Onaolapo

Just begin, no matter how difficult it seems to be... Don't worry how it will end.

There's a particular City Jersey that i really like, if they end up winning the league, one might have to cop it.

FTSE RUSSELL: NIGERIA RECLASSIFIED FROM UNCLASSIFIED TO FRONTIER MARKET STATUS, EFFECTIVE SEPT 21, 2026

@Alkaneseries I was in Ibadan yesterday, the road network is superb, it has always been anyway, however, kudos to the Government of Oyo state.

Here’s a 15-minute glide through Ibadan, no heaps of waste, no scars of potholes, just clean roads stretching in quiet pride. Every corner whispers order, every street breathes calm. Could Ibadan be the cleanest city in Nigeria?

Alhaji makes this petrol pricing look like he's doing us a favour.

Why do people find it hard to change the subject of an email once the subject of discussion has changed? Yeah, same mail trail, but we are discussing something entirely different now.

Lord knows the number of time I've watched that Osula goal, leaves me with a wide grin each time I watch it.

@afalli Lmao! Very concerning, if you've seen him in those series, Tehran or Honeland.

@Tosin_Tennis @tkb417 Lol, You're not special, I've met plenty of us.

@Dagudfella @tkb417 It doesn't itch me too. Infact that is what I have always used to treat malaria. No amount of Coartem or Artemether Lumefantrine works for me. To burst you, I take it without piriton, am I normal? 😂

somebody just reminded me of Chloroquine Oh boy!! There is nothing more satanic than that drug The ONLY problem is it works like fire They will say use Pirintin or something that it wont itch ur body.. Bro na lie u go just dey do like dem pour werepe for ur body and na night the shit dey work

@simeonboxco Thought he was going to say Old Garage or Oja Oba...

Lost, loster. Lostest. 😂

@AfroVII Peter Crouch is 6'7, compare his hight to Kanu's. Maybe 6'4 at best.

There's no way he was 6'6. Let's be serious. Lol. 6'3?

