Super Falcons Rewarded Royally, But Who Will Honour Nigeria’s Real Nation Builders? By Stanley Ugagbe The air is thick with jubilation, and rightly so. Our Super Falcons, a beacon of national pride, have once again soared, bringing home the 2024 Women's Africa Cup of Nations trophy. President Bola Tinubu, with a flourish, has showered them with accolades: national honors, three-bedroom apartments, and a cool $100,000 each. The Nigeria Governors Forum chimed in with an additional N10 million per player. A grand gesture, indeed, a testament to their dedication and a shining moment for our nation. But as the confetti settles and the cheers begin to fade, a dissonant note rings in the ears of many, a stark reminder of a deeper, more unsettling reality. While we celebrate our athletes, and rightly so, a gnawing question begs to be asked: what about the unsung heroes who keep the wheels of our society turning? The ones who, day in and day out, toil in the trenches, their invaluable contributions often met with a paltry pittance rather than a well-deserved windfall. Let's speak plainly. Our teachers, the very architects of our future, are paid peanuts. They stand before our children, molding minds and shaping destinies, yet their take-home pay often feels like a cruel joke, barely enough to keep body and soul together. They are the bedrock of our society, yet we treat them as if their worth is less than the dust beneath our feet. And what of our professors, the custodians of knowledge, the intellectual giants who are meant to propel our nation forward? They too earn peanuts, forcing many to moonlight or abandon academia altogether, leaving a gaping void in our institutions of higher learning. We expect them to produce world-class research and educate the next generation, but we offer them crumbs, effectively telling them their expertise is dispensable. Consider the military men, those brave souls who stand as our shield against chaos, putting their lives on the line to safeguard our peace and sovereignty. Their sacrifice is immense, their courage unwavering. Yet, their take-home pay can't even take them home. Many struggle to provide for their families, living a hand-to-mouth existence while facing unimaginable dangers. It's a bitter pill to swallow when those who protect us are themselves struggling to survive. Then there are our medical personnel, the frontline warriors against illness and disease, who dedicate their lives to healing the sick and saving lives. They are stretched thin, overworked, and underpaid, often working in deplorable conditions. The deplorable conditions and abysmal remuneration have driven many to seek greener pastures abroad, a phenomenon we now tragically refer to as "japa." Our hospitals are bleeding talent, and who can blame them for escaping a system that undervalues their tireless efforts? The irony is as sharp as a surgeon's scalpel. We celebrate a football victory with lavish rewards, a moment of fleeting glory, while the very pillars of our society crumble under the weight of neglect. It's like pouring champagne on a wilting plant while the roots are starved of water. This disparity isn't just an oversight; it's a profound statement about our national priorities, a disheartening reflection of where our true values lie. This isn't to say our Super Falcons don't deserve their accolades. They fought hard, they won big, and they brought joy to millions. Their victory is a testament to the power of sport and the spirit of perseverance. But true national development isn't built on isolated triumphs; it's built on the collective strength of a well-compensated, motivated, and appreciated workforce. We cannot expect to build a truly great nation when the very people entrusted with educating our children, securing our borders, and healing our sick are struggling to make ends meet. It's a house built on sand, destined to collapse under the slightest pressure. This isn't just about money; it's about dignity, about respect, and about valuing the foundational elements of our society. It's time for a radical shift in perspective, a re-evaluation of our national ethos. We must move beyond the dazzling spotlight of transient achievements and focus on the quiet, consistent efforts that truly sustain us. Let's not be blinded by the glitter of gold medals while the very fabric of our society frays at the edges. The President's gesture, while commendable for the Super Falcons, highlights a glaring double standard. If we can find the resources to reward athletic prowess so handsomely, then surely, we can find the means to ensure that those who dedicate their lives to public service are compensated with dignity and fairness. It's not a matter of scarcity; it's a matter of priority. It's time to provoke action. We must demand a living wage for our teachers, fair compensation for our professors, honorable pay for our military, and respectable remuneration for our medical personnel. We must hold our leaders accountable and insist that they put their money where their mouths are when it comes to the well-being of all citizens, not just a select few. Let this moment of athletic triumph be a catalyst for change, a loud alarm bell ringing in the ears of those in power. Let it remind us that a nation's true strength lies not just in its sporting victories, but in the equitable treatment and flourishing of all its people. Otherwise, the taste of victory will forever be tinged with the bitter irony of a society that celebrates some while leaving others to wither on the vine. Stanley Ugagbe is a seasoned journalist with a passion for exposing social issues and advocating for justice. With years of experience in the media industry, he has written extensively on governance, human rights, and societal challenges, crafting powerful narratives that inspire change. He can be reached via stanleyakomeno@gmail.com

