You can’t catch them all. And you don’t need to.
The goal isn’t to force yourself into every trade - it’s to hone in on the spots where you actually have an edge.
- If you don’t have the execution speed for a sniper play, forcing entries will just bleed you.
- If you don’t understand the psychology behind a move, you’re gambling, not trading.
- If you can’t confidently explain why you have an edge, you probably don’t have one.
Most mistakes come from feeling like you need to be in every play. The reality? Patience and selective aggression win.
Good traders don’t try to win every hand. They wait for the setups where they know they have an edge - and when they find it, they press hard.
You already know politics shady af - why the FUCK would you think any politician coin finna you good? It’s a PVP world out there - take ya money and hit those trenches soldier 🫡
Nobody hates beggars. They just hate being reminded that life is a rigged game and they could’ve easily been on the other side of it.
Look at a beggar, really look, and you’ll see why people turn away. It’s not disgust. It’s fear. A quiet, gnawing fear that unsettles the soul. Because beggars are walking proof that meritocracy is a lie, that hard work does not always guarantee food on the table, that life is not a fair transaction where effort and reward are neatly aligned.
And Nigerians, more than anyone else, despise being reminded of this truth.
This is a country where suffering is worn like a badge of honor, where people are so obsessed with proving they “hustled” for everything that they refuse to acknowledge how much of life is determined by pure, blind luck. The neighborhood you were born in, the parents you had, the school you went to, the one moment of opportunity that set you on the path you now boast of—these were not choices. They were the invisible hands that molded your fate before you even knew how to spell your own name.
But say this to a Nigerian who has ‘made it,’ and watch their face curl into a hard-molded eba ball, visibly irritated.
They will tell you they worked for everything. That God favored them. That they didn’t sleep for years, that they “grinded” harder than anyone else, as if hard work is some kind of magic spell that exempts you from the randomness of life. They will sneer at beggars, spit out lectures about laziness, and refuse to give them a single naira—not because they are stingy, but because to acknowledge the beggar’s suffering is to acknowledge that they, too, could have been just as helpless if life had played a different card.
So they pretend.
They pretend that poverty is always the result of poor decisions. That every man begging on the streets must have wasted his chances. That every pregnant woman selling pure water must have been careless with life. That the old man sitting at the junction with trembling hands and empty eyes must have done something to deserve it.
Because if they don’t believe this, if they let the truth sink in—that the beggar is not a symbol of failure, but a reflection of what they themselves were lucky to escape—then they would have to confront something unbearable.
The fact that the line between them and the beggar is thinner than they want to admit.
That a single misfortune—an illness, an accident, a political crisis, a government policy designed to crush the poor—could erase everything they have built. That in another life, they, too, could have been standing by the roadside, palms stretched out, watching as people averted their gaze, pretending not to see them.
So no, nobody hates beggars.
They just hate the part of themselves that recognizes how easy it is to become one.