Imo State Ikenegbu Male Gay WhatsApp Groups

Cartergurus:
Please help a dying brother.
Any amount no matter how small can save me from this catastrophic situation.
Its a long story. I know what I am doing now may not be the best, but I have no other place to go, neither do I know what else to do.
PLEASE HELP ME IF YOU CAN.
My account is
UBA
A/c name: Chukwu Samuel
A/c no: 2080998439
Please no amount is too small to save my life now.
Thanks in advance.

Good afternoon Samuel.
Please can you send me a private message on here or on WhatsApp(07063138027)?

My father called this morning to talk about passion, talent, and something else I am yet to find a name for. He talked about limits and distractions and a few other things I don't remember.
My father is an intelligent 'ol'young' man, a carpenter who grew without a vision. He had a talent in repairing electronics even though he was not proud of it. He wanted to be something else.
He only grew learning to climb palm trees, make oil out of the fronds and body oil out of the kernel. He learnt hunting and firewood fetching to feed the family because he was the first child.
Back then at Central School, Mbaise, there were four students who were popular for being the most brilliant in a number of villages in Mbaise - my father was one of the three boys. There was just one girl.
After his Common Entrance Examination, he won a scholarship to study in a particular school with the other three students, which after they would become teachers but because things were too hard, he 'left' the scholarship for his brother who was a year behind him thinking it was the way it worked.
He sold his Common Entrance certificate and went to Aba to stay with his Aunt who was running a restaurant at that time but returned after a year when he realized he was only wasting his time.
Because there was no fast means of communication, my father came back to the village to learn that his younger brother whose common entrance certificate had also been sold had been taken to Lagos to learn trade. Fortunately for him, he met a family friend who was planning to go to Lagos and sent a letter through him to the man in whose custody his brother was in.
My father left for Portharcourt afterwards to learn carpentry work from his step brother who made him go through hell and back because he; my father, was the first to buy a bicycle in their family.
One day, my father went to work for a man in his house and left without his pay. He wanted​ to. He felt the man was old and needed to be showed kindness. A month later, my father had a fight with his brother and left the house in tears when he came across this old man. He took my father to his house, gave him a room, some money to buy a mat, pots, plates and food stuffs and afterwards took him to his site.
The man gave my father some money to buy tools to work for him.
Because my father hadn't learnt to construct and fix doors and to do the ceiling, he visited another site where a work was going on and acted as though he had came to inspect the carpenter. He learnt to do them in less than one week and soon, he became one of the most sought after carpenter in Echee.
When work began to go well, my father sent for his younger brother and was planning to put him in school when his stepbrother struck him..
My father ran for his dear life back to the​ village after rumours carried that his stepbrother was after him. He lost everything.
Because he decided he was going to start life again, he went to stay with his 'Mechanic' uncle in Igbodoo-Echee, Mbaise, where he was forced to learn mechanic.
One day while his brother was away, he got some planks and carelessly constructed a center-table. A passerby saw this and came to commend him.
'I thought you came to learn mechanic. You should face carpentry works, that's your talent.' The man told him.
My father nodded in an affirmative way just to make the man go but he stayed. He stayed to say that there was no good carpenter in Igbodoo-Echee and the people went to Aba to buy furnitures. In his brother's absence, the man asked to give him a house and a shop and the necessary tools needed to start work but my father insisted that his brother be told about it first.
My father became famous for his works in Igbodoo-Echee and soon, jealousy began to dig a hole in his brother's heart when rumours carried that the man was planning to give his daughter to my father, to become a proud father in-law of the famous carpenter in Igbodoo-Echee.
One day, his brother came to say my father was needed in the village and went down with him only to get to the village to say that my father would loose his life if he showed up in Igbodoo-Echee again. Him, the brother, had been admiring the man's daughter.
After my father lost everything in the village, he went to live in Enugu state where he began to explore his talents.
Again, he became popular for repairing electronics and for wiring. He built/wired a radio station he called 'Radio Nigeria' but because he had no one backing him up, it died, his dreams died.
He would have risen to start again when he made money from the repairs but no, he got married. He went into bakery.
My father built a bakery in Enugu state which he called the 'Golden Child.' He made bread, chin-chin, cakes and a lot of other things and he got most of his employees from his village. Because he did, a man paid one Mr. Emeka to go ask to work in the bakery and when employed, try to run down the business.
Emeka after discussing with a few other employees, about all they stood to gain if the bakery went down, succeeded in running it down and again, my father lost everything though the reason behind the downfall was unknown to him untill two Decembers after 'we' left Enugu state.
On that day, he was on his way back to Owerri from Enugu when he learnt from a phone call he received that Emeka had been detained in prison for buying a stolen property. He bailed Emeka and gave him some money to take care of him back there in Enugu while he continued in his journey but to his surprise, Emeka visited weeks later​, with knees on the ground and thick tears running down his nose and cheeks to confess but then, everything had been lost in the fire even the ashes, too, had been lost to the air.
In Owerri, my father lived on his capentry, wiring and and sometimes, on his mechanic job. Then, he began to seek for ways to go back to the place where he first met himself; repairing electronics, but couldn't.
..
It was the first time my father was opening up on the story of his life and from it, I learnt things and lessons I never knew of.
I learnt that because family will always be fine, most times, there are opportunities family should never keep you from grabbing.
I learnt to decide where I want to be and where I need to be.
To make sacrifices. I learnt to give and do not because I have enough but because I need to. That no single good we do in this life goes away.
I learnt to take even the slightest chances as opportunities to learn - Self development.
I learnt to be ready. To take my sun with me everywhere no matter the weather.
I learnt that what will hurt most are not the things you didn't get right with your talent but that you didn't try at all. That talents have nothing to do with passion - passions fades and talents die when you stab them real hard.
Talents gives 'life' to life. It gives fulfillment.
I am a proud daughter of a carpenter and an electrician.

