Embrace9ja 🇳🇬🖤
432 posts

Embrace9ja 🇳🇬🖤
@Embrace9ja
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Dear @PeterObi, we know you won’t bribe INEC, hire thugs, pay off security agents or hire people to steal ballot boxes. Sir, what is the plan to confront all that Tinubu will bring on board?

There was a man… There was a man who loved his people. He was born into a land where the law was not made for him. Where his tribe could not vote in the country of their fathers. Where the constitution itself was written to keep his kind in their place. He saw it. He named it. And he refused to accept it as the natural order of things. He was educated. He had mastered the language of those who ruled, and he used it to expose what they had done. He was a man of words — written, spoken, broadcast — and his words traveled further than the regime could follow. He believed, for a long time, that words alone could break the chains. He marched. He organized. He pleaded. He addressed the world in the language of reason and law. The conscience of the powerful was not reached. So he chose another road. Not because he wanted to. Because every peaceful door had been closed. He believed — and said openly — that a people whose every nonviolent appeal had been met with bullets had the right to defend themselves and to fight back. He did not call it terror. He called it self-defense, and he was prepared to be hanged for saying so. The regime called it terror. They put his organization on lists. They put his face on wanted posters. They told the world he was a violent man, a dangerous man, a man whose freedom would mean chaos and bloodshed. The most powerful nation on earth kept him on its terrorist watch list for forty-four years. They came for him. They charged him under laws written to silence him. They tried him in courts that were never going to acquit him. They sentenced him to die in prison. He went to prison. And he stayed there. While he sat in his cell, his people kept dying. The regime kept killing them. The world kept looking away. The lobbyists in distant capitals kept calling the survivors troublemakers and the killers misunderstood. The propaganda kept flowing. The history books kept being rewritten. But something else happened too. His name kept traveling. From mouth to mouth. From church to church. From parliament to parliament. The young people he had never met learned his name. The old people who had given up hope learned his name. The presidents and prime ministers who had once called him a terrorist began to feel a strange shifting in the rooms where they stood. His captors had locked him away to silence him. They had only made him louder. Years passed. The regime tried everything. They offered him freedom if he would renounce his cause. He refused. They offered him comfort if he would denounce his people. He refused. They offered him a quiet exile if he would simply stop being who he was. He refused. He sat in his cell and he kept loving his people. And one day — not because the regime had a change of heart, but because the world had finally learned his name — the doors opened. He walked out. Older. Frailer. But unbroken. Unbought. Unrepentant for the cause that had cost him everything. He did not call for vengeance. He did not call for the regime’s people to be driven into the sea. He called for truth. He called for reconciliation. He called for the kind of justice that would let the children of his oppressors live in peace alongside the children of their victims. His name became a word. His face became a face the world recognized. His country, once a byword for cruelty, became a country that could begin to heal. The regime that had jailed him as a terrorist became the regime that had to apologize for having done it. The world that had once looked away built statues of him in its capitals. That man was Nelson Mandela. He was 71 when he walked out of prison. In Sokoto today, there is a man. #EarthShaker

Well well he’s heading to the o2 arena next



Living fast 🦅






















