Chizobam Emmanuel Olise (Zobam Library) @ZobamLibrary

@otoide_a I will find whoever is his opponent 🙏

Yup .. full circle is actualizing. I will be in the stands this time tho.

Sir Dickson @Wizarab10

9 hours ago

Nigerians, what the hell is South-South? For international relations, I can try to understand it as relations/intervention/agreement between countries in the global south(developing countries) But South-South as intercardinal direction, is ridiculous.

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@MaroJoash 😂 I barely know any of the new cats ... Even last headies, I barely knew them. Perhaps I haven't been following the Nigeria Music scene properly as before.

For the first time since I started following headies many moons ago, I don't know ANYONE here.

HYPETRIBE @hypetribeng

15 hours ago

WHO DESERVES THE HEADIES ROOKIE OF THE YEAR AWARD ?? 🤔🏆

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@AnthoniaUmoh1 😂 I understand. I know the names Fola, Mavo, tenski e.t.c I don't know their faces nor can I recognize their songs or voices.

It can only get worse from here.

Parallel Facts @ParallelFacts

13 hours ago

Three Men Hammed Akinbami, Akinbami Ojo and One Other Wipe Out Igbo Family of Six in Ibadan, Tie Hands and Legs of Young Victims Before Throwing Them Into River  parallelfactsnews.com/three-men-hamm…

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"half delta"... this is why the state needs to be properly divided.

NOMADINHO @BlaqBonez

17 hours ago

yes, i’m half delta

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You can be grateful and still be in pain. Both are honest.

Some people are not afraid of pain. They are afraid of what pain will reveal about them.

Chizobam Emmanuel Olise (Zobam Library) @ZobamLibrary

3 days ago

There was a man who lived on my street, and you heard him before you saw him. This was because of a strange cough. It was not the cough of a cold or a rough morning. It was very strange, deep and wet. Whenever he coughed, you could tell it was dragged up from somewhere low in

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Guilt and shame sound alike. They are not the same chain. Guilt says: I did something wrong. Shame says: I am something wrong. Guilt is a chain with an exit. It points to an act, and an act can be faced, repaired and released. Shame is a chain without one. It points to your existence, and you cannot repair your existence. I kept feeding shame with punishment and expected it to become guilt. It never did. Guilt follows a stream whose source is the ocean of regrets. Swim against the tide and you drown. Swim with it and it takes you to your fear, and there your guilt becomes a guiding light. When you stop punishing yourself for the verdict, you can finally read it. Most verdicts were not written by truth. They were written by someone who once hurt you, in a voice you have mistaken for your own. Chapter Four of my book, The Verdict, is about exactly this. The Light: A Pursuit of Peace. ₦3,500 on Selar $4.99 Kindle / $10.99 paperback on Amazon Links on my bio. Share this with someone who is still punishing themselves.

I punished myself for every failure and called it discipline. I thought shame was keeping me honest. It was keeping me chained. Here is what I finally understood. Save this.

@OlufunmilayoOp5 👇

Chizobam Emmanuel Olise (Zobam Library) @ZobamLibrary

3 days ago

There was a man who lived on my street, and you heard him before you saw him. This was because of a strange cough. It was not the cough of a cold or a rough morning. It was very strange, deep and wet. Whenever he coughed, you could tell it was dragged up from somewhere low in

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@OlufunmilayoOp5 Seeing B on such a course would instantly make me suicidal 😂.