Dear Nnanyi ukwu Owelle Rochas Okorocha,
How did you sleep last night?
How did you sit on that table, chewed your supper and got in your bed to sleep knowing that a more than a hundred souls were wetting their pillows with tears - that is, those who made it to their homes alive.
Dear ORO, how were you able to go to sleep last night with all the cursing words, the lamentations and tears?
Indeed, you have caused a deep pain in the heart of Imo state.
Maybe you didn't know, ORO, but there are people whose only survivals are the shops you demolished. There are people whose only hopes and happiness are in the shops you demolished. There are people who only come to those shops to ease off pains, to stay away from home, from troubles and swimming in their own pools of challenges and tears and now, how do you feel worsening their fears, their pains? How?
Didn't you make us believe that Imo must be better in your time, in our time?
Has Imo become better by the demolition, the innocent lives lost?
We would have also thought you a better Governor if you had let the shops be and 'demolished' the agberos along that road, Aladinma, and the other streets in Owerri people fear walking on.
We would have thought you a better Governor if you had reduced the rate of accident on the Owerri Club road by demarcating the road.
We would have also thought you a better Governor if you had tried in your better ways to make life for us better in Imo state.
Oh! I almost forgot to mention Sam Okwaraji and the family.
It was Okwaraji's 28th Anniversary on the twelfth of this month and what did and have you done as a 'better' Governor of Imo state that sings 'Change' as though it is the only thing you have come to Imo state to do.
Or maybe, yes, 'Change.' You came with change and we accepted without asking what kind of change it was because we trusted the smiles and laughter in your every picture and poster on the roads.
Dear ORO, I was coming home from Whetheral some months ago and I saw a young boy been beaten as though he stole what no one has ever stolen. A boy who had decided to join in the hustling. His only crime was that he sold phone accessories on a wheel barrow along the roads of Owerri. That was his only crime.
His Excellency ORO, I won't forget to mention the better things you have done in Imo state but you've made it look like you give us good with your right hand and take it back slowly, pouring hot embers on us, with your left hand.
Imo state is in deep pains - lives has been cut short. Happiness has been taken away. Hopes has been forcefully snatched from lives.
Owelle, you have caused a scar that may take too long to heal, to clear. I hope that our children be taught these things.
I hope that the younger souls whose education would be put to stop because of this demolition learn why someday.
We weep, Owelle.
Written by Mbagwu Amarachi Chilaka
amarachimbagwuchilaka1995@gmail.com

LUST'S LOST TO LOVE
After Juliet had left the office again today, Chika sat on his armed chair, his eyes staring into a space and later, he stood, walked to the seat opposite his across the table and began to caress the foamy surface on the armed seat covered in a black cloth where Juliet had stood from. His penis bulged from his neatly ironed plain black trouser and for about ten seconds, or more, he got lost in his world of fantasy, his hands caressing the seat arms and later, he bent over the foamy surface, his tongue licking the part of the seat where he imagined her vagina had sat when she sat. He licked the portion for about ten seconds, just the way he used to lick his wife, Prisca, her moans making the sounds of sweet nothings in his ears until four months ago.
Juliet was a beauty, in her mid twenties or so. Mean, with an oval face and eyes shining like the stars at night. She had breasts smaller and firmer than Prisca's and a pair of buttocks that swayed swiftly when she walked in her carefully ironed plain trouser. A stare at her from the second week of work made the hole where Chika once enjoyed digging and eating, the hole from where his son was brought into the earth became a disgust to him. Now, all he desired was to get into Juliet's skirts and plain trousers, in between her legs, into her.
It was Thursday evening, the clock in his office ticked quarter past six before he stood to get his briefcase ready to leave when the door swung open.
Only one person; Juliet, barged into his office that way without a knock but it was okay because, he had never found the voice to reprimand her. He had never even thought of it, he was not sure he was going to.
'Hello Chika,' she greeted as she closed the door behind her forcing a smile on her face.
She drew closer before she said, 'You good? Please come to my birthday party tomorrow,' extending her right hand, a thick black paper tucked between her index and third finger with painted nails.
'Y.. Yes!' He stuttered before taking the card and after she had left, he wondered if they were actually smiles on her face - where they forced smiles? Was she beginning to like her or could it be that she didn't want him to feel left out after giving out invitations to the other staffs of the company.
It was forty-five minutes past the hour scheduled for the party the next day when he arrived at the address on the card. He drove into the compound and stood to watch the lanky man whose tribe he couldn't decipher because he had unusual marks on his both chins. He watched him close the gate before he went on to press the doorbell.
The environment in the compound was serene and the only noises he heard were the doorbell rings the three times he had pressed and he smiled within himself - he wasn't late like he thought he was.
The door swung open after the fourth ring and his eyes met Juliet dressed in her handless red party dress whose flared part swept the ground to the room upstairs where she led him to. The room was thick with beauty and quietness and the sweet smells of Juliet's perfume. The grounds were tiled in pink and the walls were painted in white. The bed which was the next thing his eyes caught had a cloth over it which shone pink with paintings of roses and shapes of heart, of love. He stared for a moment, his nose absorbing the sweetness and he imagined the his body and hers merged, dancing to the rhythms of nothings and passions and love on it even though he was still unable to figure out to himself if it was love or lust he felt for her. He was not sure which it was.
He stared for a few more seconds before he turned to Juliet whose eyes he met boring into his face, then his eyes, and her lower lip jutting before he said,
'The party,' his eyes widening in a shock mixed with passion and excitement.
'There's no party,' she said, her eyes avoiding his now as she drew closer.
'Make me a woman.'
Now, her voice was calmer and so was her face and for a moment, Chika wondered where it had all gone; the aggressiveness in her voice when she spoke to him, the frowns when she stood or sat before him in the office. They all were now replaced with her yearnings for him which were boldly etched on her two-lined forehead which even made her more beautiful when she raised a brow.
'Make me a woman,' she uttered under her breath and when she was close enough, she raised her flared gown up to her waist and then over her head, revealing her neatly shaved pubic region, her firm breasts which were firmer and beautiful than the ones in his imaginations of his series of wild sex with Juliet.
Now, his manhood was fighting its way out of his trouser as his eyes moved from the red dress which was now on the ground, to the hairless region and up to the pair of mounds standing on her chest. She grabbed him in her hand before taking his lower lip into hers, willing him to reciprocate.
When he was convinced enough it was reality, he carried her into the bed and allowed her UnCloth him while he still stared in a dream-come-true excitement. The curly strands of hair standing on his chest refueled her wants for him. She ran her hand through the thick bush as he fondled her breasts, sucking one after the other. His right hand traveled down, down between her legs and slowly into her vagina clearing the bumps and paving way for the penis. When he was ready to thrust into the discreet places inside her, his phone fell from his trouser pocket which he unintentionally pushed down from the bed in a bid to stay in a better position for the thrust. He looked down on the phone and saw his wife smiling, her eyelids stood still, her smile too. It was a picture of his wife on her twenty seventh birthday which he had set as his phone's wallpaper and he never realized that since the past four months.
He stared at her for a moment and then at the wide spread legs, the vagina between them begging for fast thrusts, and then at her wife again. His penis lost its strength and fell immediately as he slowly made down the bed, his countenance telling stories of regret, disappointment in himself. He had never thought his wife more beautiful since the past four months. He never knew he loved Prisca so much and he never knew he could be this foolish even after the words he repeated after the Reverend Father on the altar that Saturday morning in June while he stared into her eyes, he never knew.
He began to put on his pant and suit and trouser immediately while Juliet stared amidst luring smiles and gestures.
'I'm a different person outside work. I will treat you well, trust me,' she said, her eyes blinking in a luring way, willing him to come on as her two fingers caressed her clitoris, sliding in and out of her vagina.
'I can't do this. I can't!' He said with so much disappointment in his voice, his face too, as he searched in his suit pocket for his wedding ring.
Now, the laughter on Juliet's face has been replaced with shock, shame, regrets. No man had ever resisted her and now she was sitting, unsure of what to do. She wanted to beg him, to apologize or to lock the door and force herself on him but she couldn't, shame made her sit still like a statue.
'I love my wife!' Chika said loudly that the person in the next two rooms if there was, would hear. He ran his fingers on the short black hairs on his head for seconds, beating himself with regrets before he picked his things and ran down to his car as though walking would make him change his mind.
He drove into the supermarket close to his house and picked his wife's favorite chocolates, flowers and pant colors. He hadn't done this in four months.
After the sweet love making which kept Prisca smiling and wondering, he made her wear one of the pants, the red one, to sleep and while he held her in his arms on their matrimonial bed, he knew lust has lost to love.
.
The End.
Please read and criticize.
Thank you.

