When you hear about things happening in Nigeria, you’d be shocked.
A woman gave birth to twins at the hospital & the doctor informed her that one of them didn’t make it out alive.
She asked to see the baby still, but the doctor said baby is not in good shape, & they can’t show her because she just gave birth and it’s the hospital’s policy.
Fast Forward, she found the supposed late baby with the doctor’s wife during immunisation classes months later.
She checked and the baby looked exactly like her baby. She confronted the doctor later on and he wanted to return the baby but the wife refused. He had to stay on his wife’s side.
The mother of the twins went to the police to report, but instead, she was the one locked up alongside her husband because the doctor and his wife knew people in the police that were in high positions.
She asked for DNA and they said the police came back to say they can’t do any DNA till the child is 8 years old. She refused. The police then threatened her that if she keeps causing problems,they’ll put her in prison till the child is 8. In face, they made her sign an undertaking that she’ll not bother the doctor and his family.
Many years later, the child is grown now, from the video I watched, the boy should be 8 years old (not sure). She is taking up the case again, but this doctor and his wife are refusing to do DNA. They transferred the case to Command in Abuja, the police can see the resemblance clearly, but this doctor took the case to FCID, which is bigger than Command.
This woman has lost hope in the system and has now gone to VeryDarkMan, who is gonna take up the case now. How do you steal someone’s child as a medical practitioner?
Now that you’re all looking at my timeline for updates, let me use this chance to ask you kindly to retweet this shoe until it reaches the person in whose foot it fits!
FREE ALL POLITICAL PRISONERS!
if you want to piss men on twitter off, just tell them to be a present father in their children's life. funny lot.
even the jobless ones will create scenarios where they work under the sea & are inaccessible to the world every 6 months. psst
I was so exhausted the other night I slept through my son and his friends throwing a wild weed-and-heavy-metal party in the yard.
By sunrise, it was still going. My phone was full of texts from neighbors complaining about the noise and the smell.
And so I wake in the morning and I step outside…
And I take a deep breath and I get real high…
And I scream from the top of my lungs…
“WHAT’S GOING ON?!”
There is something about a Ugandan funeral that no one warns you about before you attend your first one.
You arrive expecting grief. You find grief, yes, but also a full kitchen operation running on pure adrenaline and muscle memory and three competing sound systems playing three different things at once.
Someone's uncle is at the microphone giving a speech that started as a tribute to the deceased but has somehow become his lifestory and the audience wants the microphone taken from him because they are convinced he has taken something which could be the reason he’s overconfident today.
A debate about food portions so intense that you would think the inheritance was being divided is happening in the tent at the back.
Then there is the woman. You know the one. Middle-aged, gomesi slightly coming undone from all the movement, forehead glistening, phone pressed between her ear and shoulder while she stirs a saucepan that cannot be left alone right now.
In the same breath, she is telling a sixteen year old boy in shorts bigger than him to go sweep near the tent entrance, sending a young girl to lock the main bedroom before people start treating it like a corridor, and giving directions to someone on the phone who has been at the trading centre for twenty minutes and still cannot find the home. Nobody appointed her. She just arrived, saw the shape of what needed doing, and became the person doing all of it. Nobody will thank her by name at the service.
And the boda-boda man. Jacket three sizes too big, buttons long defeated, showing up every forty minutes with something else someone forgot. Jerrycans. Plastic chairs. A bag of onions. Extension cables. He has made six trips, and there will be three more before sunset because whoever is sending him keeps remembering new things after he has already left.
And then there are the dogs. Three of them. That colour that every African knows but nobody has a clean word for, not quite brown, not quite fawn, somewhere in that dusty yellowish-brown that looks like the dog was assembled from the soil itself.
Nobody knows where they came from. They are not the neighbour's dogs. They are not the village dogs. They just appeared, as they always do, as if they got the same news everyone else got and made their way over.
They move low and deliberate, with their noses skimming the ground and reading something nobody else can access. They keep circling the cooking area, drifting towards the tent, and once in a while pausing near the saucepans with a patience that borders on strategic.
One can only guess their true intentions because they are not in a rush. These are not desperate dogs. These are dogs with a plan. They are not going to do anything rash. They have time. They have assessed the situation, and they like their odds.
There is a young man whose entire job, though nobody assigned it, has become managing them. Every few minutes, you hear him: "Sheeee, gooo!" One lazy wave of the hand, not even looking in their direction. The dogs retreat exactly three metres, wait for him to go back inside or get distracted by something, then drift back in with the same quiet confidence of people who know they will eventually be forgotten about. And they are right. He always gets distracted. They always come back.
You will not find them in any photo from the day. Nobody will mention them. But they were there, as they are always there, at every burial, on every compound, in every village. A funeral without them would feel incomplete. You know these dogs. You have always known these dogs.
The organisation is both impressive and completely chaotic. Someone is always in charge, but nobody can tell you who. There is a committee. The committee has a subcommittee. The subcommittee has a WhatsApp group with 47 members and an inactive admin. Apparently, the admin lost her phone the day she created the group.
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Good evening UOX, I am ISINGOMA REIGH a student at UTC kicwamba pursuing a diploma in civil engineering in my final year and semester. I am having a challenge of tuition of which the deadline is Fri 10th. I seek your support with whatever amount to complete my course. Thank you.
@abdussekalala is battling a severe autoimmune liver condition and urgently needs a transplant in India.
He needs to raise $50,000 to save his life.
No amount is too small.
📲 Kindly send any support to:
0775722124 (Abdu Ssekalala)
Kindly RETWEET for awareness 🙏
#SaveAbdu
🚨🇬🇧 BREAKING: DOCTOR ARRESTED FOR ANTI-ISRAEL TWEETS ON X
Dr. Rahma Adwan (@doctor_rahmeh) was ARRESTED today by London MET Police for the 5th time.
They sent 7 officers to detain her for criticizing Israel and jewish crimes on X.
Please repost this. Make this viral.
This girl is still alive, and there is still time to act... help bring attention to her case so we can save her life
I never ask for anything, but please RT and pray