Quincy Idigbe

[Quincy Idigbe @BlaaqQ]

Adversity introduces you to the person you must become in order to conquer it.

Stay strong, you are becoming!
- O. O. Kukoyi

[Kalu Aja @FinPlanKaluAja1]

I like this

[Spina Kicks🥇 @Spinaaaaa17]

This 2 years old singer shocked everyone 🥹❤️

I was playing piano in los angeles when Leona asked me if I could play "let it go" from frozen💠🎹

As long as I started playing she noticed and microphone above her head and the rest was history ❤️❤️🥹🥹

[Attah Akor @attah_akor]

I promise you this is worth 2 minutes of your time 😭

[Dr. God Abeg ooo @josh_uglyasf]

That was satisfying to watch… I don’t know why I enjoy these videos so much

[Black Media Hub ✊🏿 @BlackMediaHub]

Carl douglas-Kung fu fighting, Soul train, 1974.

[Ọládélé 🇳🇬👑 @Theoladeledada]

The cure for sickle cell disorder is now available at sickle cell foundation Nigeria, LUTH.

Please retweet for others to see.

[Daniel Franke @dfranke]

You buy a German anvil. It contains 83 moving parts and requires winding twice a day. It's forged from excellent steel, holds tolerances across all three striking faces to within three microns, includes a beautifully indexed horn-adjustment mechanism nobody asked for, and requires a proprietary 11-point spanner should you need to replace the rebound calibration bushing. It runs flawlessly for years, but one day it starts up in limp mode because the onboard anvil-management system detects that it's overdue for its 50,000-strike inspection.

You search AliExpress for a Chinese anvil, and are presented with a multitude of offerings from such household-name brands as DUKXJYIBF, HDBTGMXI, AND UEJQIP. They're all priced to within a few pennies of each other, appear completely identical except for the nameplate, and obviously all came out of the same factory. You text your blacksmith friend to ask if they're legit. He tells you he got one like that from KIXJBU a few years ago, and that it's been great and a terrific deal. You thank him, but KIXJBU seems to have folded so you buy the one from UEJQIP. When it arrives, it feels suspiciously light. You scratch it and realize it's iron-plated aluminum.

You buy an American anvil. It's five times the price of the competition, but it comes from a brand that your great-grandfather used to love. It comes boxed with a warranty registration postcard, twenty pages of safety instructions, assay certificate, and a regulatory slip which lists its FCC certification and ITAR registration. It looks just like your friend's KIXJBU. There's a "Made In China" sticker on the bottom.

You buy a Russian anvil. It arrives coated in cosmoline, wrapped in newspaper from 1974, and weighing 40% more than advertised. The finish looks like it was machined with a shovel. The face is not flat, but somehow this does not matter. You drop it off a truck, accidentally leave it outside for six winters, and use it to straighten a bulldozer blade. It's fine.

You buy a Swedish anvil. It comes flat-packed in a long cardboard box with cheerful Neo-Grotesk lettering and a line drawing of a smiling man assembling it with an Allen key. The instructions contain no words, only pictograms showing the anvil face, horn, waist, feet, and 112 identical-looking fasteners. Halfway through assembly, you discover that the pritchel hole was installed upside down, but only because you used peg B17 where you should have used peg B71. Once assembled, it is clean, stable, and works better than it has any right to. You immediately wonder whether you should have bought two.

You buy a Japanese anvil. It arrives wrapped in rice paper inside a paulownia box, accompanied by a certificate bearing three generations of signatures and a photograph of the first production example being presented to the Emperor. The face has been hand-polished by a seventy-eight-year-old master whose family has made striking surfaces since the Muromachi period. You are given detailed instructions for oiling it with a cloth folded in a specific way. It is the most beautiful object you own. You never quite work up the nerve to strike it.

[smv @slimvnsn]

My father's best friend was a man called Uncle Bayo who disappeared from our lives without explanation. I was 12 the last time I saw him. He came to our flat in Gbagada, argued with my father in the bedroom for an hour, and walked out without saying goodbye to me. My father never spoke his name again. Neither did my mother. Uncle Bayo became a silence with a shape.

Twenty-six years passed. I was in Philadelphia for a conference. A networking dinner at a hotel downtown. Across the room, a man about my father's age caught my eye and held it too long. He approached me during dessert and said my surname like it was a question he already knew the answer to.