Good morning everyone!
Please read!
I love you for reading.
Thanks.
' Maybe because it seemed the pains and aches grew with every passing month. Maybe because I have grown a pair of breast and I feel I have become a woman and need no visit to be reminded every month. Maybe because I have grown tired of feeling uncomfortable for a whole seven days every month or maybe because two pads for a month now costs more than a paint of garri does. Maybe!'
https://blackboyreview.wordpress.com/2017/01/14/the-visitation-at-thirteen/

I was sitting on the fourth row of the arranged seats in the Church today when one 'Obinna' was called up to give his testimony.
He looked scared but yet happy. He walked and held the microphone and spoke as though a force was drawing him back.
He began to tell his story,
. 'The last time I was in this Church and any other Church was two years ago.' He paused for a while and continued to tell his story of how a particular book teaching against God and His words he read in his second year in Imo state University changed his life until this morning, today.
He was born and dedicated in the Christian Pentecostal Mission headquarters in Lagos and his parents tried the best they could to make sure he grew in the ways of the Lord but unfortunately for him, his mother passed away while he was growing but then, his father never gave up in giving him the best.
. 'It wasn't peer pressure and it was no demon possessing me. I knew what I was doing all along,' he said when he began to tell of how notorious he turned in his second year in the University.
He said a name he was known for which I don't remember right now and he said, - If you were/are in IMSU and you've heard of 'sososo name', I am the person you've been hearing of.
The whole Church exclaimed in shock and fear but he continued anyway.
He began to tell of how he had sent pastors and preachers who came to preach to him away from his house and presence, how his life got worse and worst.
He said he woke up today today to tell himself he was going back to his house, that he was letting go of the demon he had let into him, that he was letting go of the young man he had turned to and into the young man he should be.
He prepared to leave and one of his notorious friends asked where he was going to. Another came out and asked and when he told them, the first laughed as though he had gone out of his mind and said,
'Guy, abeg enter your room.'
'Wey your Bible,' the second asked.
. . 'I have none but will read from others,' he replied and left immediately without looking back.
As he stood, confessing and thanking God, a young man came out from the congregation and gave him a hug, one that lasted for minutes and tears crowded my eyes. It had been goose bumps growing on my skins but now, the hug pierced deep into my lachrymal gland.
A man walked up to the front of the Church where Obinna stood and gave him a huge Bible.
I wanted to stand, to walk to him, hug him tight for minutes and allow my tears pat him on the back but I held myself and my tears punished. They punished me more when I remembered the young man who had lost his life yesterday.
After service, I walked up to him, took his right hand into mine, looked him in the face and said - 'Welcome.'
He nodded in response and I asked if I could share his story on Facebook, with his name and he said I could.
. 'Ụzọma Obinna Francis is my name.'
I thanked him, asked more questions and bid him goodbye!

Yay!
Thank you.
I will start posting from henceforth.
Thank you.

Lmao!
Thanks for reading. Lmao!
Thanks for reading.

Lmao!
Thanks for reading. Lmao!
Thanks for reading.

