stood there.
Time stopped.
Jessica’s knees gave out. She collapsed right there on the marble steps, her hands flying to her mouth.
"Mama?"
Her mother’s eyes filled with tears. "My baby!"
Then arms were around her—her mother’s familiar scent, her father’s strong embrace, her siblings’ voices shouting her name as they piled into the doorway.
Jessica sobbed.
They were here. They were healthy. Their clothes were new, their faces fuller, their smiles brighter.
How?
She turned, searching for Mr. Scar.
He stood a few paces back, his hands in his pockets, watching.
And for the first time, Jessica understood.
"You…" Her voice broke. "You did this?"
Mr. Scar shrugged, as if it were nothing. "I had them moved months ago."
Months.
That meant…
He had been taking care of them. All this time.
Jessica’s heart swelled until she thought it might burst.
Her father stepped forward, gripping Mr. Scar’s hand. "Thank you," he said, his voice thick. "You saved us."
Mr. Scar looked almost uncomfortable. "I don’t like debts."
But Jessica knew the truth.
This wasn’t about debts.
This was about her.
Later, when the tears had dried and the initial shock had worn off, Jessica found Mr. Scar standing alone in the garden.
She approached slowly.
"You never told me," she said.
He didn’t turn. "Would you have believed me?"
"No."
A pause. Then:
"They’re yours," he said gruffly. "The house. The cars. Everything. It’s in your name."
Jessica’s breath caught.
"Why?"
Finally, he faced her. The moonlight caught the scar on his cheek, the gold in his eyes.
"Because you smiled today," he said simply. "I wanted to see it again."
And with that, he walked away, leaving Jessica standing there, her heart in her throat.
As she watched him go, something inside her shifted.
This man—this dangerous, complicated man—had given her more than just a house or a party.
He had given her back her family.
Her happiness.
Himself.
And for the first time, Jessica didn’t just feel gratitude.
She felt love.
TO BE CONTINUED...

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...

THE AGONY OF THE BENUE STATE PEOPLE
Benue, land of sorrow and pain,
Where blood of innocents stains the ground again.
The cries echo through the night,
As lives are lost, and futures take flight.

Who will save our land from this despair?
Will it be the Governor, SGF, or Federal care?
Will faith leaders step in to calm the strife?
Or will our children continue to lose their life?

The farmers, once proud, now lie in death's cold grasp,
Their villages bleeding, their future aghost.
The land is scarred, the people worn,
Their hearts heavy with grief, their hope forlorn.

We call out for help, for someone to hear,
To save our Benue, to wipe away our tears.
The Agony is real, the pain is true,
Benue State is dying, and nobody's coming through.

Help us spread the word, send out a plea,
To those who can help, to set our people free.
Benue needs a savior, a voice to cry out loud,
To stop the bloodshed, to heal the wounds allowed.

Afodaga Digital Coach and supported by CAP Members.

STOP TRYING TO PROVE LOVE WITHOUT RESOURCES

Listen, King — this world doesn’t honor your pure intentions.
It honors results.
And in a world run by survival, security, and social proof…
Love without provision is a liability.

Let’s unpack this painful truth:

1. A Woman May Appreciate Your Heart — But She Respects Your Hustle.
You can give her attention, affection, poetry, and prayers.
But when rent’s due, when emergencies hit, when her friends flex their soft life…
Your pure love won’t keep her loyal.
Resources sustain relationships — not sweet words.

2. Love Without Money Turns a Man into a Burden.
If you keep showing up broke, unavailable, or dependent,
You stop being a lover and start being another problem.
And trust me — no woman wants to babysit a man she can’t lean on.

3. Provision Isn’t About Luxury — It’s About Stability.
She’s not asking you to buy mansions and Bentleys.
She needs to know you can handle life.
That you can protect, provide, and lead when the storm comes.
Without that?
Your love is a beautiful poem in a sinking boat.

4. The Harsh Reality: Broke Men Are Easily Disrespected.
Even if she loves you today…
Pressure will test her.
Her family, friends, society — all will ask:
"Why are you wasting time with a man who can’t even sustain himself?"
And slowly, the disrespect creeps in.

5. Love Is a Seed — Money Is the Water.
Without resources to build, travel, grow, and secure the future,
Even the deepest love will wither.
Not because it wasn’t real —
But because it wasn’t protected.

---

FINAL WORD

Stop chasing women with empty pockets and full hearts.
In this game of life, love without provision is vulnerability.
You can’t give a woman a future if you’re still fighting for survival.

Build your kingdom first.
Then invite a worthy queen in.

Because a broke king is just another man in line for rejection.

Legacy first. Love later.

THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 1
The stench of rotting garbage and sweat clung to the air like a curse. In the heart of Lagos' worst slump, where hope went to die, a little girl with too-big eyes and ribs poking through her skin crouched in the dirt, counting grains of rice like they were gold. Jessica was eight years old the first time she understood what hunger truly was—not just the gnawing emptiness in her belly, but the kind that made her mother weep silently at night, the kind that made her father’s hands shake when he couldn’t afford medicine for her baby brother’s fever.
Nine people. One room. A single mattress stained with years of suffering, shared between her parents and seven children. The walls were thin, and the sounds of the slum never slept—drunken shouts, the cries of hungry babies, the scuttling of rats that were bolder than the people. Jessica learned early that life wasn’t fair. While other children played, she scavenged. While others dreamed, she fought—for food, for space, for a single moment of silence.
But there was something different about Jessica. Even as a child, her eyes burned with a fire that poverty couldn’t extinguish. At ten, she taught herself to read using tattered newspapers she found in the trash. At twelve, she sold boiled groundnuts under the scorching sun, saving every coin in a rusted tin she buried beneath their floor. At fifteen, she watched her eldest sister, Ada, disappear into the night with a man who promised her "work"—Ada never came back. That was the day Jessica swore she would never let the slum swallow her whole.
By some miracle—or sheer stubbornness—she finished secondary school. Then came the university admission letter, a flimsy piece of paper that felt like a ticket to heaven. But heaven came with a price. Her parents cried—not tears of joy, but of shame, because they couldn’t afford it. So Jessica did what she had always done: she fought.
She sold pure water under the rain, braved the leering eyes of market men who "tipped" her extra for bending low, took cleaning jobs in rich neighborhoods where women looked at her like she was dirt. Still, it wasn’t enough. Then one evening, a woman in a sleek car rolled down her window and said the words that would change everything: "A girl like you could make a month’s salary in one night."
Jessica knew what it meant. She wasn’t ******. But as she stared at the woman’s manicured nails and perfumed wrists, she thought of her siblings’ hollow cheeks, her father’s cough that never went away, her mother’s broken back from carrying other people’s loads. That night, she made a choice—not because she wanted to, but because the slum had given her no other options.
She became an escort. Not the kind draped in shame, but the kind who wore her pain like armor. She studied men the way she had once studied textbooks—learning their weaknesses, their desires, the way power curled around them like smoke. She was careful. She was smart. And most importantly, she had a plan.
This life wouldn’t break her. It would fuel her.
Because Jessica had one rule: no matter how far she sank, she would never stop climbing.
TO BE CONTINUED....

Imagine having a man who ignores you when you're speaking from the depths of your heart. You're not yelling, you're not accusing... you're just trying to express how you feel. And as you sit there, waiting in silence, hoping for a simple sign of care or concern, you get nothing. Just five long, painful minutes of silence. Then finally, the only words he offers are, "I have nothing to say."
Imagine how small that makes a woman feel.
Now picture this being your reality night after night. You’re crying in the dark, wiping tears off your face quietly so you don’t disturb him… and he’s fast asleep.
Peaceful. Unbothered. Telling you he needs rest because he has work in the morning. As if your emotional pain should be scheduled around his convenience. As if your hurt isn’t valid simply because he’s tired.
Imagine loving someone so much that all you want is to feel the same energy you felt when things were new… when he couldn’t go a day without complimenting you, when he actually listened, when he tried. When you weren’t begging for effort. When he made you feel like his world. Now, all you’re asking for is that same version of him… but he no longer sees the need.
And now… imagine this becoming your *everyday*.
It’s not one bad day. It’s a routine of silence. Of walking on eggshells. Of trying to explain yourself over and over just to be met with nothing. Of being in a relationship that makes you feel lonelier than being single ever did. And that’s what hurts the most… giving your heart to someone who holds it with indifference. Being in love with someone who makes you feel like a burden for simply wanting to be loved right.
You deserve more than someone who turns his back on your emotions.
You deserve presence, not just physical, but emotional. You deserve consistency, not just in the beginning, but throughout. And you deserve to be heard… really heard… not just tolerated in silence.

All women need to read this

When a man is truly interested in you, there will be no need for you to do the pursuing. Men are born to pursue women. Yes, you can pursue a man if you want to, but in most cases that's just an obvious sign that he's not into you.It's not natural for a man to sit back and let the woman do all the work.For a man who claims to like you to sit back and allow you to do all of the calling, texting, dating arrangements, talks about the future etc, it's pretty obvious where you stand in that man's life.
When a man really wants you, you won't have to chase after him like he's some celebrity who barely has time for a fan. You will be his priority.
When a man values you, effort won’t feel one-sided — it’ll feel mutual.
He won’t leave you questioning your worth or place in his life.
You won’t have to beg for attention, because he’ll give it willingly.
His consistency will speak louder than any sweet words ever could.
Real interest shows through actions, not just occasional affection.