Dhera💻📈💰

@Oyinmiebiama @yabaleftonline U compare a woman to a fly??? Is your mother a fly??? Do U know most women don't make it out of child birth Women are not objects or birth tools U have no respect for a woman

@Dhera081 @yabaleftonline Even fly sef Dey give birth

"Never you kneel to propose to a woman. If she says you must kneel down to propose to her or she leaves, let her go" - Male adviser Yul Edochie.

It has been eight months. I want to tell you that I healed. I want to give you that. I want to wrap this up in the way that stories are supposed to wrap up with distance, with perspective, with some quiet wisdom earned through surviving something terrible. But I promised honesty. So here it is. I am not okay. I don't mean that in the way people say it casually, the way it's become something you admit with a small laugh to seem relatable. I mean it in the real way. The clinical way. The way my therapist writes things down on her notepad on Thursdays and then looks up at me with an expression she tries very hard to keep neutral. I moved cities. New apartment. Fourth floor again I didn't realize until I had already signed the lease and by then I couldn't bring myself to explain to anyone why it mattered. New routines. New coffee shops I rotate between so I never become a regular anywhere. I stopped letting people learn my patterns. I stopped letting people get close enough to notice I had patterns in the first place. I told myself this was healing. I told myself I was being practical. I told myself Maya would have hated watching me fall apart and that the best thing I could do to honor her was to function. I function. Barely. But I function. For six months I kept the curtains closed after dark. I checked the locks three times before bed not two, always three, because two felt careless and four felt like madness and three felt like the last sane compromise I could make with whatever part of me is still frightened all the time. I learned which floorboards in my apartment creaked and I catalogued them. I learned the rhythm of my building's elevator and I learned to tell the difference between it stopping on my floor and stopping on the floor above. I became an expert in the sounds of a place that didn't feel safe. Slowly, I started to breathe again. Slowly, month by month, the fear became background noise instead of the whole song. I started sleeping through the night. I started leaving the curtains open. I started letting myself sit in coffee shops by the window like a normal person who had never been terrified. Three weeks ago I was doing exactly that. New city. New neighborhood. Headphones in, the ordinary afternoon hum of a place that didn't know anything about me. And something I cannot explain what, some ancient, animal part of my brain that has been paying a kind of attention the rest of me had stopped paying something made me look up. Tall. Dark coat. Head tilted slightly down. Standing at the counter with his back to me. My body reacted before my mind did. Cold flooded my hands. My vision tunneled. Eight months of careful, painstaking recovery collapsed in about four seconds and I was back on that apartment floor, back at that peephole, back in the dark with my hand over my mouth. He turned around. Different face. Wrong person entirely. A stranger who looked nothing like him now that I could see clearly just a man in a dark coat on a cold afternoon, waiting for his coffee, already forgetting I existed as he walked to his table and opened his laptop. I sat there for a long time. Heart going. Hands shaking under the table where no one could see. I told myself: this is what trauma does. this is the brain misfiring. you are safe. you are okay. it wasn't him. I almost believed it. I packed my things. I went home. I made tea. I sat on the couch and did the breathing exercises my therapist taught me and I felt the fear slowly lose its grip, felt my heartbeat come back down, felt the afternoon settle back into something ordinary. I was almost calm. My phone buzzed. Unknown number. I looked at the screen for a long time before I opened it. "I see you found a good coffee shop." I have not left my apartment since. I don't eat much. I sleep in pieces. I keep the lights on all of them, all night, every night because the dark has stopped feeling like rest and started feeling like something that waits.