The NGX Tollgate Economics: Paying Rolls-Royce Prices for a Camry Ride Let us be honest. We Nigerians love a good hustle. We love the idea of making our money work for us while we sleep. It is the capitalist dream, isn't it? You save some Naira, identify a solid company like Dangote Cement, SEPLAT, MTNN, Aradel, Vitafoam, FBN or Zenith Bank, et al, buy a slice of ownership, and watch it grow. It sounds simple. It should be simple. However, there is a silent friction in our financial machinery that is grinding retail investment to a halt. It is not market volatility. It is not the exchange rate (though that is a headache for another day). It is the exorbitant, confusing, and frankly, punitive cost of simply buying and selling shares on the Nigerian Exchange (NGX). If you are an average Nigerian trying to build wealth through stocks, you are starting every race five meters behind the starting line, carrying a backpack full of rocks. It is time we unpack this backpack and ask the hard questions of the folks who put the rocks there. The Global Context: A Game of Inches vs A Game of Yards To understand how absurd our current situation is, we need to look outside our borders. Over the last decade, a revolution in global finance occurred. In the United States, the world's largest capital market, trading costs for average investors effectively went to zero. Giants like Fidelity, Schwab, and the disruptor Robinhood realised that charging people $10 to buy a stock was obsolete. They eliminated commissions. Today, if a plumber in Ohio wants to buy $1,000 worth of Apple stock, it costs him essentially $1,000. Maybe a few cents in regulatory fees, but it'ss negligible. The friction is gone. Now, let us look at Nigeria. If a plumber in Surulere decides to buy ₦100,000 worth of MTN Nigeria stock, and then decides a month later to sell it, that "round trip" transaction is not free. It is not cheap. It will cost him, on average, over 4% of his capital. Let that sink in. Four percent. Just for the privilege of moving your money in and out of the market. Before the stock price moves up by one Kobo, you are already down significantly. You need the stock to rally by at least 4.5% to break even. In a world where an 8-10% annual return is considered decent, giving away half of that to pay the "gatekeepers" is a tough pill to swallow. The African Peers: Even the Neighbours Are Cheaper "But wait," the apologists might say, "Nigeria is an emerging market. We have infrastructure costs. You cannot compare us to Wall Street." Fair enough. Let us compare ourselves to our peers. If you trade on the Johannesburg Stock Exchange (JSE) in South Africa—the most sophisticated market on the continent—your total round-trip costs as a retail investor are likely between 0.6% and 1%. In Egypt or Morocco, you are looking at perhaps 1% to 1.5%. Even in Kenya, which has its own bureaucratic hurdles, the costs are significantly lower than ours. Nigeria, the self-proclaimed "Giant of Africa," has achieved the dubious distinction of having some of the highest equity trading costs not just on the continent, but in the investable world. We are trying to attract foreign portfolio investment and encourage domestic retail participation. However, we have erected a tollgate at the market's entrance that charges Rolls-Royce prices for a Camry. Why is it so expensive here? The Autopsy: Dissecting the Nigerian "Layer Cake" of Fees If you ask an average investor what they pay to trade, they might say, "Oh, my broker charges me about 1.3 %." That is true, but it is a dangerous half-truth. The broker's commission is just the icing on a very dense, very expensive cake. The problem with the Nigerian cost structure is that it is a multi-layered stack of statutory fees, levies, and taxes, all calculated as a percentage of your transaction value. It is not one big fee; it is death by a thousand cuts. Let us break down this "layer cake" so everyone—from the seasoned trader to the university student opening their first investment app—can understand where the money vanishes. When you click "Buy" or "Sell" on the NGX, here are the hands that dip into your pocket: 1. The Stockbroker (The Agent) This is the person or firm executing your trade. The regulators have capped their maximum fee at 1.35% of the trade value. Most brokers charge close to this maximum for retail clients because, frankly, the other costs they face are high too. 2. The SEC (The Referee) The Securities and Exchange Commission is the apex regulator. They ensure the rules are followed. To fund their operations, they take a slice of your trade. This is currently set at 0.30% (usually on the buy side). 3. The NGX (The Marketplace) This is the exchange itself, the platform where the buyer meets the seller. Like renting a stall in Balogun market, you have to pay the market owner. The NGX Group charges a 0.30% fee (usually on the sell side). 4. The CSCS (The Vault Keeper) The Central Securities Clearing System is the engine room. They make sure that when you pay cash, you actually receive the electronic shares in your account, and vice versa. They are the custodians of trust. For this vital service, they charge a fee, also around 0.30% (usually on the sell side), plus smaller transaction alert charges. 5. The NRS (The Taxman) - The Double Whammy Here is where it gets really painful. The government needs its share, and they take it in two ways: ✅ Stamp Duty: A federal tax on financial instruments. That is another 0.075% (approx.) shaved off your contract note. ✅VAT (The Tax on the Tax): This is the kicker. The standard 7.5% Value Added Tax is applied to all service fees mentioned above: the broker commission, the SEC fee, the NGX fee, and the CSCS fee. You are paying tax on the fees you pay to trade The "Sticker Shock" Math 🧑‍🔬 When you add all these percentages up—the broker, the regulator, the exchange, the clearer, the stamp duty, and the VAT on top of everything—the math is brutal. Buying shares costs you roughly 1.8% to 1.9% in fees. Selling those same shares costs you roughly 2.1% to 2.2% in fees. Total Round Trip: Over 4%. Imagine you are buying ₦1,000,000 worth of stock. Before you even own the shares, almost ₦19,000 in fees has evaporated. When you decide to sell that N1,000,000 position, another N22,000 vanishes. That is ₦41,000 of friction on a ₦1 million investment. That is real money. That is school fees. That is a rent supplement. Furthermore, it has gone regardless of whether you made a profit or a loss on the stock itself. The Consequences: Why This Hurts Us All Why should the average Nigerian, or even the regulators, care about this? Isn't this just rich people's problems? Absolutely not. A vibrant stock market is essential for national wealth creation. The current fee structure is actively damaging that goal in three critical ways. ✅1. It Kills Liquidity and Encourages Hoarding Liquidity is the lifeblood of a market. It is the ability to easily buy or sell without causing wild price swings. When it costs over 4% to enter and exit a position, investors become paralysed. If you buy a stock and it goes up 3%, you should be happy. Nevertheless, in Nigeria, you cannot sell it to lock in that profit because the transaction costs would turn your 3% gain into a 1% loss. So, you hold. You wait. The market becomes stagnant. We do not have a "trading" market; we have a "buy and pray it doubles over five years so the fees do not matter" market. ✅2. It Fuels Capital Flight to Crypto and Foreign Apps Nature abhors a vacuum, and capital abhors friction. Young Nigerians are some of the most astute, tech-savvy financial actors globally. They know how to do the math. When a 21-year-old sees that they can trade Bitcoin on Binance for a 0.1% fee, or buy Tesla stock on a foreign app for zero commission, why on earth would they bring their liquidity to the NGX to pay 4%? We are driving the next generation of investors away from our national exchange because our pricing model is stuck in the 1990s. We are forcing them to export their capital to more efficient markets. ✅3. It Depresses Asset Prices High transaction costs act as a tax on investment. Basic economic theory tells us that if you tax something heavily, you get less of it. Because trading Nigerian stocks is so expensive, investors demand an "illiquidity discount." They are willing to pay less for the shares because they know how much it costs to get out of them. This keeps the valuations of our best companies artificially low. An Appeal to the Regulators This address is not meant to disparage the hardworking professionals at the SEC, NGX, or CSCS. We understand that market infrastructure costs money to run. We need a strong regulator, a robust exchange, and a secure clearing house. However, we must recognise that the current aggregate cost structure is unsustainable and counterproductive. We cannot tax our market into prosperity. It is a call for a coordinated, high-level review of equity trading costs in Nigeria by all stakeholders—the SEC, NGX Group, CSCS Plc, the Association of Securities Dealing Houses of Nigeria (ASHON), and, obviously, the tax authorities. We need to ask hard questions: 1⃣Can we cap the statutory fees? Instead of percentages that scale endlessly with trade size, can we introduce flat caps for regulatory charges on larger trades to encourage institutional volume? 2⃣Can we review the VAT application? Applying VAT to regulatory levies feels punitive. Is there room for a waiver or reduction for capital market activity to spur growth? 3⃣Can brokerage commissions become more competitive? While brokers need to survive, the current 1.35% maximum often becomes the default. How can technology be leveraged to reduce execution costs, enabling brokers to pass savings to clients? If we want the NGX to be the premier investment destination in Africa–if we want to achieve the Federal Government's goal of a $1 trillion economy–we need a capital market that is accessible, liquid, and efficient. Right now, our market is like a beautiful luxury store with a bouncer at the door charging a ₦5,000 entrance fee. People look through the window, admire the goods, then walk away to shop elsewhere. Let us lower the tollgate fees. Let the market breathe. Let Nigerians participate in their own economy without paying a penalty just for showing up. It is time to cut the cake. 🎂

