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Saturday: Arsenal beat Fulham to go six points clear at the top of the Premier League. Monday: Manchester City drop points against Everton to hand Arsenal control in the title race. Tuesday: Arsenal qualify for their first Champions League final in 20 years. Arsenal fans, lock in. 🙏🏼🔒

@MerriamWebster Itinerary

What word is your spelling nemesis? This is a safe space.

COYG!!!!

@Mochievous The Drummer Boy The African Child The Beautiful Ones are not Yet Born

Saw a tweet about re reading classics from school, so now I want to do same. If you schooled in Nigeria, what were the recommended texts you remember from your literature class? Please send me all even the ones you hated. I’ll comply the top 20 as a reading list. Thank you!

@Mochievous Tess of the d'urbervilles Far From the Madding Crowd Animal Farm Trials of Brother Jero series Lion and the Jewel She Stoops to Conquer Weep Not Child Things Fall Apart Second Chance Gulliver's Travel The Three Musketeers Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs

@EmekeOnwumah @ChiamakaAFC They are getting overcoached and confused...☹️

@ChiamakaAFC Take some time to watch Zubi in Spain. Matter of fact, watch all our players play for different managers in their respective countries. You might understand the impact of Arteta's tactics. No blame for Zubi from me either.

I will never say a single bad word about Martin Zubimendi. He didn’t look like this when we signed him… someone clearly got in his head and changed him, and I know exactly who to blame.

@Arsenal No excuse for this. Very shameful. You don't deserve the league...

Full-time at Emirates Stadium.

@Arsenal You don't deserve the league title. That was shameful...

Goal for Bournemouth - scored by Scott 🔴 1-2 🔵 (74)

“A man is great not because he hasn't failed; a man is great because failure hasn't stopped him.” ― Confucius Memorial 2026

A very underrated life decision is marrying someone who wants a simple life.

This whole theory that “if everyone has a problem with you, then you’re the problem” or that if you have a problem with everyone, you must be the issue is deeply flawed and honestly unfair. There are people who are widely liked not because they’re good people, but because they’re agreeable, pretentious, and willing to conform. And there are people who are constantly labeled “difficult” simply because they don’t know how to play along or pretend. The thing is The more easygoing, accommodating, and “let’s keep the peace” you are, the more you’re perceived as likable even if it means constantly shrinking yourself. Meanwhile, the moment you stand firm, call things out, and choose not to be pretentious, you’re suddenly labeled difficult. Sometimes, it’s not that someone has a problem with everyone; it’s that they’re just not willing to tolerate what everyone else is comfortable tolerating.

A dream wedding should be financed by the dreamer.. 😎

Nigerian weddings are interesting. Two people are starting life together But the event itself sometimes costs more than the life they’re about to start.

i don't want a woman to ever settle for me. go find your dream man, and if you can't find him, don't come trying to use me in the process. i want mine clingy, reassuring, nasty, unapproachable, God fearing & eyes on only me.

Be careful with people who have lost parents, siblings or children. Let me explain. When someone’s been through that kind of loss, they see life different. They don’t tolerate fake energy, and they don’t play about peace, they’ve already buried pieces of themselves once. When you lose someone that close, something in you shifts forever. You stop seeing life the same way. The person you used to be dies with them in a way. You smile different, you love different, you breathe different. Nothing feels the same, no matter how much time passes.

The public library is a quiet place for quiet people. Since I retired, I go there three days a week. I sit in the corner, read historical biographies, and enjoy the air conditioning. You see a lot of life happen in a library if you actually pay attention. A few months ago, I started noticing a young father coming in with his little girl. She looked about five, always wearing these bright light-up sneakers. She would run to the children's section, grab a pile of picture books, and drag him to a beanbag chair. She’d hold the book up to him. "Read it, Daddy!" And every time, the dad would do the same thing. He would look at the pages, clear his throat, and start making up a story based on the pictures. "And then the... the big bear went to the forest," he would say. "No Daddy," the little girl would correct him, pointing at the page. "That's a dog." He would laugh nervously, rub the back of his neck, and say, "Right. Silly Daddy. He forgot his glasses today." He forgot his glasses every Tuesday and Thursday for a month. I was an English teacher for forty years. I know what illiteracy looks like when it's trying to hide. The shame radiating off that young man was palpable. He loved his daughter enough to bring her to the library, but he couldn't read the words she loved. One afternoon, the little girl wandered off to look at a fish tank across the room. The dad sat alone, staring at a Dr. Seuss book. He looked defeated. I closed my biography, walked over, and sat in the small chair next to him. "They don't make English easy, do they?" I said quietly. He stiffened, defensive. "I just forgot my glasses." "I know," I said, keeping my voice low. "But when I was teaching, I found out that a lot of very smart, very capable people just never had someone sit down and teach them the rules of the letters. The system failed them. They didn't fail the system." He stared at the floor. I could see his jaw clenching. "I'm here Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays," I told him, sliding a blank piece of paper and a pencil across the small table. "If you ever want to read her the actual story... I've got nothing but time." I didn't wait for an answer. I just went back to my corner. He didn't come to me that day. Or the next. But two weeks later, on a Thursday, he walked over to my table while his daughter was at storytime. He pulled out the chair, sat down, and looked me dead in the eye. "I want to read the book about the caterpillar," he whispered. "Her birthday is next month. I want to read her the caterpillar book." That was six months ago. Yesterday, I sat in my corner and listened as a young man with a slight stutter perfectly read The Very Hungry Caterpillar to a little girl with light-up shoes. When he finished, she clapped. He looked over the bookshelf at me, and just nodded. Sometimes, the heaviest things we carry are the secrets we think make us broken. But if you're brave enough to ask for help, you'll usually find someone waiting to share the load.