@Didi1455432 😳😳😳

There were two officers. Young younger than me. One of them had the careful, neutral expression of someone trained to not look alarmed, and the other hadn't quite mastered it yet and kept glancing down the hallway with something in his eyes that I told myself was just routine alertness. They swept the floor. They checked the stairwell. They knocked on the neighbors' doors the couple in 4B who opened up bleary eyed and confused, the older man in 4D who didn't answer, which sent the officers back to knock again more firmly. He answered on the third knock. He'd been asleep, he said. His television had been on a timer. No one in the hallway. No one on the stairs. No one on the cameras and this is the part the younger officer told me with a slight hesitation, the kind of hesitation that lives in the gap between what you're required to say and what you actually think the corridor camera on the fourth floor had recorded me walking to the peephole, and it had recorded me going back to my bedroom, and it had recorded the officers arriving. It had not recorded anyone else. "Camera could have a blind spot," the older officer said. He said it firmly, like a period at the end of a sentence, like a door closing. He asked if I had been drinking. I said no. He wrote something in his notepad. He told me to call back if I saw anything further. He gave me his card. He said "call if anything else happens" in the exact tone that meant he did not expect anything else to happen because he did not believe anything had happened to begin with. They left. I stood in my empty hallway for a long time. And then I looked down. There was something on the floor outside my door. Half hidden in the shadow at the base of the doorframe, like it had been set down very quietly, or like it had been there for longer than I realized and I simply hadn't seen it. A phone. Face down. Shattered screen a spider web of cracked glass spreading from one corner across the entire surface. I knew before I touched it. I knew before I turned it over. I knew from the weight of it as I picked it up, from the specific familiar crack in the casing along the bottom edge that I had watched Maya almost take to a repair shop three times and then not bother because she said she'd just be careful. I turned it over. Her lock screen. Her background photo the two of us at her cousin's wedding, her head tilted against my shoulder, both of us slightly blurry because the person who took it had moved at the last second. Dead. Completely dead. No charge. No sign of life. I plugged it into my charger, and I sat on my kitchen floor, and I waited. It didn't turn on. It never turned on again. I called her carrier the next day, posture of someone completely unbothered, asking about account activity. The woman on the phone checked and told me the account had been inactive since the month Maya died. No calls. No texts. The number had actually been recycled standard procedure after a certain number of months reassigned to a new customer. The number that had been texting me was no longer Maya's number. It was a stranger's. I called the new number. A woman answered confused, a little annoyed, said she'd had the number for about five months and had no idea what I was talking about. She'd been asleep and hadn't sent any messages. I thanked her and hung up. And then I thought about something that has not left me since. The texts knew about the coffee shop on Renner Street. The broken O. The things that were ours. Whatever sent those messages was not using Maya's account. It was not using Maya's phone. It was using something else. Something I don't have a word for. I moved out of that apartment six days later. Broke my lease. Paid the penalty. Packed what I could fit in my car and drove to my sister's house four hours away and sat in her guest room and didn't explain anything except that I needed somewhere to be for a while. She didn't ask. She made me food. She let me sleep. I let myself believe it was over.

🧵 final post coming soon Like and retweet if you want to know what happened next

bottler FC, Corner FC, Assnal At this point there is nothing U guys haven't called Arsenal But we still have two cups to go. At least Premier league is a sure win for us

Why are people spreading news about Donald trump?

THE LAST TEXT I need to tell you something that I have never told anyone in full. Not my therapist. Not my mother. Not the detective who handed me his card outside my apartment building at 3am and told me to "call if anything else happens." Nothing else happened. At least, nothing I could prove. But I need to say this out loud or type it out, I guess because it has been living in my chest like a stone for eight months and I am tired of carrying it alone. My girlfriend died on a Tuesday in February. Her name was Maya. She was 27. She had this laugh that started silent like her body forgot to make sound for the first two seconds and then erupted so suddenly that strangers would turn and stare and then smile without even knowing why. She made the best coffee I've ever had in my life and she was absolutely terrible at parallel parking and she cried every single time she watched Ratatouille, specifically the part where the food critic takes one bite and remembers being a child. She was the kind of person who made the world feel like it had been turned up slightly in volume and color. Like everything was just a little more real when she was nearby. She died at 11:14pm on a Tuesday because black ice on the Millbrook overpass sent her car into the guardrail at 47 miles per hour. I know the exact speed because it was in the accident report. I know the exact time because I was on the phone with her when it happened. We were arguing. Not about anything that matters now. Something stupid whose turn it was to cancel the streaming subscription we never used. She was laughing at me for being annoyed about it. I could hear the smile in her voice. I said something sarcastic. She said "okay, okay, I'll cancel it tonight, will that make you feel better, you absolute" And then there was a sound I will never be able to describe accurately to another human being. And then silence. And then voices. Other voices. A man saying "oh god" over and over. Tires somewhere. Wind. I screamed her name into the phone for four minutes before the line went dead. She was gone before the ambulance arrived. I know this because the detective told me later, quietly, in the way people deliver news they wish they didn't have to, that it was fast. That she wouldn't have felt it for long. He meant it to be comforting. I have thought about those words every day for eight months and I still don't know if they helped. We buried her on a Saturday. Her mother picked white flowers. Her younger brother gave a speech that made every single person in that room completely fall apart. I sat in the front row and felt like I was watching everything from the bottom of a very deep lake muffled, distant, slow. They buried her with her phone. Her mother's decision. She said Maya would have wanted it. I didn't argue. What would have been the point. For three weeks after the funeral I didn't sleep more than two hours at a time. I kept her contact in my phone. I couldn't bring myself to delete it. Some nights I would open it and just stare at our last conversation the stupid argument, the laughing emojis, the last "okay okay okay" she sent right before she got in the car. I told myself I was fine. I told myself I was grieving normally. I told myself a lot of things. And then on a Wednesday night, eight months ago, at exactly 2:47am My phone lit up. The name on the screen was Maya 💛 And the message said: "don't let him in." 🧵 continued in next post and I promise it gets worse.