We sat in the hotel lobby until 2am. He told me the story my father never did. They had started a construction company together in the early 90s. It had failed because of a contract dispute with a senator. The senator had paid only half the money and refused the rest. The debt had crushed them. Uncle Bayo had blamed my father for trusting the senator. My father had blamed Uncle Bayo for not reading the fine print. The friendship had shattered. Two men who had been closer than brothers had become strangers over something neither of them could control.

Uncle Bayo had moved to America after the falling out. He had built a new life, a new business, a small contracting firm in West Philly. He had married a Ghanaian woman and had two daughters. He had never returned to Nigeria. He had never called my father. He had assumed the silence was mutual.

I asked why he approached me now. He said he recognised my face because I looked like my father at 30. He said he had been waiting for decades to see that face again, to explain something that was never about betrayal. He said the argument had been about shame, not money. Both men had felt they failed each other. Neither had known how to say it.

I called my father from the hotel room. It was 3am in Lagos. He answered on the second ring, voice thick with sleep and alarm. I told him who I was sitting with. The line went quiet. Then my father did something I had never heard him do. He cried. Not softly. The kind of crying that comes from a place words cannot reach.

Uncle Bayo flew to Lagos 3 months later. They met at the same flat in Gbagada. They sat in the same living room where the argument had happened. They didn't re-litigate the past. They just sat together, two old men with white hair and matching hypertension medication, and let the silence heal.

My father died last year. Uncle Bayo spoke at the funeral. He said the greatest thief in life is not money or failure. It is the belief that there is always more time.

Call them. The debt is not theirs. It is yours.

[Dr. God Abeg ooo @josh_uglyasf]

This doctor literally does miracles on spines😱😱

[Ja Loka @_fels1]

History books are filled with the names of generals who won wars, but rarely the diplomats who prevented them.

[Quincy Idigbe @BlaaqQ]

@ikhide Love this.

[Kalu Aja @FinPlanKaluAja1]

Ponzi schemes

[Simons @Simon_Ingari]

Her resignation letter made the CEO go silent for twenty minutes...

Emma cleared out her desk at 5 AM.
Left the letter on his chair.
No drama. No scene.

Just two pages of gratitude.

"Thank you for teaching me what leadership isn't."

Then came her lessons:

"When you took credit for the Harrison campaign, you taught me to document everything."

"When you promised three promotions that never materialized, you taught me words without action mean nothing."

"When you ranked us against each other quarterly, you taught me competition inside kills collaboration."

"When you called weekend meetings for Monday's agenda, you taught me fake urgency is about control, not deadlines."

Fifteen examples.
Fifteen lessons.
Each one specific.
Each one true.

The worst part?

She meant every word.

No sarcasm. No bitterness.
Just genuine appreciation for the education.

"You showed me exactly the leader I refuse to become."

He found it Monday morning.

Read it once.
Read it again.
Read it again.
Called her cell.
Straight to voicemail.

His assistant heard something she'd never heard:

Nothing.

For twenty minutes, he sat there.
One of his best people.
Gone.
No notice.
No warning.

And every word aimed at him.

When he finally emerged, he asked:
"How many others feel this way?"

His assistant looked at the floor.

That told him everything.

Emma?

She's running her own team now.
They've never met her old boss.
But they know him.

Through every decision she doesn't make for them.
Every credit she doesn't take from them.
Every promise she keeps to them.

Her team thinks she's a natural leader.

They're wrong.

She was trained by the worst.
And learned exactly what not to do.

Sometimes the best teachers
are the ones who show you
exactly who you never want to be.

[Sai Ishaya @Sai_Ishaya_]

He's even the one that kept reposting the clips here & drawing people's attention to it.

This wasn't a "Head to Head" it was a Head to the Chopping Block and he carried the axe there.

Most people think Bwala is sharing these clips because he’s "clueless." They’re wrong IMO. This isn't a lack of self-awareness, it’s a public blood oath. He is showing the Presidency & party faithful that he is willing to be scorched alive in the town square if it means proving his loyalty.

"Look at me guys, even against the big bad Western media, I will burn myself on the stake of embarrassment and ridicule to defend this mandate"

The most striking part? Mehdi Hasan wasn’t even his usual combative self. He sounded disappointed. It felt like he eventually dropped his journalistic "sword" because there was nothing left to cut. You can’t debate someone who denies the very ground they stand on.

He couldn't believe what he was seeing in real time. For fifty minutes, him and his audience got a front-row seat to the psychological exhaustion the Nigerian people endure daily.