I knew a girl who had everything. She was beautiful with eyes that sparkled which I believed could lit a dark room, lips that were soft and fresh and skins which had curly black strands of hairs growing on them.
Sandra could speak fluently and she had the kind of confidence that like the broom, could sweep off the foot of anyone drowning in a pool of inferiority complex, any one like me and when she spoke, it was like as though the birds who sang melodies got their voices from her.
I never liked Sandra. I never hated her either. I would use the word dislike and if really I wanted to be honest, I would say I envied her. I was jealous. I didn't understand why she had everything. I was never in her cliques even though we sat on the same row of seat in the classroom, I would put my head on my desk, my two arms rounding my head while I eavesdropped on her discussions with her friends who would crowd her during break periods and listen to her talk - about their house, family, wealth, the love and care, everything! Everything!
I would go home sometimes fuming and blaming my father in my heart for never being rich, for never making me be like the girl who had everything.
This kept on happening until one day. I had gotten to school to hear that Sandra had a severe illness which had kept her from school and later, I got to know she had the sickle cell anaemia.
I didn't know what I felt after hearing that but I didn't feel happy. I didn't feel bad either, I didn't cry. I didn't know what it meant for one to have the sickle cell anaemia, I only knew that Sandra had everything.
Days passed and more did and then, I heard more about Sandra. No! She wasn't dead. She didn't die.
Sandra had no mother and she never talked about her father. The only siblings she talked about were her cousins she lived with in her Aunt's place.
Sandra lacked the love from a mother, and maybe a father and siblings and good cousins and maybe an aunt too.
As I walked home that day, I felt disappointed in myself, I felt stupid and brainless. I had and still have a father, the best mother and siblings. I had a cousin and aunt who was the person after my heart, who cared.
Sandra didn't have everything!

I never really cared about my breasts until that evening in Mbaise when I saw Ugomma running, her left hand and wrist holding and pressing back the big mounds on her chest which were going up and down and up as though they would fall off. I watched on and later, I looked down on my bare chest and wondered how long it would take mine to become as huge as Ugomma's, or smaller, or any size so far I would have to hold them like Ugomma and feel them going up and down while I am running.
I had woken up one Saturday morning and had pulled my clothes to take my bath when I noticed that there were changes on my chest, my breasts; my areolas had grown bigger, darker, shinny and swollen. I smiled, stood in front of the half-human sized mirror to watch my reflection jump up and down, my left hand and wrist holding on to my chest just like Ugomma. The skins on my chest moved but the small mounds didn't. I smiled, laughed as I walked into the bathroom and while I allowed the water from the small bowl I was carrying water in to pour on my head and then down on my shoulders, my chest and the rest of my body, I kept running my hands through my chest in joy.
That day, I wore my mother's bra and then prepared to leave for the shop. Gracefully, I walked pass my mother and my father who sat discussing in front of the house and my mother knew it - the line rounding my under burst, the happiness and the sudden mounds pointing out on my chest. I knew my mother knew because when I turned back to look, I saw their eyes on me and their lips parting in smiles.
I kept smiling even when I got to the shop and I don't remember ever stopping because that day, I knew I had grown, that I had stepped into adulthood.

Sanchez01:
An interesting read indeed! Are you by any means participating in the ongoing 'My Vigina_, my pride' literary competition?

Thanks for reading.
No I'm not.
Please tell me more about it.

Of all the things my mother never taught me, the vagina was one of them.
Growing up, I had a little or no awareness about my vagina, where exactly it was 'down there' and why I had that unique organ.
The first time I ever heard about the vagina, I was in college. A female teacher had come into the class, for we were all girls, to tell us about the menstrual cycle, the female organ and that pregnancy can happen.
The lecture was not overtly communicated but the message was that we should never let the boys close to our organs and later, I got to know that she was actually talking about the vagina.
I grew in a society where as a female, I was never taught to talk about what lied between my legs. Talking about it was tabooed because my mother or anyone else never talked to me about it and the little I knew, I read from books which I would hide at the sounds of footsteps for fear of being caught flipping through the pages of books with images and words of the breasts vaginas and joysticks.
Because I had no one to talk to about my vagina, an opposite sex had written me when I was fifteen, telling me about the vagina, the pains it comes with and how much better it was to have penetrations at an early age to ease child labour in the future. I only read his notes, cried and lived. He further threatened to rape me and all I did again was cry and ask the darkness in my head why I had a vagina, why I was a woman.
Once, my mother had woken me in the mid of the night to talk about virginity and the vagina but she kept referring to the vagina as 'there' the many times there was a need to mention it. I noticed the shake in her voice, how her voice danced for words to send the messages she already stored in her mind, and I immediately concluded that she either had no enough courage or that she didn't to call the vagina by it's name lest I think it's normal and begin to say it.
It is true that no woman gets through life without stories to tell and the story of my vagina is one that I can only tell through the ink because, my vagina was a part of me that I lived in the dark with. I never talked about it with anyone, not even with my reflections in the mirror or the tranquil in the room when I was alone. I had a hard time calling my vagina by its name or anything else except in my thoughts because, I grew only hearing few people saying the word in very low voices and later being condemned for letting such words come out of their mouths.
At seventeen, the words 'Sanitary pad, shaving and menstruation' scared me. They became too huge to escape my lips and my society made it more difficult for me to ask questions about them. My family never had the time to talk about the vagina and the things it does, they were always busy talking about dreams. My friends never had the time too and my teachers at school thought they had taught us all we needed to know. What they never knew was that I had so many other questions to ask about my private part; the organ down there. Questions like if I was supposed to let the thick hairs growing on the skins down there to continue growing because small boils developed on skins the few times I shaved them.
I wanted to ask why I got stained each time 'Aunty Flo' visited even with the sanitary pads. I wanted to ask where exactly my piss and my period came out from but I was too afraid to ask. No one was talking about those things, and I couldn't look at my vagina in the mirror while I peed or while my period flowed because I constantly feared that someone would walk in through the door, see me staring at my vagina and say,
'Amara, you're a corrupt child,' and later report to my mother who would hit me and ask what kind of woman I was growing into.
Once, Aunty Flo didn't visit when it was time and I grew scared because I had touched a seven year old boy's male organ and I thought pregnancy had happened.
Who could I talk to about my fears?
Nobody!
And so, I stayed in my dark with my vagina band fear and Aunty Flo visited the next month.
I am twenty-one and I cannot talk about my vagina boldly and in a loud voice like I talk about my dreams because, I still live in that same society; one that will condemn me if I do without knowing the kind of joy that comes with having a vagina, without recognizing the beauty and strength of the vagina. The society I live in is ignorant of this beautiful organ; the vagina, of the beautiful feelings it evokes, the pride it comes with - having the power to hold a penis, a thousand sperm, and allowing the passage of a baby.
They do not know of its strength and they do not also know that one day, my vagina will become a source of happiness to me, it will assist in my joy as my cute babies will be brought into the earth through my vagina!