*SCHOOL WITCHES 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥* *Episode One: The Meat of the Innocent* The sun stood reluctantly over Abuja, its golden face veiled in clouds as if it too dreaded what would unfold at Ivory City College. Chinasa sat quietly at the back seat of her parents' car, fingers twisting the hem of her green skirt, her heart pounding like a caged drum. Her eyes darted from her father’s stern silence to her mother’s gentle hands resting over hers. It was her final year in junior secondary school—JSS Three. The year that mattered. The car rolled to a stop in front of Hostel A, and as the door swung open, her mother stepped out first. Chinasa hesitated. Her father came around, opened her door, and handed her the small purple travel bag. "Chinasa, be strong," her mother whispered as she embraced her tightly, her perfume clinging to Chinasa like a memory that wouldn’t wash off. Tears rolled down her cheek before she could stop them. They waved at her from the car as they drove off, and Chinasa stood frozen, her chest crumbling like dry leaves underfoot. Then came the whirlwind of noise— "Na wa o! Chinasa you dey cry?" She turned. Betty, her wild-haired best friend, sprinted across the hostel lawn, flanked by Asia and Chommy. They wrapped their arms around her, bursting into giggles, teasing and tugging playfully at her braids. Chinasa laughed through tears as they grabbed her boxes and dragged her toward the hostel doors. Inside the large hall, the air was thick with the musty scent of bodies and bunk beds. Over two hundred girls shared the space, giggling, gossiping, some already changing into dorm wear. Asia and Betty helped her unpack, throwing jokes as they folded her clothes into the metal locker beneath the bunk. Then the assembly bell clanged. Like soldiers in chaos, students poured out into the gravel paths, flowing into the giant hall with rusted fans and a faint smell of varnish. On stage stood Mrs. Barbara, headmistress of Ivory City College, a woman known for her thick-rimmed glasses and voice that cracked like thunder. "Welcome to a new term at Ivory City!" she roared. "This is not your village. Obedience is not optional. You are young women being prepared for society!" Behind her stood the new prefects, eyes sharp as hawks. Some students clapped. Some stared like hostages. That evening, the dining hall erupted with madness. Noise bounced from wall to wall. Pantry boys and girls served trays of fried rice and chicken, but order was a myth. Students screamed across tables, fought over meat, some devoured food with open mouths, utensils forgotten. At one corner, Chinasa sat with Betty, Asia, Chommy—and three boys from their class. Among them was Victor, tall, quiet, with a face sculpted like it belonged in a storybook. He stared at Chinasa like he was seeing a spirit. She didn’t notice. From her school bag, she brought out a silver flask, its body smooth and warm from the sun. She opened it, and thick chunks of stewed meat slid out, oily, glistening, spiced. The aroma captured the attention of everyone around her. Asia and Chommy didn’t wait—they scooped pieces greedily, stuffing their mouths. The boys reached for some too. All except Victor. He just watched her. Betty nudged Chinasa. “Why you no go chop your own meat? You dey do fine girl?” “I’m okay with the chicken they gave us,” Chinasa replied quietly. “No try that nonsense,” Betty said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Na my mum prepare this meat for you. Anything I eat, you go eat too.” Chinasa hesitated. The meat looked too rich, too tender to resist. Guilt slid off her like a shawl. She picked a chunk and placed it over her green rice. The first bite melted in her mouth—juicy, buttery, laced with flavors she’d never tasted before. “Betty, this meat is mad o! What meat is this?” Betty grinned. “Human meat.” Chinasa stopped chewing. “What?” “I dey joke jare. It’s from my papa’s ranch. Young bull. Special breed.” Chinasa laughed. “Better talk true. This meat taste like sin.” They all laughed. But shortly after, Chinasa’s vision blurred. The world tilted like a room with a crooked floor. She stood up, mumbling something about needing to rest. The walk to the hostel was like wading through fog. By the time she lay on her bed, her bones felt hollow. Then darkness took her. --- She was flying. Her arms were wings—feathers sprouting from her shoulders. She gasped for air. She wasn’t dreaming; she was moving through night sky, trees rising below like jagged teeth. She slammed into a tree. Pain pierced her chest. She spiraled through the wind like a falling star, unable to scream. She crashed into a forest clearing. The open space was lit by hundreds of fire torches, their flames casting shadows on more than five hundred masked dancers circling a throne carved of skulls and bone. They wore brown ragged clothes, chanted in a language older than pain. The drums shook the ground. White men. Black women. Children. Teenagers. Witches. At the center, on the throne, sat the Queen Mother—masked, unmoving, glowing. “Unmask!” her voice rang like a bell soaked in fire. One by one, the dancers removed their masks. Chinasa gasped. Betty. Asia. Chommy. A teacher from school. A kitchen woman. Even the boy who once cleaned toilets. No. No no no. She turned to run. But something was already behind her. Demons. They flew like bats but had the heads and arms of men. Their skin was scaled like crocodiles. Their eyes were blood red, tongues long and split. They grabbed her and tossed her into the center circle like a ragdoll. “Feed her,” the Queen commanded. “No!” Chinasa screamed, struggling, crying. “I won’t eat!” The demons pried her jaw open. A wet, warm piece of meat was shoved into her mouth. Blood. It was blood. They forced her to swallow. Then everything went black. --- She woke up at 2:03 AM, gasping, drenched in sweat. She felt like she had been beaten with iron rods. Her ribs screamed in pain. Her arms had scratches—fresh, real. Her knees were bruised. “God… what is this?” She leaped from her bunk, her chest pounding. She checked her arms. The marks were still there. Her body had brought the dream into the real world. Outside, the night was silent. Too silent. She looked toward Betty’s bunk. The girl was fast asleep… with a smile on her lips. --- To be continued... IF I can get thirty shares today I'll write three episodes tomorrow