There was a man who lived on my street, and you heard him before you saw him. This was because of a strange cough. It was not the cough of a cold or a rough morning. It was very strange, deep and wet. Whenever he coughed, you could tell it was dragged up from somewhere low in the body, and it came in long chains, one breaking into the next, so that he never seemed to finish one before another began. I never learned what was wrong with him. My mind kept whispering a name, TUBERCULOSIS, but I do not know, and it is not mine to say. What I know is what I saw and heard, and it was enough. He was so thin in a way that made you look away and then look back again. His shoulders were like a hanger inside his shirt. His chest, when he was shirtless, looked very dried out, as though something had been quietly harvesting him from the inside. When he sat among people, the space around him widened without anyone announcing it; someone would remember an errand, someone would shift to the other end of the bench. The cough felt like something contagious, and fear needs very little evidence. And yet, almost every day, I would see him walking slowly along the street with a packet of cigarettes in his hand, and a lit one between his fingers. Like just imagine dying from something but refusing to give it up. A man whose body is audibly failing, lifting smoke into the same lungs that are begging him to stop. Cigarette after cigarette after cigarette. He did not hide it. He lived his ordinary day around it, as if the thing that was ending him were simply part of the furniture. For a long time I asked the question everyone asks. Why does he not stop? It seems so obvious. The proof is in every cough. Then one evening, watching him light another cigarette, I understood that I was asking the wrong question. The cigarette was not only a habit to him. It was more like a place to stand. It gave his hands something to do, his days a rhythm, his pain a shape. If he put it down, he would not simply lose a vice. He would lose the thing standing in the middle of his life, and what would remain was a void. Nothing in his imagination was large enough to fill it. So he held on, not because he could not see the danger, but because the emptiness frightened him more than the death. This is where the story stops being about him and more about humanity. Philosophers have long observed that human beings can know a thing and refuse to know it at once. We keep a locked room inside ourselves, and in that room sits the truth we cannot afford to look at. It is not that we lack evidence. We are drowning in it. What we lack is readiness to let go, because letting go requires us to admit that the thing we love is the thing destroying us. Look at how we live. We carry some quiet pain, a grief never finished, a guilt never confessed, a wound never named, and instead of facing it we reach for something that dulls it. A drink. Social media app. A person we know is wrong for us. Pleasure chased in the dark. Work that swallows the evenings. We buy relief by the hour, and it is real relief, which is exactly why it is so dangerous. Every hour of comfort deepens the debt. And underneath it all, we know the very thing killing us will continue to do so quietly and this relief is only temporary. That is the strange mercy and the strange cruelty of being human. Somewhere beneath the noise, we know exactly what is killing us. We simply arrange our lives so that we never have to say it aloud. Like the man on my street, we are not fools. We are afraid. We stare at the void that would open if we let go and we cannot picture what would grow there. So we keep the cigarette, whatever ours is, and we keep coughing, and we call it living.

It's like having a nail in your head but refusing to pull it out because you fear the pain it will cause, so you chose to live with a nail in your head. But the void is not the end of the story. It is only the part we have refused to walk through. The truth I have learned, slowly and with some pain of my own, is that the emptiness we dread is not a pit. It is a room. It is where something else, something kinder, can finally begin to live. The cough does not have to be the last sound we make. We do not have to keep lighting that cigarette. If this story reached something in you, if you recognized your own cigarette somewhere in it, I wrote a book for exactly that moment. It is called - The Light: A Pursuit of Peace, it is a work of literary nonfiction about pain, about what we cling to, and about the long road back to peace. It is not a manual. It is a companion for anyone ready to look at the locked room. You can find it on Selar and on Amazon. Perhaps the first step is simply admitting what we are holding. The rest can come slowly. Link is available on my bio, or you can send me a DM.

You are not overreacting. You are reacting to something older than this moment.

Chizobam Emmanuel Olise (Zobam Library) @ZobamLibrary

3 days ago

What pain are you carrying that you have not said to anyone? Send it anonymously. I will read every one. ngl.link/zobamlibrary

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What pain are you carrying that you have not said to anyone? Send it anonymously. I will read every one. ngl.link/zobamlibrary

4th October and nothing has been said by any authorities They're asking for 50 million from each PCM, why???? Am I tired? Yes Will I stop talking about this No If our safety is not ensured then what's the point of going for NYSC? #boycottnysc

When the crisis is active, you have something to fight. You have a target. You have a problem. You have somewhere to direct your energy. But what happens when the enemy disappears? Sometimes silence exposes what noise was protecting. You discover that the addiction was not the whole problem. The relationship was not the whole problem. The failure was not the whole problem. They were sometimes covering something older. And this is why freedom can feel strangely empty. The thing you depended on is gone. But the part of you that depended on it is still there. You have removed the anchor. You have not yet learned how to stand without it. That is where the real work begins. Not rebuilding the same identity. Not finding another distraction. Not rushing to fill the void. But asking what the void is trying to tell you. That is one of the journeys inside The Light: A Pursuit of Peace. For the person who survived the storm and is now facing everything the storm was covering. ₦3,500 on Selar (Ebook) ₦7000 on Pabpub (Hardcopy) $4.99 Kindle / $10.99 Paperback: [AMAZON] Links in my bio.

If you survived the thing that was destroying you but still feel strangely broken afterward, this thread is for you. There is a part of recovery nobody talks about enough. Read this.