There's an emptiness in me, an emptiness that only words (spoken or written) can fill. An emptiness that keeps me from the world and makes me feel cold even when the world is rotating at its highest and the sun shinning at its highest.
The quest to fill that emptiness is the reason I write..
I live in a world where somethings I want to do, the feelings I want to have, the sadness and the happiness I want to feel, the love I want to give and receive sometimes seems impossible, and when I write, I unintentionally put pieces of me in my writings and allow myself do and feel and have and give and receive.
Writing allows me create a world where I can never be rejected. It gives me the feelings and things the real world does not give me.
I write because I want to live.
Because writing has seem to be my only saviour the many times the words I should say tried to suffocate me. Maybe I would've been dead and existing if not for writing. I am alive and living.
I write to be heard.
Many times I have tried to speak but no one else heard my voice but me. I write so that I could tell and pour my heart out in words. So that I can tell all I cannot tell in words and be heard.
I write to fight demons.
The demons constantly playing painful plays in my head, the demons playing with arrows and daggers and swords and shouting in high voices inside my head, my mind and my skull and cause my head to ache for no reason. They immediately leave my being alone through the ink bleeding from my pen and turning into words on the lines in the pages of my white exercise books or the fanciful pages of the beautiful book Miriam gave me or on the blank screen on my android phone.
I write because I always have something to say but no one to say them to. Because I have too many stories to tell but no one to tell them because I fear I might not be listened to and I fear that the words my lips might convey the stories in might never tell the whole stories as they are.
I write because there are so many stories in my head and problems that I might never find the solutions to unless I write.
I write to tell of my story, to tell the stories of people who have neither the voice or pen nor listening ears.
I write to get into the world.
I write for myself, to discover and uncover the many things and secrets Mr Ignorance has kept me from.
I write to learn, to befriend and to be close to more words. To keep my relationship with words and my brain and my soul growing.
I write because I want to be anybody I want to be in a world I can never be judged or be pushed away for behaving in a manner that is not accepted by the people living in that same world.. Writing helps me create that kind of world; a word where I can be crazy and wold and spoilt and stupid and wicked and aggressive and then calm, responsible, generous, kindhearted. It helps me create the kind of world where I can control and make go round and squared and flat and round again, a world where I can have the right to right or wrong without a pair of lip or more waiting aside to judge or to condemn.
I write to be read, to make name for myself.
I write to be the story the next generation will study in the classroom.
I write to climb up the sky and scribble my name on the stars.
I write to live forever, to live even after my body has been put down six feet below, my flesh turned to dusts and my bones fed on by darkness.
I write to make way for myself, to make my memories live forever.
Because writing is another thing I can never afford not doing.

