I was Born an Ajebutter,
But, I Ended up as Ajepako

I was born into silk sheets and gold spoons,
A son of prestige, raised in the courtroom/home of a Legend.
Ajebutter by birth, yes soft life, soft tongue, soft hands.
But somewhere between legacy and rebellion, I chose the fucking fire.

I traded chandeliers for streetlights.
Gave up comfort for chaos.
Because how can you live sweet
When your people are choking on bitter?

I saw the lies wrapped in lace.
The fake smiles hiding oppression.
And I knew I wasn’t built to smoke weed in silence.
I was made to raise hell for the helpless.

Ajepako became my path not by force,
But by choice.
Because that’s where the truth lives,
In the mud, in the markets, in the mouths of the masses.

I became the voice that refused to whisper.
The punk that wouldn’t bend.
I wore the scars of the street like badges of honour.
No Gucci. No Gucci soul. Just grit.

So when they ask, Why did Area Fada flip the script?
Tell them:
The mansion didn’t raise me, the mission did.
The throne didn’t build me, the truth did.

Ajebutter gave me polish.
But Ajepako gave me power.
And between the two,
I chose the one that made me unforgettable.

I was born Charly, son of a legal jurganut.
But I became Area Fada, defender of the judged.

Ajebutter by blood.
Ajepako by destiny.
And I have no regrets
I no dey finish.

In the latest instance, the billionaire cofounder and CEO of software giant Atlassian Mike Cannon-Brookes announced that 150 people would be laid off, with some jobs being replaced with AI tech, outlets including Sky News report.

PROTECT THE VULNERABLE.
When a woman has been emotionally bartered and abused, the greatest closure isn't confrontation.
It is being protected by someone who won't manipulate her softness.

IF YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND SOME WOMEN THOUGH NOT ALL, THEY WILL DRAIN YOUR ENERGY, KILL YOUR FOCUS, AND DERAIL YOUR MISSION.

Most men don’t fail because of women —
They fail because they don’t know how to handle women.

If you’re not mentally equipped, she’ll become your downfall.

Here are 10 BRUTAL TRUTHS every man must know to survive the game and lead with purpose — not lust.

1. If you don’t lead, she’ll walk all over you.
Women test men constantly. If you don’t take charge, she’ll lose respect and start controlling the relationship.

2. Women follow strength — not begging, simping, or softness.
If you're too available, too nice, or too emotional, she'll feel safe, but not attracted. She’ll crave a man who can say “No.”

3. Lust blinds you from seeing who she really is.
Her beauty distracts you, her curves control you, and by the time you wake up — you’re trapped in chaos.

4. Women listen to actions, not words.
You can talk all day, but if your life doesn’t reflect power, discipline, and purpose — she’ll tune out and walk away.

5. Women don’t respect men they can manipulate.
If she senses you’re weak, she’ll test you more. Fail the test enough times, and she'll look elsewhere for masculine energy.

6. She doesn’t care about your potential — she watches your results.
Ambition sounds cute. But if you’re not producing, she’ll quietly start comparing you to men who are.

7. You will NEVER win with a woman if you lose yourself.
Compromise your values, sacrifice your mission, and you’ll become the very man she stops desiring.

8. Not every woman deserves your energy.
Some women are sent to distract you, not build with you. Looks fade. Character builds legacies.

9. A good woman follows a man with vision.
If your life has direction, she’ll submit to the leadership. But if you’re lost, she’ll either take control or leave.

10. Stop chasing — start building.
Chase her, and she’ll treat you like an option. Build your empire, and she’ll chase the lifestyle you create.

---

FINAL WARNING:
A man who doesn’t understand women is a man constantly played by them.
You either lead her with strength and clarity —
Or she’ll manipulate, drain, and leave you broken.

Get control of your lust.
Get control of your mind.
Protect your energy. Prioritize your mission.
HAPPY HOME FAMILY

* STORY OF THE DAY — True Campus Story*

My first week on campus felt like I had just broken out of prison into a life of pure freedom. There was no assembly bell at 7 a.m., no prefect dragging my shirt to check if I tucked in, no principal patrolling to punish latecomers. Nobody was looking at my hair or shoes. It felt like the whole world had finally left me alone to enjoy life the way I wanted. For the first time, I felt like a big boy.

In my head, university was a soft life. I could wake up when I wanted, stroll to class if I felt like it, or just skip and tell myself “I’ll borrow notes later” or “abeg, I’ll watch a YouTube video to catch up.” Assignments didn’t scare me because, in my mind, deadlines were far and I still had time. Afternoons were for strolling across campus, gisting with my hostel guys, or playing ball like I was on a long holiday. I thought I was living the dream.