Every Sunday at exactly 3:17 p.m., my father called me. Not 3:15. Not 3:20. 3:17. It started a month after he retired. At first, I thought it was boredom. Then habit. Then aging. But it never changed. If I picked up, he’d say the same thing: “Are you home?” If I said yes, he’d reply, “Good. Just checking,” and hang up. If I said no, there’d be a pause. Then he’d say, “Alright. Call me when you’re back.” That was it. No small talk. No updates. No “how are you?” Just… checking. My wife thought it was sweet. I thought it was strange. One Sunday, I decided not to answer. I was home. I just let it ring. At 3:18 p.m., he called again. I ignored it. At 3:19 p.m., my wife’s phone rang. She frowned. “It’s your dad.” I gestured for her not to answer. The phone stopped. At 3:21 p.m., the landline rang. No one even has that number. We stared at it. It stopped after five rings. At 3:24 p.m., someone knocked on the door. Three sharp knocks. Not aggressive. Precise. I opened it. My father stood there. Calm. Neatly dressed. Slightly out of breath. “Why didn’t you answer?” he asked. “I was busy.” He looked past me into the living room. “You’re home.” “Yes.” He nodded slowly. Then said something he’d never said before. “Good.” And he left. That night, I drove to his house. I needed to understand. He lived alone since my mother passed. Same house I grew up in. Same curtains. He opened the door before I knocked. “You came,” he said. “Dad, why do you call every Sunday?” He studied me for a moment. “Come in.” We sat at the dining table. He didn’t speak immediately. He rarely does. Finally, he stood up and walked to a locked drawer in the hallway. He pulled out a thin folder. Inside were newspaper clippings. House fires. Robberies. Gas leaks. Carbon monoxide deaths. All circled in red. “Every single one,” he said quietly, “happened on a Sunday afternoon.” I blinked. “That doesn’t mean..” He held up a hand. “When your mother died, I was in the garden.” I swallowed. “I was ten feet away. Ten feet. She called once. I didn’t hear her.” Silence stretched between us. “I promised myself,” he continued, “that if something ever happened to you, I would not be in the garden.” My chest tightened. “So you call me to make sure I’m alive?” He looked at me steadily. “No.” A long pause. “I call to make sure you answer.” I frowned. “What’s the difference?” He leaned back in his chair. “If you answer, I know you can.” The words didn’t land immediately. Then they did. “If you couldn’t answer,” he continued calmly, “I would already be driving.” My stomach dropped. “You’ve been ready to come over every Sunday?” “Yes.” “Even when I said I wasn’t home?” He nodded. “I wait ten minutes. Then I check.” A cold realization crept up my spine. “Dad… how many times have you come?” He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked toward the window. “Six.” Six Sundays. Six times he drove to my house. Six times he must have stood outside. Watching. Making sure. I tried to laugh it off. “That’s extreme.” He didn’t smile. “You think emergencies schedule appointments?” We sat there in heavy silence. Then I asked the question that had been building all evening. “Why 3:17?” For the first time, his composure cracked. “That’s the time on the hospital clock,” he said softly, “when they told me she was gone.” The air left my lungs. He wasn’t checking on me. He was trying to outrun a minute. Every Sunday. For years. I drove home that night differently. The following Sunday at 3:16 p.m., my phone was in my hand. At 3:17, it rang. I answered on the first vibration. “Hi Dad.” There was a pause. Then, for the first time ever, he said something new. “I know.” And he hung up.

Growing up, Agbada do have pockets. My Tailor has other ideas.

My wife and I living in two different realities

Why would anyone allow a USB stick to work at a trading desk? #Thesteal

Here’s the terrifying truth: Your character reveals who you truly worshipped. Allah or your nafs. Here’s the "cheat code" The Prophet ﷺ said a believer can reach the same rank as those who fast all day and pray all night simply by having excellent manners. Character bridges the gap where your voluntary worship falls short.

Could actually mean two things, depends on which is convenient.

@TexTheLaw 678

777

Henry calling Jamie Caragher's mum "Mummy" was so African. Big Meeks just said Paula...