#Throw back yesterday - Teachers' Day
I have had so many teachers who I learnt so many lessons from, teachers whose teachings and lessons still keeps me going. The teachers I never got the opportunity to say thank you to. I'm going to write about them and I believe that my appreciations gets to them any way they can.
MY TEACHERS AT THE ST. MATHIAS PRIMARY SCHOOL MARYLAND ENUGU.
Mrs Ucheagu:
A beautiful woman who believed strokes of canes could chase away laziness and foolishness in a child. Well, it did chase away a bit of my stubbornness.
Mrs Tina Enweluzor:
The woman who flogged me for not flogging a primary four student when I was still in primary one.
One woman who believed in me and treated me like her own child.
What I do not remember right now is if she had a child or children then.
The teacher who was not only my teacher and my school mother but also my fighter.
Miss Chekwube:
The teacher who made sure I changed my dirty and rough handwriting before I left Maryland Enugu state for Imo state.
She made sure I was never caught sitting on my own and she gave me a copy of the group picture we(she, my classmate and I) took before my departure.
MY TEACHERS AT ROYAL NURSERY & PRIMARY SCHOOL, ORJI, OWERRI.
To Mrs Akakem:
Mrs Akakem, our own school proprietress, who noticed how much a loner I was and tried to force me to mingle. She forced me to join the calisthenics every Mondays, Wednesday and Fridays and because of her, I would wear my uniform to school on most Mondays and Wednesday and Fridays instead of my P.E so I wouldn't participate in the exercise. I received strokes of canes from the senior students and Madam Pail at the gate but, that was much better than having to come out in front of people to dance.
To Aunty Chizo:
Aunty Chizo who always told me I was more brilliant than my classmates who took the first and second positions. The last time she told me, I took the sixteenth position and I went home that day thinking about what she told me even though I never understood until two years ago. I never told anyone about it until two years ago.
TO MY TEACHERS AT GIRLS'S SECONDARY SCHOOL IKENEGBU OWERRI.
To Mrs Okanu.
You know, each time I see a blue or red Volvo coming, I would stand and look/peep into the car when it has gotten closer to see if it is Mrs Okanu.
Mrs Okanu, a then fifty year old woman who looked twenty five. The woman who seeing how much a loner I was laid the foundation of my relationship with Saraphina Oparah and Ijezie Precious. Little did she know that I wasn't ready to get out of my own way.
To Mrs Ejifugha a.k.a Mrs Malama - May her soul find rest with the Lord. AMEN.
A teacher who the students feared more than all the teachers in Ikenegbu Girls' secondary school. She was very beautiful and it was rumored that the Nollywood actress by name, Ngozi Ezeonu was her younger sister.
I was scared when we were told she was going to be our form-teacher in J.S.S 3. I crawled deeper into my shells and stayed there.
Because Saraphina seemed to be the most intelligent girl in the class, Mrs Ejifugha noticed me when I took the third position.
She didn't draw me close to her but she drew me out of my shell.
Rest in Peace Mrs Ejifugha.
To Mrs Osuagwu, my Physical and Health Education teacher.
The woman who taught me in a hard way that helping my mother hawk bottles of mineral and sachets of water inside a motor park so we could eat and clothe and live, was child abuse but would flog and send me home each time I was yet to pay my school fees or buy the textbooks we needed for a term.
She would flog me each time I came to school in a rumpled uniform and torn stockings and sandals after flogging me for supporting child abuse. I wondered how else she expected me to replace those if I didn't help my poor Mother.
She was that teacher that sold grades to Nneoma Kalu who always showered her with gifts. Then she made Ebere, Mary and Endalynn the head girls of J.S.S. 1 A&B and in our second year in school too because they would go to the market and when back, make pots of soups for her(she lived close to the school), cleaned her house and at the end of the day, get the highest grades.
Almost all the mornings I was in Mrs Osugwu's class, I felt sick each time I remembered I would be coming to school to meet this woman, to swallow the embarrassments she would give me which after I would excrete them through the liquids that would leave my eyes during break periods when I would be alone in the class, or on my way to the motor park.
But the heights of all she did to me was seen and captured the day she flogged the hell out of me for hawking mineral and sachet water, for not coming to greet her when I saw her.
That day, I swore I was never going to forgive her. I swore she would be paid back even though I didn't know how, but growing up, I said I would look for her when I have gained my voice, and I would remind her of me. Of course she would remember the little poor girl she treated like she treated no other in the class. She would remember Mbagwu, the poor girl who accepted to be abused by her mother, the girl who never paid her school fees on time.
I just cried.
I am still crying. Because I can still remember almost her every words and the many times she flogged me and sent me home because I always had no money to buy her gifts. I am really having a hard time saying I have forgiven her, forgiving what I have been holding onto since 2005; for eleven years now.
But remembering where I am now, I just knelt down, thanked God and then said,
'I have forgiven you Mrs Osuagwu.'
I mean it!
Wherever you are, I appreciate you too for teaching me what it really means to be rejected. To hold on to pain for a very long time. You taught me how much pain favouritism and rejection can cause one.
You taught me a lot.
Happy teachers' day!

Aladinma is a beautiful place located in Owerri, Imo state, Nigeria; the eastern part of the country.
It is a beautiful place where you learn the good, the bad, the ugly and the unknown.
It is a beautiful place where you can meet people that can either lead you to the foot of that ladder to climb to the sky and scribble your name on the stars, and it is also a place where you can meet people that can lead you to the place where you will go six feet down before your own time..
I came to Aladinma when I was a girl, with a heart filled with innocence and a chest as flat as the surface of the earth. When gunshots and shouts were the alarms that woke the streets at midnights, and silence filled the streets during the day.
I came to Aladinma when almost all the lands where hostel buildings and shops now stand on were covered in thick bushes and tall trees with branches and green leaves and boys and girls would stand under them, kissing and touching themselves. The last time, I had stood to watch them under the 'icheku' tree and when they noticed I was watching, they left and went into their hostel holding hands together. I went home that day thinking all about the scene and wishing I had followed them to watch them continue.
I came to Aladinma when only the brave walked the streets raising shoulders and people like us; me and the other beings who lacked the braveness, walked the streets with trembling legs, clutching our phones and handbags and money to our chests, trying to hide them from the men and women who claimed they owned the nights and controlled the day times in Aladinma.
Aladinma has been a beautiful place with many lessons to take home.
The skies facing the grounds in Aladinma has been beautiful but then, they've never been beautiful as today's.
Written by Mbagwu Amarachi Chilaka ©2016
07063138027
amarachimbagwuchilaka1995@gmail.com