"They always know when you need a little extra love."

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What good is"Aim" if you don't know when to pull the trigger?

*ACTION TAKERS* The action you take TODAY Will determine the stories you tell TOMORROW What action are you taking today to prepare your financial success tomorrow? Buy G-token,brando shares now and hold tight. Bag more if you jave already Tell everyone you know to tell everyone they know.Soon you will achieve financial stability and happiness We moveeeeeeeeer

This is heartbreaking 😭 💔! This is one of the saddest stories you'll hear... A young, pregnant nurse named Ngozi was heartlessly lured and k!ll£d in Anambra State by a man who pretended his mother was sick just to get her to his house. She left her home thinking she was going to save a life... not knowing she was walking into the trap that would end hers. 😭 She had no idea that evil was waiting behind that door. Reports suggest the man may have k!ll£d her for ritual or was involved in selling human parts. How can people be this wicked? She was carrying a child... two lives gone just like that 💔💔 This pain is too much to bear. Full video drops tomorrow by 9AM. May her soul rest in peace. 🕊️💔

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Very Sad News 😭 she died inside Keke The incident happened around Umungasi, near Tonimas Filling Station, before Abia Polytechnic. The woman was said to be heading to Railway when she suddenly died in the moving tricycle. Her identity remains unknown at this time Please share massively to reach her family and friends

"The reality of our world is "some become gods, while some seek to know God and others are just okay with worshipping God even in the depth of their ignorance."

Never underestimate anyone in life cuz no one knows tomorrow.. Master P on this...

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