looking at his phone or shifting his weight or doing any of the small unconscious things that people do when they exist in a body. He was just standing there. Facing my door. He knocked. Three times. Slow. Deliberate. Not the knock of someone who wasn't sure they had the right apartment. The knock of someone who knew exactly where they were. 🧵 don't stop now. post 3 is where it breaks open.

I stared at my phone for a long time. I mean a long time. I can't tell you exactly how long because time stopped working correctly in that moment, but I remember the screen dimmed and locked itself and I had to press the button to wake it up again just to confirm that I had actually seen what I thought I had seen. Maya 💛 "don't let him in." My first thought and I want to be honest here, because I think honesty is the only thing that makes this story worth telling my first thought was not fear. It was a kind of desperate, pathetic hope. The kind that grabs you before logic can stop it. For about four seconds I thought: what if they made a mistake. What if she survived somehow. What if And then I remembered the funeral. The white flowers. Her brother's speech. The detective's quiet voice. And logic came back. Someone had hacked her iCloud. That was the only explanation. It happened all the time. People's accounts didn't die with them they just sat there, logged in on old devices, until someone stumbled in. Or broke in. I almost convinced myself. I opened the message thread. The text sat there below all our old conversations. Below the laughing emojis. Below the last "okay okay okay." Don't let him in. I typed back. I don't know why. My fingers moved before I made the decision. I wrote: Maya? Three dots appeared. I dropped my phone. I actually dropped it on the floor and stood up from my bed and backed against the wall like something was coming for me. Three dots. That meant someone was typing. That meant there was someone on the other end, actively, right now, at 2:47 in the morning, typing a response from my dead girlfriend's number. I picked the phone back up. The dots were gone. No new message. I sat on the edge of my bed for a long time. The apartment was completely quiet. I lived on the fourth floor of a building with thin walls and I could usually hear my neighbor's television, could usually hear the elevator humming, could usually hear the city doing its city things outside the window. That night there was nothing. Just silence so total it had a kind of texture to it, like something was pressing against the air. I did something I cannot fully explain. I called her number. I told myself it was to prove it was a hack. That some stranger would pick up, confused, and I would feel stupid and relieved and go back to sleep. I told myself I was being rational. It rang once. Twice. Someone picked up. No voice. No hello. No confusion. Just presence the particular quality of silence that means someone is there, on the other end, holding the phone, listening. I could hear breathing. Slow. Steady. Patient. Like whoever it was had been expecting my call and was in absolutely no hurry. "Hello?" I said. The breathing continued. "Who is this?" My voice cracked on the last word and I hated it. Nothing. And then my phone buzzed in my hand. Another text. From the same number. I looked down. "he's already inside your building." I want to be very precise about what happened to my body in that moment. My vision narrowed. My hands went cold. Every hair on my arms stood up in a way I had read about but never actually experienced before this full body, animal thing, like every cell in my body suddenly agreed on one thing: Something is very wrong. I got up and went to my front door without turning on any lights. I don't know why I didn't turn on the lights. I pressed my eye against the peephole. The hallway outside was dim the building kept the corridor lights at half power after midnight to save electricity, this orange, underwater kind of glow that always reminded me of old photographs. There was a man standing in the hallway. He was tall. Dark coat. Hands at his sides. Standing about six feet from my door, facing it directly. His head was tilted just slightly downward so I couldn't see his face clearly just the top of his head and the line of his jaw and the stillness of him, the absolute, unnatural stillness. He wasn't moving. He wasn't