But reality came faster than I expected. First test entered like unexpected NEPA light. I walked into the hall with confidence, convinced that my sharp brain would carry me. But omo, when I opened that question paper, the first question alone humbled me. It was like the lecturer had deliberately set the test for people who sat in front every class and paid attention to every small comment he made. Most of the questions were not even in the slides I had downloaded — they came from examples and side explanations I had skipped.

When results came out, the shock hit me harder. The same guys I always saw playing ball, laughing, and chilling were topping the class. I couldn’t understand it at first until I realised the truth — they had mastered balance. They still enjoyed campus life, but they knew when to read. They knew when to take assignments seriously. They were not running from lectures like me; they attended enough to catch all the small points that later appeared in tests.

That was the day I understood what nobody tells you before admission: university is not built to force you to succeed. Nobody will wake you for lectures. Nobody will beg you to submit assignments. Nobody will hold your hand during tests. You can decide to spend all semester partying, and the school will allow you. But every single thing you do will reflect in your CGPA. Freedom here is sweet, but it is also a trap.

If you don’t have self‑discipline, your own freedom will set you up for failure. So if you are an aspirant preparing to enter, enjoy campus life. Meet people. Explore opportunities. But balance it with discipline. Because at the end of the day, na you go decide whether your freedom will build a strong CGPA or scatter everything you’ve worked for.

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LOVE AND BULLET
PART 12
The list burned in Ava’s hands like live coal.
Twenty-three names. Twenty-three powerful players in Nigeria’s underworld—judges draped in false honor, politicians with venomous smiles, bankers who moved money like puppet masters pulling strings.
And now, they were all targets.
Obinna stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse, the morning sun painting his bare torso in gold. He sipped his coffee, watching the city below with the calm of a predator surveying his territory.
“We hit them where it hurts,” he said, his voice smooth as aged whiskey. “Not their bodies. Their empires.”
Ava traced a finger over the first name on the list—Chief Adebayo, the so-called “Kingmaker” of Lagos politics.
“He’s untouchable,” she murmured.
Obinna’s lips curled into a smirk. “Everyone bleeds, sweetheart. Some just hide it better.”
Chief Adebayo’s mansion was a fortress—high walls, armed guards, surveillance cameras at every corner.
Ava and Obinna didn’t bother with the front gate.
Dressed in all black, they scaled the back wall like shadows, their movements synchronized from months of fighting side by side. The humid night air clung to their skin as they slipped through an open bathroom window on the second floor.
Inside, the house was eerily silent, the only sound the faint hum of air conditioning and the distant clink of dishes from the kitchen.
Ava moved first, her footsteps silent on the plush carpet. The master bedroom door was slightly ajar, revealing Chief Adebayo asleep in his massive four-poster bed, his wife snoring softly beside him.
Obinna stepped forward, pressing a gloved hand over the Chief’s mouth.
The man’s eyes flew open, wide with terror.
“Good evening, Chief,” Obinna whispered, his voice dripping with false sweetness. “We need to talk.”
They didn’t lay a finger on him.
They didn’t need to.
Instead, Ava slid a tablet across the silk sheets, the screen displaying a series of bank transfers, clandestine meetings, and damning voice recordings.
“You’ve been a busy man,” she said, crossing her arms. “Skimming public funds, selling contracts to the highest bidder, even trafficking young girls under the guise of ‘charity work.’”
Chief Adebayo’s face paled. “W-what do you want?”
Obinna leaned in, his smile chilling. “Your resignation. By morning.”
“Or?”
Ava tapped the tablet, pulling up a pre-written email addressed to every major news outlet in Nigeria. “Or the whole country finds out what a monster you really are.”
The Chief’s hands trembled as he reached for the device.
By dawn, Chief Adebayo’s resignation shocked the nation.
By noon, two more names on the list abruptly “retired” from public life, citing “health reasons.”
And by nightfall, the remaining twenty were scrambling, their carefully constructed facades crumbling like sandcastles under a tidal wave.
Ava watched it all unfold from Obinna’s penthouse, her bare feet propped on the coffee table as news channels erupted with speculation.
“They’re panicking,” she observed, sipping her wine.
Obinna joined her on the couch, his arm draping over her shoulders. “Panicked animals are dangerous animals.”
She turned to him, arching a brow. “You think they’ll fight back?”
His fingers traced idle circles on her skin. “I’m counting on it.”
They didn’t have to wait long.
Ava’s phone buzzed with an encrypted message—an address, a time, and a single word:
“Come alone.”
Obinna snatched the phone from her hands, his jaw tightening as he read it. “It’s a trap.”
“Obviously,” Ava said, taking the phone back. “But it’s also our chance to draw out the head of the snake.”
Obinna’s eyes darkened. “If you think I’m letting you walk in there alone—”
“Who said anything about alone?” She smirked, pulling out a second phone from her pocket—this one tapped into NDLEA’s secure frequency. “Sergeant Kola owes us a favor.”
TO BE CONTINUED...

