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BABY MAMA TRAP
PART 3
Onyinye stared at the DNA results in her hands, her fingers trembling slightly. The words "99.99% Probability of Paternity" glared back at her, the ink seeming to burn through the paper. A slow, bitter smile curved her lips.
"Now we’ll see who’s playing games, Kolawole," she whispered to herself.
She spent the next three days plotting her next move. She couldn’t just show up at his office or home—no, that would be too easy. Kolawole was a powerful man, with security and lawyers who could make her disappear if he wanted to.
She needed leverage.
And then it hit her—his wife.
If anyone deserved to know the truth, it was the woman Kolawole was betraying every time he stepped out with girls like Onyinye.
She opened her laptop and searched for "Mrs. Adebayo Lagos charity events." Within minutes, she found what she needed—a high-profile fundraiser happening that weekend at the Eko Hotel. The wife, Amina Adebayo*, would definitely be there.
Perfect.
Onyinye slipped into the event wearing a simple but elegant black dress, her hair styled in soft curls. The ballroom was filled with Lagos' elite—politicians, business moguls, and socialites sipping champagne under crystal chandeliers.
And there she was—Amina Adebayo.
Kolawole’s wife was even more stunning in person. Tall, graceful, her makeup flawless, dressed in a custom-made lilac gown that probably cost more than Onyinye’s yearly salary.
Onyinye’s stomach twisted with guilt. This woman had no idea.
But then she remembered Kolawole’s cold dismissal, the way he had thrown money at her like she was nothing.
No. She wouldn’t back down now.
She waited until Amina was alone near the dessert table before approaching.
"Good evening, Mrs. Adebayo," Onyinye said, her voice steady despite her racing heart.
Amina turned, her polite smile not quite reaching her eyes. "Hello, have we met?"
Onyinye took a deep breath. "No. But I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say."
She pulled out the DNA test from her clutch and handed it over.
Amina’s perfectly manicured fingers took the paper, her brow furrowing as she scanned it. Then—her face changed.
The color drained from her cheeks. Her lips parted slightly.
"What… is this?"
Onyinye met her gaze. "I’m pregnant. And your husband is the father."
For a long moment, Amina didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Then, in a voice so quiet it sent chills down Onyinye’s spine, she said:
"Follow me."
Amina led her to a private lounge upstairs, away from prying eyes. The moment the door closed, her calm façade shattered.
"How dare you?" she hissed, her eyes blazing. "Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with?"
Onyinye stood her ground. "I didn’t come here to fight. I came because you deserve to know the truth."
Amina laughed—a sharp, bitter sound. "The truth? You think I don’t know what kind of man my husband is?" She stepped closer, her perfume suffocating. "But you—you’re just another cheap slut trying to cash in."
Onyinye flinched but didn’t back down. "I don’t want his money. I just want him to take responsibility for his child."
Amina’s eyes flickered to Onyinye’s still-flat stomach, her expression unreadable. Then, without warning, she grabbed Onyinye’s wrist, her grip like steel.
"Listen carefully," she whispered. "If you ever try to contact my family again, you’ll regret it. That child will never be an Adebayo. Do you understand?"
Onyinye yanked her arm free, her pulse roaring in her ears. "We’ll see about that."
She turned and walked out, her legs shaking but her head held high.
That night, Onyinye lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
She had thought exposing Kolawole would force him to do the right thing.
But she had underestimated his wife.
Amina wasn’t just hurt—she was dangerous.
And now, Onyinye had made an enemy of one of the most powerful women in Lagos.
Her phone buzzed. An unknown number.
She opened the message—and her blood turned to ice.
It was a photo. Of her. Standing outside her apartment building.
The caption:
"You should have stayed away."
TO BE CONTINUED...