My name is Mbagwu Amarachi Chilaka. I was born in Maryland, Enugu state. I am 21 and I come from Mbaise.
Mbaise is a very large town in Imo state.
The name “Mbaise” was derived from five Cities: Agbaaja, Ahiara, Ekwereazu, Ezi na Ihite and Oke Uvuru located in the three Local Government Areas, (Aboh Mbaise- Agbaaja and Okeuvuru, Ahiazu Mbaise-Ahiara and Ekwereazu and Ezinihite Mbaise) in which there are about 81 Autonomous Communities.
I happen to come from Ezeagbogu, Ezinihitte.
One day many years ago, I was in my class at Royal Primary School, Orji, when Sir Oliver asked that every student from Mbaise should stand from their seats. I did and another classmate of mine did too. It was just the two of us and we were thrown into a pool of shame by the eyes that starred shockingly at us.
Seeing me stand, Sir Oliver was shocked that I stood. Then he went further to say that if he was in a situation where a deadly snake lay just two steps away from him, and a man or woman from Mbaise stood about thirty steps away from him, he would go after the Mbaise fellow, destroy him first before going for the snake.
I didn't know how my Mbaise fellow felt but I felt pangs of shame and regret surround me as though I chose coming from Mbaise.
At a very young age, hearing the single story of 'Mbaise', I feared telling people I come from Mbaise and my Enugu and Anambra dialect helped polished my lie, more.
In 2010, the MTN chat connected a friend and I and when he learnt I come from Mbaise, he said we would stop being friends. I begged. I cried. I left.
Once in my street, a young boy had stolen from his roommate and when the news carried it into ears, everyone chorused, 'Ah! Mbaise people.'
Still in my street, a young boy had also stolen from his neighbor and when he was caught, I waited for the them to tell stories but I heard nothing and that got me wondering if that guy grew in Mbaise.
Sometime ago, a cunning friend had played some tricks and cheated me. He's not from Mbaise, I am but I didn't try to pay him back even though he never felt remorse for whatever it was he did.
I have been stolen from, tricked, intimidated, played sense on and the funniest part of it all was that all who were involved hailed from Mbano, Enugu, Anambra, Delta, Cross river state, except for me. All those got me wondering if they all grew in Mbaise.
A friend of mine once called his mother and some of his sisters weeks ago and playfully told them that he was bringing home one Mbaise lady as a wife and they said 'Tufiakwa gi!'
'Mba o!'
'Tufiakwa!'
I know a little story about the bad name-calling that has been tagged to Mbaise.
It is the story of two musicians, one Mbaise fellow and a non-Mbaise fellow. Let's call them Mr A and Mr B, respectively.
Mr B seeing how far his colleague had gone in his own music allowed jealousy to take over his love and he cheated Mr A with 'wicked and unjust oppression.' When Mr A got the opportunity and paid him back in his own coins, Mr B was greatly pained and then he began to paint the 'white' Mbaise-Gown black. He began to tell the many ears that cared to listen about how too sensible, unforgiving, cunning and wicked Mbaise people are.
There's another story of the white man, Dr. George Stewart, who was killed in Mbaise.
Dr Rogers Stewart, a medical doctor in the British Office who came to help them tackle Malaria during the Aro Wars, was said to have strayed from where they camped in Eke Nguru and lost his way. He was caught at Onicha and was killed while his bicycle was hanged up to a tree.
Stories began to grow and fly into ears and villages and cities and states about how ungrateful Mbaise people are, how wicked and dangerous they are.
I'm not trying to defend Mbaise people, I'm just trying to say that there's never a place you cannot find an evil heart.
Some months ago, I eavesdropped on a discussion between two friends who were arguing about the reason for the hatred for Mbaise people. One of the two friends happened to be from Mbaise and he said that Mbaise people are the most industrious which is the reason people say they trick their ways to the top. He went ahead to say that Mbaise people, especially their women, are hardworking and they make good wives(not all though but most) and mother.
Since I came out, stood under the sun with my head raised high, my face facing the sky up above, and thanked God for making me come from Mbaise, I have seen the beauty and the blessings that comes with coming from Mbaise.
You see, Mbaise people are very hardworking and independent.. I don't need to call names because even a five year old knows.
I was moved when my Daddy Paul Allen Ephraim told me about Kimberly Anyanwu.. I'm saying nada about her.
I'm not saying that other villages and towns and cities and states have no great and hardworking beings and great dreamers, I am just saying that every story has two sides, that you would find an evil heart or more in any place you go if you delete your single story of Mbaise from your mind and search.
Someone talked about our bride price.
Yes! Our bride prices may be high, maybe because of how great our women are, it all differs. You get the long list, do the needful(the important ones) and you have a wife. This is because Mbaise women are greatly valued and it all grew from the fear of sending their women into the home of lazy men to suffer.
To everyone calling us names, you can continue telling your own single story of us, I believe you will delete the stories once you meet a good man from Mbaise, when your heart locates the heart of (an) Mbaise woman.
You see, I believe that whatever you look for in a person, you will see.

I fell. Into his arms, and then his bed, but after he drove in, he drove out, left through the door and never returned.

I won't say you just posted a lie, I will just say I disagree with you.
There are a lot good guys out there.. they don't do the lying and cheating alone unless they are gays.. this is to say that in as much as there are very good ladies, there are good men..
Not all Hausas have daggers behind their backs to stab..not all guys out their set out yo break our hearts.. In fact, sometimes, we push them to do so.
#You mustn't agree with Me#

TITLE: I AM A WOMAN
One time, my mother had left my father; a man born with a gift of
laughter and a sense that women were made from men and should be
under men, but then, she returned after my father apologized and
promised never to lay hands on her ever again. My father was a man, a
man who never always owned his words.
I was thirteen and growing. Every morning I would look through the
window and watch our neighbors; Mama Solum and Mama Zikora, leave the compound for work. They were fascinating to watch in their corporate
wears and high heels, carrying big black handbags. The fragrance of their perfumes smelled like sweet fruits, they made me remember the apple and orange juice Uncle Amuche bought for us on his last visit.
Mama Solum's hairs were always cropped short and she dyed them light
brown. I loved mama Zikora's more; her artificial long black hairs which made her look more pretty, complimenting her ever shinning red lips and when she walked, she did so gracefully.
I would sometimes overhear Solum ask her mother to buy her novels and
singlets, or Zikora tell her mother to buy her sanitary pads and brassieres. My mother said sanitary pads collects the blood that sometimes come out of me and keeps it. She said it is not a good thing and she cuts pieces of rags for me to collect mine. I wanted to ask
why; why my mother never left the house with our neighbors nor have
the kind of natural hair on Mama Zikora's head, and her red lips, why
Solum and Zikora used the sanitary pads, but I couldn't ask why because my father made me understand that I didn't have the right to ask unnecessary questions as those because I am a woman. That I only have the right to stand under the mango tree and beg Jideofor, my playmate, to throw a fruit down for me and it didn't matter if he
agreed or not. That I have the right to sit with my two laps pressed together unlike Sobenna's because I am a woman and Sobenna is a man and could sit however he wanted to sit.
The other time, I had gone to collect some money from my father to buy
my mother a pain relieving drug but was sent back to tell her he had
no money on him.
My mother had missed our Church's women conference last year because my Father said there was no money to get her a new uniform, that we were just women who didn't know what the world was all about.
Maybe no one else would have called my mother and I 'just' women if my
father hadn't died some years ago and my mother forced to walk over my
father's corpse, and drink the water his corpse was bathed in to prove she had no hand in my father's death because my mother had a fight with my father two days before he died in a motor accident. But then,my Uncle Amuche married his new girlfriend barely six months after he lost his wife in a motor accident he survived unscathed, and the Umunnachi people didn't ask him to swear nor to jump over her corpse to prove his innocence even though fingers pointed at him and tongues
wagged that he got rid of her to marry a younger woman and he wasn't
questioned because he was a man.
My father made me understand that women had no right to question
traditions made by men and because my mother was a woman, she was
forced to marry my father's elder brother who couldn't find himself a
wife and today, I am watching my step brother take control of my father's and step father's wealth with no provision for me because I am a woman and women have no say.
******THE END******
©