Men also love to be pampered — just like anyone else. Being strong or masculine doesn't mean you're emotionless or don't enjoy care, affection, or thoughtful attention. A man may not always say it, but:

He loves when you rub his head after a stressful day.

He appreciates a warm meal cooked with love.

He enjoys a gentle massage or a back rub.

He feels special when you compliment his looks or efforts.

He cherishes being listened to without judgment.

He needs encouragement and reassurance, too.

Sometimes, he just wants to lay his head on your lap in silence.

Men are not machines. Behind every tough face is a soul craving peace, softness, and warmth. Pampering your man is not weakness — it’s love in action.

JB WORLD.

He Slept With Me Every Night—Then Paid My Bride Price for Another Girl
Episode 2

Grief makes you quiet. Betrayal gives you a voice. And I was done being silent.

After Raymond blocked me, something inside me cracked—but it didn’t break. Not completely. It transformed. I had spent years pouring every piece of myself into a man who saw me as a placeholder. I gave him loyalty, and he gave another woman a ring. I gave him my womb, and he gave me shame.

But what he didn’t know—was that I was carrying more than heartbreak.

Three days after I saw the post, I woke up with a fever and blood between my legs. I was five months pregnant. I rushed to the clinic alone, praying I hadn’t lost the baby. The doctor ran tests. The heartbeat was still there—soft, strong, defiant. Just like me. That was the moment I stopped thinking like a victim. I started thinking like a mother.

I moved out of the apartment that weekend. Packed my things while crying quietly into folded bedsheets. I told the caretaker Raymond wouldn’t be returning. He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t ask questions. I moved into my aunt’s flat in Iyana Church. She took one look at my face, at my swollen belly, and didn’t say “I told you so.” She just held me.

Days passed. Then weeks. I stayed off social media, but the streets? They talk. A friend of a friend told me Raymond’s wedding was huge. Traditional and white. Chinenye wore four outfits, and Raymond danced like someone who had never known real pain. They called her “the lucky girl.” People said he had “leveled up.” That I was just “a campus phase.” They didn’t know I had been washing his boxers when he couldn’t afford airtime.

I watched quietly.

Then one evening, my friend Uche showed up. She dropped a flash drive on the table and smiled with her eyes. “I thought you might want this,” she said. “From someone at the wedding.”

It was a full recording.

Their engagement. The vows. The dancing. The cake. And then—the speech.

Raymond had stood up, half-drunk and arrogant. “I thank God for giving me a real woman,” he slurred. “Someone who didn’t come to eat my money. Someone who didn’t use me to chase small-girl dreams. You’re not like the others.”

The crowd had clapped. He had smiled. But the thing about recording devices is—they remember. They capture. They preserve.

So I posted it.

Not the whole thing.

Just the part where he called me a user. A leech. A fake. I posted it with a caption:
“He slept with me every night, called me his wife, and left me pregnant—only to say this at his wedding. This is the father of my unborn child.”

And I didn’t stop there.

I sent copies of the pregnancy test, ultrasound images, and photos of us from just three months before—to Chinenye. I didn’t insult her. I simply wrote: “He was mine while he was planning you. You deserve the full picture before you carry his name.”

The post went viral in six hours.

By the next morning, Raymond was trending.

#RaymondTheRunner
#TwoWivesNoHonor
#CampusToAltarScam

My phone rang endlessly. Unknown numbers. Media houses. Instagram blogs. Even Chinenye’s sister texted me, asking, “Is this real?” I didn’t reply. I was already in the hospital—contractions had started. The stress triggered early labor.

It was a long night. I screamed, I bled, I almost gave up.

But then I held her.

My daughter.

Tiny, brown, beautiful—and full of war.

I named her Hope.

As I stared at her face, Raymond called again—this time with a new number.

I didn’t answer.

He thought he broke me.

But he gave birth to my purpose.

To be continued…

"Sometimes, their goofy little habits are the only thing that keeps your heart soft."

“Mercy is soft, but it leaves a lasting impact.”

"My strength is not in how loudly I speak, but in how softly I stay."

“If your life feels soft and slow and safe — that’s something to celebrate.”