[Olajide Idowu @lajideidowu]

@FinPlanKaluAja1 There’s no IT limitation to direct digital collation.
If Nigeria can run BVN, NIN, and mobile money systems seamlessly, it can transmit votes securely to a central server. What we’re told is “impossible” is actually “inconvenient” for those who benefit from opacity.

[Lola Okunrin @lollypeezle]

APC: We now have 30 governors.

Nigerians: Wow.

APC: We also have 75 senators.

Nigerians: Omo.

APC: Over 230 HOR members o.

Nigerians: Na you dey hot.

APC: Not to brag but we now have over 10m registered members.

Nigerians: That’s very nice. Oya approve Real time transmission of electoral results, so that the world can see you are winning because people love you.

APC: Haaa, that’s too risky ooo.

😭😭😭😭🤦

[Cyborg Warlord @Admiral_Cyborg]

On the 16th of December 25, I discovered a deadly evil being perpetuated by citizens against fellow citizens. In the course of this story, I'll make use of fictional names but real locations where they occured.

On that Tuesday morning, Olamide, a 25 year old boy came back to his apartment in Rumuigbo with his Toks Lexus RX 350, which he bought the previous week, and was celebrating with everyone. He had picked up the car from Apapa, Lagos, where he went with a mechanic whom he met on FB marketplace and drove down to see his people in Delta before proceeding to PH on that day. The car had been in his possession for over 7 days before he came to PH.

Let me give you a backstory on Olamide. He is an only son with 6 sisters and he is the 4th child. His father is in Quatar, working as a boat operator and his mother is a teacher in one of the government secondary schools in Delta state. Olamide is a waiter in one prominent place in Onne, hence the urge to get a car. His dad sent him the money for the car since the boy wasn't patient enough for one to be shipped to him.

While we were celebrating, we heard gunshots outside the gate and almost immediately the gate flew wide open. Operatives of EFCC and NPF filled the compound and everyone was in panic mode. I sharply went inside and called the NAF base and Army barracks, sent my location and went outside. I was on pass so I had no official capacity to act, hence my silence. They told everyone to lie down, started rough handling everyone. Some started going door to door, pounding and shouting that everyone must come out. I tried talking to the one I sensed was the most senior and he shunned me. I didn't argue or drag. They checked their tablet and kept pointing at the car, "oga na the car be this. Tracker no dey lie." While they were at it, 4 vans filled with soldiers arrived, and 6 of them came into the compound. Upon seeing them, I got up immediately and told everyone on the floor to stand.

We started asking questions, and they said the car belonged to a yahoo boy and it was seized by the EFCC. They claimed the car was missing from their lot and they have been tracking it for over 4 months, so I had Olamide describe the vendor's location and calls were made to Lagos, some soldiers and some members of the Lagos RRS stormed the place, picked up the seller and began interrogating him. That's where things went dark.

The car seller has an active agreement with a handful from the EFCC. If a young guy buys a car, they install trackers and sell it to him, wait for some days and bust the guy, retrieve the car and arrest him while tagging him a yahoo boy. The car is then returned to the car dealer and the dealer gives EFCC their own share from the car sales proceeds. The mechanic is in on it also.

After all these exposé, I realized that we have a very long way to go as a country.

To the young men, do your research before you walk into any dealership to buy a car. Ask questions, swallow pride. That 24-48 hours of information gathering will save you a long time in prison.

[Quincy Idigbe @BlaaqQ]

Can't decide which I enjoy more; listening to Coast Contra or watching reactions of Hip Hop heads listening to Coast Contra for the first time. Oh well....

[Christopher Wipper @SGTWipper1Each]

The difference between "guts" and "balls" according to the British military.

There is a medical distinction between “Guts” and “Balls”, according to the British military. We've heard colleagues referring to people with “Guts”, or with “Balls”.

Do they, however, know the difference between them? Here’s the official distinction; straight from the British Medical Journal: Volume 323; page 295.

GUTS - Is arriving home late, after a night out with the lads, being met by your wife with a broom, and having the “Guts” to ask: “Are you still cleaning, or are you flying somewhere?”

BALLS - Is coming home late after a night out with the lads, smelling of perfume and beer, lipstick on your collar, slapping your wife on the bum and having the “Balls” to say: 'You're next, Chubby.'

Medically speaking, there is no difference in outcome; both are fatal.

[Dr. God Abeg ooo @josh_uglyasf]

🤦🏽‍♂️🤦🏽‍♂️🤦🏽‍♂️🤦🏽‍♂️