Akosxxx:
Straight to the point.
1. ACCEPT vs. EXCEPT
These two words sound similar but have very different meanings. Accept means to receive something willingly: “His mom accepted his explanation” or “She accepted the gift graciously.” Except signifies exclusion: “I can attend every meeting except the one next week.” To help you remember, note that both except
and exclusion begin with ex .
2. AFFECT VS EFFECT
To make these words even more confusing than they already are, both can be used as either a noun or a verb. Let’s start with the verbs. Affect means to influence something or someone; effect
means to accomplish something. “Your job was
affected by the organizational restructuring” but “These changes will be effected on Monday.” As a noun, an effect is the result of something: “The sunny weather had a huge e ffect on sales.” It’s almost always the right choice because the noun
affect refers to an emotional state and is rarely used outside of psychological circles: “The patient’s affect was flat.”
3. LIE vs. LAY
We’re all pretty clear on the lie that means an untruth. It’s the other usage that trips us up. Lie
also means to recline: “Why don’t you lie down and rest?” Lay requires an object: “ Lay the book on the table.” Lie is something you can do by yourself, but you need an object to lay . It’s more confusing in the past tense. The past tense of lie is—you guessed it— lay : “I lay down for an hour last night.” And the past tense of lay is laid: “I laid the book on the table.”
4. BRING vs. TAKE
Bring and take both describe transporting something or someone from one place to another, but the correct usage depends on the speaker’s point of view. Somebody brings
something to you, but you take it to somewhere else: “ Bring me the mail, then take your shoes to your room.” Just remember, if the movement is toward you, use bring; if the movement is away from you, use take.
5. IRONIC vs. COINCIDENTAL
A lot of people get this wrong. If you break your leg the day before a ski trip, that’s not ironic —it’s coincidental (and bad luck). Ironic has several meanings, all of which include some type of reversal of what was expected. Verbal irony is when a person says one thing but clearly means another. Situational irony is when a result is the opposite of what was expected. O. Henry was a master of situational irony. In his famous short story The Gift of the Magi , Jim sells his watch to buy combs for his wife’s hair, and she sells her hair to buy a chain for Jim’s watch. Each character sold something precious to buy a gift for the other, but those gifts were intended for what the other person sold. That is true irony. If you break your leg the day before a ski trip, that’s coincidental. If you drive up to the mountains to ski, and there was more snow back at your house, that’s ironic.
6. IMPLY vs. INFER
To imply means to suggest something without saying it outright. To infer means to draw a conclusion from what someone else implies. As a general rule, the speaker/writer implies, and the listener/reader infers.
7. NAUSEOUS vs. NAUSEATED
Nauseous has been misused so often that the incorrect usage is accepted in some circles. Still, it’s important to note the difference. Nauseous means causing nausea; nauseated means experiencing nausea. So, if your circle includes ultra-particular grammar sticklers, never say “I’m
nauseous ” unless you want them to be snickering behind your back.
8. COMPRISE vs. COMPOSE
These are two of the most commonly misused words in the English language. Comprise means to include; compose means to make up. It all comes down to parts versus the whole. When you use
comprise , you put the whole first: “A soccer game comprises (includes) two halves.” When you use compose, you put the pieces first: “Fifty states compose (make up) the United States of America.”
9.FARTHER vs. FURTHER
Farther refers to physical distance, while further describes the degree or extent of an action or situation. “I can’t run any farther ,” but “I have nothing further to say.” If you can substitute “more” or “additional,” use further.
10.FEWER vs. LESS
Use fewer when you’re referring to separate items that can be counted; use less when referring to a whole: “You have fewer dollars, but
less money.”
Bringing it all together
English grammar can be tricky, and, a lot of times, the words that sound right are actually wrong. With words such as those listed above , you just have to memorize the rules so that when you are about to use them, you’ll catch yourself in the act and know for certain that you’ve written or said the right one.

Thank you for this.

Hello everyone!
This is my short story titled KARMA. Please read and criticize. Thank you.
Karma is a woman! A bitch! She never forgives.
The gates of hell was let loose into my home
five years after my wife and I made vows to be
faithful to each other standing on that altar.
'..I promise to be faithful to you until death
parts us.' she vowed.
Little did I know that those words merely came
from her lips, they were like water poured on
stones that dried just immediately the sun set.
***
Throughout the five years I lived with my wife,
Amanda, I never raised a finger at her until that
night, the night I heard her mumble the words 'I
love you' quietly into the phone she held very
close her to ears thinking I had ventured far
away from reality into the dream land.
Those words led to her loss of tears, and blood
from the bruises she caught from the anger I
poured on her.
***
The last time, she had stayed out all night at
somewhere under the cold cloudy sky of that
night I didn't know.
***
I felt the tree of karma fall on me as I raised a
hand to hit her. Her face gleamed with smiles
that took my memories back to that morning, six
years ago, when I gave her that same smile
exactly at my door step when she found out that
I was still meeting my ex.
Karma snatched every bit of strength in me. I
watched my hand fall.
Karma bit me in the butt.