agbaawoforex

Recency bias sha, eyin boys yii goor gan e no even get half of hin run

This fraud radio queen, in every emerging artists dm offering radio services, once you pay, she blocks you or goes ghost, aunty your day is coming.

As a person, you must learn to discern when you enjoy the goodwill of others. This awareness should humble you, anchor you, and keep your feet firmly on the ground. But just as crucial is the ability to recognize when you do not enjoy that goodwill—when eyes are not watching in admiration, but in anticipation. Waiting. Lurking. Prowling for the scent of a misstep. So they can pounce. So they can gloat. So they can hiss with smug satisfaction, “Aha, we knew it!” You must know the difference. And act accordingly. This is why wisdom is profitable to direct. This is why speech must be tempered. This is why silence, when mastered, is a higher language. You don’t owe the internet a response. You don’t owe strangers an explanation. You don’t need to clap back or clarify or correct. Because many times, you are not being heard—you are being baited. And it is far better to let people believe what they want than to hand them, word for word, the very poison they’ll use to bury you. And no—this is not one of those “let a woman talk long enough and she’ll snitch on herself” monologues. That tired script does not live here. I’ve seen men too—strong, respected men—slur their way through drunken confessions that should have died in their throats. I’ve seen people, in moments of unguarded speech, undo legacies. Speech is a dangerous thing. That it flows so easily, so abundantly, should make us more wary of it. Not less. It should teach us to wield it gently, cautiously. Because it can make us, yes—but it can just as easily unmake us. I hope she learns from this. I hope we all do. Not out of fear, but out of reverence for the power we carry when we open our mouths. We owe ourselves that much.

Let's make it trend #30DayRantChallenge #TinubuIsaTerriblePresident

Yesterday, I walked into a club the way one enters a place they do not belong—with a quiet confidence that unsettles. A members-only establishment, built on whispered connections and inherited privilege. I had no reservation, but I walked in anyway. The moment I stepped past the entrance, she was there—a waitress, compact and battle-ready, moving toward me with the righteousness of someone who had been entrusted with the sacred duty of gatekeeping. She squared her shoulders, eyes scanning me with the precision of an NDLEA officer looking for narcotics. “You can’t be here,” she barked, her voice firm, final—like a gavel sealing a verdict. I smiled. I have seen her type before—women hardened by necessity, not choice. Women who carried the weight of unspoken struggles, whose survival depended on how well they wielded the little power they had. I did not fault her. The world had made her this way. “Relax,” I said, still smiling, as I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. A few taps, a dial tone, then a voice—loud, familiar, brimming with warmth. “Oboy, I dey your club oh.” “Ahhh!” came the delighted response. “Who dey there? Give my staff phone.” I handed the phone to her. And just like that, I watched her shift. Her posture loosened, her face softened, her voice—once a weapon—now a melody of, “Yes sah! Okay sah! No wahala sah!” I have seen her type before. The call ended. She returned my phone with both hands, reverence now woven into her movements. “Oga, I’m sorry. Abeg, no vex.” I was still smiling. “No issue. How much for Orijin bottle?” She hesitated. “₦1,500, sir. But Oga say make we no collect money from you.” I exhaled, dipped a hand into my pocket, and pulled out crisp ₦500 notes. I did not count them—just placed them in her hands. “Abi Oga say make person no dash you money?” She beamed. Her teeth—browned and uneven—told a story of years that had not been kind, of joys that had not been frequent. But in this moment, she was radiant. “Thank you, sir!” she gushed, already turning, already eager to serve. I leaned back in my seat, taking in the scene—the low hum of conversations, the clink of glasses, the air thick with exclusivity and pretense. The kind of place where power was currency, where names opened doors and money bent spines. As I waited for my drink, I let my father’s words settle within me. He was right—money makes people smile. But not the kind that warms the face, not the kind that reaches the eyes. No, this was the baring of teeth, the reflex of survival. The kind of smile people wear when the world has taught them that dignity is a luxury they cannot afford.

