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01/11/2025

Live at Sapele Road bye-pass

20/09/2025

When the boy reached sixteen, the elders gathered under the big iroko tree. They tied red cloth, they chewed bitter kola, and they said:

“This boy must go. A house with termites cannot stand for long.”

So Osazee was cast away, with nothing but an old bag and the strength of his legs.

He walked. Oh, he walked! Through forests where the crickets sang, along roads where the dust rose like smoke. He begged for food, he slept under the belly of the night. Until—yes, until—he reached the great city of Benin.

There, among the shouting of bus conductors and the flicker of generator lights, he found work with a mechanic, Master Ighodaro. At last, he thought, he had found a place to belong.

But children, misfortune is like smoke—it will find a crack to enter. One night, fire swallowed the workshop. Tools melted, machines became ashes. Osazee, though he tried, could save nothing. The master turned his anger on him.

“Ah! I should have known! Misfortune walks with you!”

Again, Osazee was on the streets.

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17/09/2025

THE UNFORTUNATE ONE

Children, gather round. The night is deep, the moon is bright, and the wind carries the stories of old. Open your ears, for what I will tell you is the tale of Osazee, the one they called The Unfortunate One.

Ehen!

In the land of Uromi, where the red earth stains your feet and the yam barns stand tall, a child was born. His cry was like the cry of every other child, but his fate—ah, his fate was not like others. On the very day he entered the world, his mother closed her eyes forever. People shook their heads and said:

> “When the kola nut falls in the forest, it does not make a sound for nothing.”

They whispered, “This boy is marked.”

Before he could tie his wrapper properly, death came again. His father, a palm wine tapper, fell from the raffia tree and did not rise. Who did they blame? Osazee, the small boy who did not yet know the taste of pepper soup.

“Unfortunate child!” they spat. “Wherever he goes, sorrow follows.”

But listen well: Osazee’s heart was soft like ripe mango. He fetched water for old women, helped market women lift heavy loads, and shared the last garri in his calabash with children hungrier than himself. Still, whenever sickness came, whenever a goat went missing, whenever rain refused to fall, the villagers would point at him.

“Ha! Misfortune has a face—and it is Osazee’s.”

13/09/2025

Her stomach dropped. She had sworn never to open it again. Not after that night. Not after the screams had stopped and she had pressed the lid closed with shaking hands, locking away what she couldn’t bear to face.
The train groaned around a sharp bend. The lights sputtered, plunging the carriage into black for a second. When they came back, the figures had moved.
Closer.
Now they sat only a row away, their grins splitting wide, teeth jagged like shards of glass.

“Mama,” the suitcase whispered.

Her throat closed.
Slowly, the latch trembled. A hand—small, gray, and trembling—pushed through the gap. Then another. Something climbed out.

It was a boy.

No older than six, his hair tangled, his pajamas stained with mud. His hollow eyes met hers, and for a moment the world fell silent.

“Mama,” he whispered.

The figures around them began to shudder, swaying in rhythm, their mouths opening in guttural chants.

“You left me,” the boy said. His skin cracked, veins blackening beneath the surface. His smile widened until it split his face ear to ear, exposing not a child’s laugh but a chorus of screams.
The chanting grew louder. The figures pressed in.

Maya backed into her seat, sobbing. “I didn’t mean to—I never meant—”
“You locked me in the dark,” the boy hissed, his voice warping. “You thought I wouldn’t find you.”
He lunged.
The suitcase yawned wide, darker than night, a vortex sucking the air from the carriage. The figures grabbed her arms, her legs, dragging her down as she thrashed. The boy’s icy hands gripped her face, pulling her toward the abyss.
Her reflection in the window smiled as she screamed.
And then the darkness swallowed her whole.
When the train screeched into the next station, its doors slid open.

The platform was empty.

Inside, the carriage sat silent.

The suitcase rested neatly on the seat where Maya had been, its brass latches gleaming faintly in the flickering light.

Waiting.

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10/09/2025

The carriage stretched out like a tunnel of dim light and shadows. The overhead bulbs buzzed weakly, flickering in sickly rhythms. The seats were lined in faded fabric, worn thin by countless bodies—but none were here now.
She sank into a seat by the window. The suitcase sat heavy on her lap.

That was when she noticed the glass.

Her reflection was wrong. It moved a second slower than she did, lagging like an old film reel. Its eyes seemed brighter too, hungry. She turned away, heart stuttering.
The train jolted forward. Outside, the cityscape slid past, smeared into streaks of neon and concrete. But it didn’t last. Within minutes, the streets gave way to wastelands: forests of twisted trees beneath a starless sky, skeletal buildings collapsing into ash.
The further the train carried her, the less the world looked human at all.

And then she realized the carriage wasn’t empty anymore.

Figures sat in the seats across from her. Their faces were pale, their bodies still, their heads turned in perfect unison toward her. At first she thought they were passengers—until she noticed the gleam of their eyes, glassy and black.
Her grip on the suitcase tightened. The leather was warm now. Too warm. Almost alive.

A whisper threaded through the air.

“MAYA…”

Her head snapped up. None of the figures had moved. Their faces remained blank, yet the voice came again, closer.

“MAYA…”

It wasn’t from them.

It was from the SUITCASE.

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09/09/2025

I got over 10 reactions on one of my posts last week! Thanks everyone for your support! 🎉

09/09/2025

The Last Train

The platform was deserted when Maya arrived.
The air was sharp with winter, her breath drifting away in broken clouds as she clutched the old leather suitcase to her chest. The street lamps above hummed weakly, their pale light stuttering in and out, as though reluctant to illuminate the place. She glanced up at the station clock: one minute past midnight.

PERFECT.

She wasn’t supposed to be here. Not really. Not anymore. But the letter had been clear—short, scrawled in ink that seemed to bleed into the page:

“BOARD THE LAST TRAIN. BRING THE SUITCASE.”

The train screeched into the station with a shrill, metallic wail. Its windows were black, offering no glimpse of what lay inside. The doors slid open, and a gust of cold, damp air poured out, smelling faintly of wet earth.
No passengers exited.
Maya’s stomach tightened. For a moment she thought about turning back. But her feet betrayed her. She stepped forward, and the doors sealed behind her with a sound that was far too final.

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04/09/2025

https://www.youtube.com/live/kJs-N7oegEw?si=OUxtYq7nWopaIlAG

PASSOVER 2025THEME: THE SPIRIT OF THE LORD DAY 4 MORNING SESSION (MINISTERS SUMMIT)For today's teaching and other messages, subscribe to ...

30/08/2025

29/08/2025

I no fit laugh alone oooo😂😂😂

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27/08/2025

MANCHESTER UNITED ARE OUT OF THE EFL CUP