Chukwuma Ezeh

Chukwuma A man in bloom 🌻🌼💐

@Femi_Daveed Energyyyy 😂

As i see Sookie i first burst laugh😂😂😂.. This is the most aggressive yet funny video of sookie...Baba just dey gbaa😂😂

Sounds pretty accurate 😂

Hehehe Mancity don drop points oo Otilo 🚀

I want arsenal to win the league this season. It's been a long time coming!

😂😂😂😂

@faveda12 @Temz_Izyco See this Agbaya 😂

So if I get married, all the meat, Milo and milk will be under my control? Waw 🤭

@evydenzz @asemota 😂

i be think say na village people dey do me i reach village now, nobody know me

@alexanderlinda_ @pmcafrica 😂

This page was just created to milk impressions Get it?? Read it again ffsssss Cow page Cow Milk Milk impressions??? Please laugh, I need to prove to my ex that I’m actually funny 😭😭😭 please just drop one laughing emoji🙏🏻 thank you😔 please nau, just laugh at my cow joke🧎🏽‍♀️

@Chihuahuaismad @asemota 😂

this you ?

@SuzieHasTwins @cowincrisis 😂

Twitter right now 🐴🐄🐑🐓🐐🦈🐳🐷

Someone said Asake should use this as intro to his song 🥹🥹

@mosquitotw 😂

@OstrichInCrisis @Gurdur 😂

We are the media now.

@LionInCrisis @Just__Halal What is going onnnn ?? 😂

Hide yourself

@chickenincrisis @whatismalidoing What's wrong with these animal impersonators? 😂 Y'all be cracking me up real bad 😂

you are beef

....and it begins ✨

@SirBigBobby You're lying because this video has been around for a while but your caption is sending meee 😂

Since i tell grandma say Omah Lay na gospel artist i never rest🤣

In the final game of his career, Japanese legend Tomoaki Makino and his manager decided to let his wife get subbed in wearing his shirt and take a penalty in honor of him😭

When I told my CDS group we were going to build a library for a school, they kicked against it because we had MINUS ₦13,000 in our purse. It felt impossible to them, so they shut it down. But I couldn’t let it go. Sadly, my service time was coming to an end, so I couldn't do a personal project. And that was why I insisted on setting the standard for my CDS group. I found a small school owned by a foundation. The school used to be free but started to struggle after a fire destroyed most of its buildings. They were forced to charge fees, and the proprietor began to sell her personal belongings to run the school. Yet many of the children were orphans and internally displaced, so not everyone could afford it. The classrooms were broken, the environment wasn't ideal, but you need to see the eyes of these children. The light behind their eyes was everything. Even then, most of my CDS group members resisted. They said the school was too dilapidated and that they didn't need a library. I argued that if a school doesn't NEED a library, then the children don't need books. I had so much faith in the library despite the resistance. So, I backed my faith up with actions. I wrote proposals, built pitch decks, designed ideas, trying to make them see what I saw. Then everything stopped. Our CDS group got suspended. And for a moment, I felt crushed. I can't even paint how devastated I felt. So, I gave up. But not for long. I picked myself back up and continued alone with the present president and secretary of the CDS group. We continued our offline campaign, talking to people wherever I could. That’s how I ended up at an event I almost didn’t attend. Afterward, I walked up to some top executives. I started a conversation, then slowly brought up the library idea. They listened, really listened, and were impressed with the project. I got their contact, and one of them asked to see the school. When I took him there, the broken roof from the recent storm told its own story, the torn-down walls, the cramped classes, the unsafe benches. My God. There was no need for persuasion. He saw it, and he was moved. Then he said he would help repair the roof and ensure that the children are comfortable. I quickly got a carpenter and broke down everything needed: roof, ceiling, desks, a new classroom. I wrote a proposal for the cost and divided it into two parts. Part 1 included the cost of only the roof and windows, which came to about ₦170,000+. In Part 2, I included things the school would need that he didn't specifically say he would help with, and the total came up to ₦808,000. The next day, I didn’t wait. I took the company bus straight to his office with a printout of the cost. By the end of it all, this man donated ₦808,000 for the renovation. I just sat there in shock. It was the biggest support I had ever received for this work. And somehow, it felt like more than money. It felt like proof that persistence speaks, even when everything around you says stop. Now we’re set to establish two libraries, and renovations have already begun. April didn’t give me ease. But it gave me this. On to May. 🥂

My father's best friend was a man called Uncle Bayo who disappeared from our lives without explanation. I was 12 the last time I saw him. He came to our flat in Gbagada, argued with my father in the bedroom for an hour, and walked out without saying goodbye to me. My father never spoke his name again. Neither did my mother. Uncle Bayo became a silence with a shape. Twenty-six years passed. I was in Philadelphia for a conference. A networking dinner at a hotel downtown. Across the room, a man about my father's age caught my eye and held it too long. He approached me during dessert and said my surname like it was a question he already knew the answer to. We sat in the hotel lobby until 2am. He told me the story my father never did. They had started a construction company together in the early 90s. It had failed because of a contract dispute with a senator. The senator had paid only half the money and refused the rest. The debt had crushed them. Uncle Bayo had blamed my father for trusting the senator. My father had blamed Uncle Bayo for not reading the fine print. The friendship had shattered. Two men who had been closer than brothers had become strangers over something neither of them could control. Uncle Bayo had moved to America after the falling out. He had built a new life, a new business, a small contracting firm in West Philly. He had married a Ghanaian woman and had two daughters. He had never returned to Nigeria. He had never called my father. He had assumed the silence was mutual. I asked why he approached me now. He said he recognised my face because I looked like my father at 30. He said he had been waiting for decades to see that face again, to explain something that was never about betrayal. He said the argument had been about shame, not money. Both men had felt they failed each other. Neither had known how to say it. I called my father from the hotel room. It was 3am in Lagos. He answered on the second ring, voice thick with sleep and alarm. I told him who I was sitting with. The line went quiet. Then my father did something I had never heard him do. He cried. Not softly. The kind of crying that comes from a place words cannot reach. Uncle Bayo flew to Lagos 3 months later. They met at the same flat in Gbagada. They sat in the same living room where the argument had happened. They didn't re-litigate the past. They just sat together, two old men with white hair and matching hypertension medication, and let the silence heal. My father died last year. Uncle Bayo spoke at the funeral. He said the greatest thief in life is not money or failure. It is the belief that there is always more time. Call them. The debt is not theirs. It is yours.