This critique of reading sounds to me like thinly-veiled anti-intellectualism; it argues against a straw man of a reader and has an air of arrogance about it. You can never read too many books; you don't have to gain life experiences first. Why? Because reading serious literature sharpens your critical thinking skills, increases your empathy for others, breaks down individual prejudices and helps us to transcend our myopic perspective. Reading is an active receptive process. You don't just soak up information like a LLM—you‘re reflecting the things you're reading plus you're reflecting yourself as a consequence. Reading functions as a continuous critical integration process of world- and self-knowledge. Reading brings great wisdom. It's better to read than not to read.

People won't tell you their parents assist them with rent, they won't tell you they have an old man or woman who sends them money monthly in exchange for sex. They won't say they started business with inherited money. Never be stressed or pressured for nothing in this World.

In medical school, we are taught a golden rule: "When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras." It is a reminder to look for the common explanation before the exotic one. But after decades in cardiology, I’ve learned that if a patient is still suffering after the "horses" have been ruled out, a doctor must have the courage—and the curiosity—to go hunting for the zebra. Sarah was a thirty-four-year-old marathon runner and a devoted mother who came to me after six months of being told she was "fine." She had been bounced from one specialist to another, each one pointing to her normal EKG and standard blood tests as proof that her crushing fatigue and racing heart were simply the result of "new mom stress." By the time she reached my office, she didn't just look tired; she looked invisible, as if the medical system had stopped seeing the woman and only saw the data. Instead of re-reading the normal test results that had already failed her, I asked Sarah to walk me through her life. We talked about her training and her family, eventually landing on a backpacking trip she took to the Mendoza province of rural Argentina. She described staying in a charming, rustic cottage made of sun-dried mud bricks. She mentioned waking up one morning with a strangely swollen, purple eyelid that she assumed was a simple spider bite. As she spoke, a memory surfaced from a biography I had read years ago about Charles Darwin. Most people know Darwin for his theories on evolution, but medical historians have long puzzled over the mysterious, debilitating illness that plagued him for decades after he returned from his voyage on the HMS Beagle. Darwin had written in his journals about being bitten by the "great black bug of the Pampas" while sleeping in mud-walled huts in South America. He spent the rest of his life suffering from heart palpitations and exhaustion that the Victorian doctors of his time could never explain. I realized then that Sarah wasn't suffering from stress; she was likely hosting the same "silent killer" that may have haunted Darwin: Chagas Disease. The "Kissing Bug" lives in the cracks of those mud-brick walls. It bites its victims—often near the eyes or mouth—while they sleep, passing a parasite called Trypanosoma cruzi into the blood. The danger of Chagas is that the initial symptoms disappear quickly, but the parasite can hide in the body for years, slowly weaving itself into the muscle and electrical "wiring" of the heart. To confirm this, I moved beyond the standard tests. I ordered a specialized "Strain Rate" ultrasound, which doesn't just look at whether the heart is pumping, but at how the individual muscle fibers are stretching. We saw that while her heart looked strong to the naked eye, the fibers were "stuttering," a sign of early parasite-induced scarring. A specific blood test for the parasite's antibodies confirmed the diagnosis. Treatment required a difficult, sixty-day course of anti-parasitic medication to stop the infection, paired with a protective heart regimen to keep her electrical system stable while the inflammation settled. Because we caught it before her heart was physically damaged or enlarged, the recovery was a success. Months later, Sarah returned to my office, her vibrant energy restored. She brought me a leather-bound copy of The Voyage of the Beagle with a note tucked inside. She wrote that while other doctors had looked at her charts, I had looked at her. This case remains a vital reminder for my memoir: in a world of high-tech scans and AI, the most sophisticated diagnostic tool we possess is still the human story. When we truly listen, we don't just find the disease—we find the patient. Good morning.

There was no single action that could have ended Game of Thrones. None. Even if the Starks stayed, Daenerys was in Essos and would have come back. Even if Jon Arryn didn't discover Cersei's children were bastards, Stannis knew. Even if the Targaryens weren't almost wiped off, there was the Night King. Even if the Night King wasn't there, there was still Mance Rayder and the wildings beyond the Wall to deal with. Too many plots that didn't affect each other were there. The most beautifully written story ever.♥️