If you want part 3 of the story Like and retweet

The specific shuffle of multiple people doing a careful search. Then a knock on my door. "Police, sir, you can open up." I opened the door. The hallway was empty. 🧵 almost there. post 4 is the part that made me leave that apartment forever.

I did not open the door. I want to make that clear because later much later, talking to the detective, talking to my therapist, talking to the one friend I eventually trusted with pieces of this people always asked: but did you open the door? And there was always something in the question, some small implication, like the answer might change how they interpreted everything else. I did not open the door. I am not that person in the horror movie. I stood at the peephole with my hand over my mouth and I watched him stand there. He knocked again after about thirty seconds. Same rhythm. Three knocks. Patient. Like he had all night. My phone buzzed. I looked down, keeping one eye on the peephole as long as I could. The message was longer this time. "his name is Daniel. I met him two weeks before the accident. he was at the coffee shop on Renner Street you know the one, the one with the broken 'O' in the sign that the owner kept saying he'd fix. Daniel sat next to me and we talked for an hour and he was kind and funny and I felt guilty the whole time because I kept thinking you would like him. I should have told you about him. I should have told someone. he started showing up places after that. I thought it was coincidence. I thought I was imagining it. I didn't want to scare you." I read it three times. The coffee shop on Renner Street. The broken O in the sign. I knew exactly what she was talking about. We had been there together. I had made a joke about the sign. Maya had laughed the silent laugh first, then the eruption and the barista had overheard and smiled. No one hacked an iCloud account and typed that. No one who had broken into a dead woman's account would know about the broken O on a coffee shop sign on Renner Street. My hands were shaking badly enough that I could feel it in my wrists. I typed back: how are you doing this. The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. "I don't have much time and I don't fully understand it either so please just listen to me. he followed me that night. onto the overpass. I saw his headlights too close behind me and I got scared and I was going too fast and the ice it happened so fast. he stopped. I saw his car stop. he got out and stood at the guardrail and looked down and then he drove away. he drove away and left me there." I was crying. I didn't notice it happening until a tear dropped onto my phone screen. "he knows about you because I told him about you that first day. I told him I had a boyfriend and I described you and I told him your name. I don't know how he found your building. I don't know what he wants. but he has been watching you for weeks and tonight he decided to stop watching." My phone went back into my pocket. I went back to the peephole. The man Daniel was still there. He had moved closer. He was maybe three feet from the door now. Close enough that I could see more detail through the fish-eye lens. Dark circles under his eyes. A quality to his face like a photograph left in sunlight something faded, something slightly off in a way that I couldn't name. He raised his hand and pressed his palm flat against my door. Just held it there. The whole surface of his hand, flat, still, like he was feeling for something. Like he was feeling for a heartbeat. And then he said my name. Not loudly. Almost softly. The way you'd say someone's name to wake them gently. He said my name the way a person says it when they already know you. When they've been saying it for a long time in private and this is simply the first time they're saying it out loud. I called 911. I went to my bedroom. I sat on the floor between the bed and the wall and I talked to the dispatcher in a voice so quiet I had to repeat myself twice and I stayed on the line until I heard the knock on the building's front door six minutes later the heavy, authoritative knock of people who are paid to walk toward the thing everyone else is running from. I heard voices in the hallway Moving.

Look at what Nigeria has turned to

@Just_ebube Who did they kill

They’ve killed him o … just like that 😩😩 My chest 😭😭😭

Nobody is building fuel anymore 😂

Your voters card isn't enough for you to vote next 👀

If you see this post drop Hi let's follow each other

I just knew it was content