ABY MAMA TRAP
PART 1
The loud music from Club Lavish pounded in Onyinye’s ears as she stepped inside, the bass vibrating through her whole body. The air smelled like expensive perfume, sweat, and alcohol. She adjusted the tight red dress that clung to her curves, feeling both nervous and excited. Her best friends, Amaka and Chioma, had dragged her out tonight, saying, "Onyi, you’re too young to be sitting at home every weekend! Come and have fun!"
So here she was—Onyinye Obi, 24 years old, a bank teller with big dreams, standing in the middle of Asaba’s most popular nightclub. She wasn’t the type to do things like this. She was careful. She was smart. But tonight… tonight, she just wanted to forget about her problems.
Then she saw him.
Tall. Dark. Handsome. Dressed in a black designer suit that screamed money. His gold Rolex glinted under the flashing club lights as he sipped his drink. He stood near the VIP section, surrounded by men who laughed too loud at everything he said—like he was some kind of king.
Their eyes met.
A slow, confident smile spread across his face.
Onyinye quickly looked away, her heart beating fast. She knew who he was—Chief Kolawole Adebayo, a rich businessman, married with three kids. She had seen his family photos in Hello Nigeria magazine. His wife was beautiful, always dressed in expensive lace, smiling beside him at parties.
But right now, in this club, with the music thumping and the alcohol flowing, none of that mattered.
He walked toward her.
And like a moth drawn to a flame, she let him.
Three Hours Later
The hotel room was dark, the only light coming from the city outside the window. Onyinye lay in the soft bed, her body still humming from what had just happened. Chief Kolawole—no, Kola—lay beside her, his fingers tracing lazy circles on her bare arm.
"You’re so beautiful," he whispered, his voice deep and smooth. "I’ve never met a woman like you."
She knew she should feel guilty. She knew he had a wife at home. But in that moment, with his warm body pressed against hers, she let herself believe his lies.
"This doesn’t have to be a one-time thing," he said, kissing her shoulder. "We can keep seeing each other. Just you and me."
Onyinye’s heart fluttered. Was he serious?
Then his phone rang.
The screen lit up—"WIFE" in bold letters.
Kolawole sighed, sitting up. He answered the call, his voice suddenly sweet, loving—completely different from the way he had just spoken to her.
"Yes, darling… No, I’m still at the meeting… I’ll be home soon."
He hung up and stood, pulling on his clothes without looking at her.
"I have to go,"* he said, tossing a few bills on the bedside table. *"For your taxi."
And just like that, he was gone.
Onyinye sat there, staring at the money, feeling ******. Used.
What did I just do?
Six Weeks Later
The bathroom was silent except for the sound of Onyinye’s shaky breaths. She stared at the little white stick in her hand, her stomach twisting in fear.
Two pink lines.
Pregnant.
Her mind raced. *How? They used protection… didn’t they?
She squeezed her eyes shut, remembering that night—the way Kolawole had whispered in her ear, the way he had made her feel special.
Now, she was carrying the baby of a man who didn’t even care about her.
A man who would *never* claim this child.

At 29, Isabella Has A 14-Year-Old Son And Just A Week In Big Brother's House, Her B0dy Is Already Reacting Like It’s Powered By Honey And Sugar!

See How A Guy Is Shamelessly Doing You What Is Not Good In Big Brother's House.

Your 14-Year-Old Son Will Be So Embarrassed When His Friends Show Him The Videos Trending In All Social Media Platforms Tufiakwa Isabella Of BBNaija

BBBNaija Isabella Is Something Else In The House, She Is Not Acting Like A Mother At All

Her Real Name Is Isabella Georgewill, From Abonnema, Kalabari In Rivers State.

According To Her, She's 29 And Also Has A 14-Year-Old Teenage Son

Also An Entrepreneur And Still Single

The First Housemate This Year To Bre@stfeed A Man Live On National TV And Also Runs A Clothing Brand Named Thrift Haven

She Is The Most Talked About Housemate This Year So Far And Introduced Herself In The BBNaija House As A “Pretty Face, Very Soft‑Hearted, But Very Energetic” Woman, And Also Described Herself As “TV Material” From Day One

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…