Minister weMafaro | Royalty 👑

I just want to sing at your weddings 😊 Let's make it happen.

Why not? That’s a 14 km journey, a decent fuel saver does roughly 12km/l @ $2.08/l that’s maybe $2.50, which means a 50% profit for that ride. I think we’re too used to taking advantage of each other.

Every time I see old couples, I always wonder how many times they’ve forgiven each other.

in order to become a better person, you must first realize how horrible you really are. not in the dramatic sense, but in the quiet ways you sabotage yourself, repeat unhealthy patterns, hurt people who care about you, or tolerate what wounds you. you cannot grow if you keep pretending you're innocent in the story you created.

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.

Someone at work is going to suggest you download Outlook and Teams on your personal phone. It's very important that you don't listen to them.

This is hilarious and sad at the same time

@The_Mixologist_ If you a great MC I'm here =)

I need a really cool dJ for my next event

Getting older is crazy. One wrong pillow angle and your neck is disabled for the entire week. 😭

It’s going to to be a blesssed and fruitful week. Filled with new opportunities, blessings and good vibes 🌸

Arsenal Second. 🍼

She was 14 = “old enough to consent.” He was 22 = “too young for prison.” Patriarchy’s math is not mathing. Women are always old enough and men are never old enough

Society is in shambles because we’ve really allowed money to take precedence over character, principles and values.

@thelollytaylor @The_Mixologist_ It’s so lazy and wack

@The_Mixologist_ I guess as long as you are popular anything is possible

Brand alignment in zim is so hectic. Why is miss universe bathing with jade guys please 😭✋🏾

Seeing your siblings doing well is a top tier feeling.

@Ndi_Muvenda_ @LuthandoFuze Just add them to the dictionary. I get you but according to Microsoft’s initial purview they are mistakes. It is what it is.

Dear Microsoft. Our African names are not spelling errors

I honestly cannot stress this enough but please start living & enjoying your life. Your life is passing by daily and all you’re doing is working, paying bills, & overthinking stuff you can't change. Start taking trips and treating yourself. Have fun with this life. You only get 1

@lisakhat_ @Afika_Lulo They don’t care.

The girls are really dating criminals 🙂‍↔️🙂‍↔️🙂‍↔️

Again, cover yourself in prayer at these jobs.

A big lesson my therapist taught me was to start accepting apologies with, “thank you” instead of “it’s okay”. You can accept an apology and thank someone for taking accountability without excusing their behaviour.

I lived in Japan for a year. Most of my experiences were exhausting in ways I’d rather not get into, but this one still makes me laugh. I was on the train in Osaka, minding my own business, when I noticed a group of school kids a few seats down. They were whispering, glancing at me, then whispering again. They kept passing a folded piece of paper between them as if they were planning something top secret. I watched this go on for two stops. Finally, one of the kids was pushed forward by the others. He walked over to me slowly, like he was approaching a wild animal that might bite. He stopped right in front of me, bowed politely, and held out the folded paper with both hands. I opened it. Inside was a handwritten note in careful English: “Hello. We think you are a very cool person. We are practicing our English. We hope this note is correct. Please give us a score.” At the bottom, they had drawn a literal grading box, out of ten. I looked up. Seven pairs of eyes were staring at me as if their entire semester depended on my response. I pulled out a pen, wrote “10/10” in the box, and added a note: “Perfect English. Well done.” The boy carried it back to the group. They read it together… and absolutely lost their minds. High-fives, jumping, and one kid even pumped his fist in the air. Their teacher, who had been pretending not to watch from the end of the car, was biting her lip, trying hard not to smile. I rode the rest of the journey grinning to myself. That’s the Japan I always remember.