We must be careful not to diminish the pain of others simply because we believe theirs pales in comparison to ours. Pain, after all, is not a competition — though society often treats it as one. The person grieving the loss of a beloved pet feels a weight that, to them, is unbearable. Meanwhile, another writhes in agony from a stubbed toe, cursing the heavens with equal fervor. It’s tempting to scoff, to say, “Surely, losing a dog is far more painful than a mere stubbed toe,” but is it? Who are we to measure another’s suffering with the crude yardstick of our own experiences? Let’s be honest: diminishing someone else’s pain is often just a twisted form of self-soothing. We belittle what others feel because it gives us a fleeting sense of superiority. “My pain is real. Yours? A mere inconvenience.” But what are we really saying? That suffering is only legitimate when it leaves you shattered beyond repair? That you must bleed, break, or beg for help before you’re allowed to feel hurt? Yet, pain is far too complex to be weighed on such a simplistic scale. It is deeply personal, intimate in its torment. It seeps into the crevices of our souls, settling in ways that no one else can fully comprehend. What shatters one person might barely ruffle another, and that does not make one person weaker or another stronger. Does a child’s heartbreak over a lost toy sting any less simply because adults deem it trivial? Does a widow’s sorrow for her deceased husband invalidate the grief of a young woman who mourns the end of her first love? If pain had a sound, would it always have to be a scream? Could it not be a silent sob in the dead of night, or a quiet gasp in the middle of a crowded room? And if pain had a face, would it always have to be twisted in anguish? Could it not be the blank stare of someone who’s mastered the art of pretending? The truth is, human beings are often guilty of trivializing what they do not understand. We scoff at the teenager overwhelmed by academic pressure, forgetting how suffocating those days once felt. We roll our eyes at the friend heartbroken over a brief relationship, dismissing their anguish with a curt, “You’ll get over it.” But what if they don’t? What if, for them, that momentary sting feels like a gaping wound? Pain is inherently selfish. It’s a parasite that feeds on your soul, and when you’re consumed by it, everyone else’s suffering feels like an insult. “How dare you feel pain when I’m drowning in mine?” But the irony? While you’re busy dismissing someone’s stubbed toe, someone else is laughing at your heartbreak because, in their eyes, it’s nothing compared to losing a child, a home, a limb. Why do we feel the need to weigh pain? Is it because recognizing someone else’s suffering forces us to confront our own humanity? Or is it because we fear that by validating another’s pain, we somehow diminish our own? Maybe that’s the point — pain is relative. What feels like a minor inconvenience to you might feel like an unbearable weight to someone else. And you know what? That’s okay. Your agony doesn’t have to be bigger to be real. The person grieving a pet isn’t any less heartbroken than the person mourning a parent. Different pains, same rawness. Imagine a man struggling under the burden of an anvil and another straining beneath the weight of a heavy backpack. To an observer, the anvil is unquestionably heavier, but what if the man with the backpack has never carried weight before? Does his trembling, his exhaustion, become any less valid because someone else is carrying more? Pain is not defined by the burden but by the bearer. How often do we dismiss mental anguish simply because there’s no physical wound to show for it? A person battling anxiety may never shed a tear in public, but their mind is a battlefield, riddled with unseen scars. Another, facing heartbreak, may walk around smiling, laughing even, while carrying the crushing weight of loneliness.

Several years ago, we worked with a team of highly qualified experts assembled a team to expose the genocide of Christians in #Nigeria to USAID and the State Department. Funding was needed. We were cut off at the knees. Why? Catholics and other Christians need not apply for US government grants. We are not welcome. There is a genocide taking place in Nigeria today, but the Washington, DC, foreign aid establishment wants to hide it and blame the killings on global warming. @DavidHundeyin @GLALegalDefense

9:26am EST: OOB Moon in Gemini quincunx Juno in Scorpio. Part 2 of a fast-moving Finger of God with the Sun. Notice what you notice! The implications of what we've learned are rippling out into other relationships. 21°Ge53' D 21°Sc53' D

The many jokes across social media platforms being made about the death of those guys through peppersoup poisoning, would never be tolerated if it were a man that poisoned his ex and three other ladies.

See how all the Ladies involved in the “K!lling of Men Tweets” that we called out have all locked account ? Pretty sure they’re trembling as we’re tagging the authorities with PROOF! What am I trying to point out here.. All that talks about “Fear Women.. they’re capable of this and that” on this App na simply coz we no dey MATCH their energy No be them get monopoly of m@dness.. All I need is for MORE MEN to COURAGEOUSLY speak up. The accounts speaking up don’t have any unique traits.. There’s nothing really special we’re doing… only difference between YOU, Yom/Wizarab is that.. We speak up, YOU don’t.. We don’t give 2 fvcks, YOU do. SPEAK tf UP!!!

Tag the handles and alert the authorities. This is what feminists are teaching young women. @PoliceNG You have mail #SayNoToAndrocide #StopKillingMen

men can’t eat at their friends place again without the fear of a woman wiping them out. the world is already unsafe for men out there. women please stop killing us 🙏🏽

Stop Killing Men. #SayNoToAndrocide

Thanks so much. You’ve been so consistent in lending your voice to this. You’re a very good man. Already, I promised them that I’ll never stop tweeting about them till they pay me. The longer they take in paying up, the more the reputation of the company is ruined. If they thought I would get tired, then they are in for a shock awakening.

⭒ I’m healed now, God please send me money. I no need any other thing

@KojoForex 458

Nothing is as insulting as the deals Centralized exchanges bring to Nigerians and African traders in general. As a Nigerian trader if you settle for commission deals and trading bonus deals. I must tell you now. You’re part of the problem. Spent the last few months researching on the type of deals given to other demographics by centralized exchanges. I see people with little or no influencer getting paid lump sums to do virtually nothing. I see sponsored trading competitions. I see exchanges reposting or even pushing their posts actively on their official pages. When it comes to Africa they start to tell you to bring 3 dark skinned virgins monthly for them to give you trading bonuses. The biggest key to note is this. Once they offer you 70/80% commissions you’ll pay it back in trading fees. The house always wins. Push your price up. If we do it as one group of traders the rubbish will stop. Like and repost for the next trader that will get a DM from a centralized exchange.

Burna Boy came with his team to pick up my son because of a video he made. He is my only son; please forgive him” -- Speed Darlington's mom goes on her knees