Ojukwu (Conquest) Emmanuel, MD

Medical Doctor❤️🩺 | Trained Mixed Martial arts & Combat sports fighter🥊🥇| Chess lover♟️| Music lover| Soldier of God 🪖

[Ojukwu (Conquest) Emmanuel, MD @OlisExchange]

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[Mai & Global Consulting Partners @MaiandGCP]

This is actually a brilliant observation that deserves a proper answer. You are not wrong about what you are seeing. But what you are describing is exactly how languages disappear without anyone noticing.

Adamawa alone has over 40 documented languages. Bura, Vere, Chamba, Gaanda, Lala, Bacchama, Bata, Marghi and more and no they are not variations as you pointed out.

But most of them are slowly being swallowed by Hausa and Fulani because those are the languages of trade, mobility and survival.

So yes, your Borno security guard speaks Shuwa Arabic and your Sokoto okada man speaks Hausa and they understand each other perfectly. That does not mean only one language exists. It means one language won the economic argument. This is what linguists call language assimilation. The dominant language does not erase the others overnight. It just makes them less useful for daily survival until the younger generation stops learning them entirely.

Now here are the facts. Ethnologue, which is the world's most authoritative database on languages, currently documents 520 living indigenous languages in Nigeria alone. Not dialects. Languages. Nigeria has also already lost 12 indigenous languages or more to extinction. Gone forever.

The Middle Belt is where this becomes undeniable. Plateau State alone has over 50 distinct languages. Keyword "Dinstinct".

Benue has Tiv, Idoma, Igede and more. Taraba has communities that cannot understand their neighbours two villages away without a translator. Your Yoruba example actually proves the point perfectly. The fact that a Yoruba person can move across the Southwest and be understood is evidence of one dominant language absorbing regional variations over centuries. That process happened. It is still happening everywhere else in Nigeria right now.

Now I am willing to bet you have never heard of Hyam, Ngas, Mwaghavul, Berom, Amo, Buji, Sura, Anaguta, or Irigwe from Plateau State. Or Kilba, Huba, Bura-Pabir, and Chibok from Borno. Or Mumuye, Jenjo, Yukuben, and Wurkum from Taraba. Or Tur, Nyandang, Kugama and Taram further into the riverine communities nobody talks about. Or what about Igala, Ebira, Bassange, Bassa-Nge, Kakanda and Oworo from Kogi alone. I have not even touched Rivers, Cross River, Bayelsa, Edo, Ondo, or Nasarawa yet. You want to know exactly where each of these is spoken? You will have to tour Nigeria for that. And I promise you, this country will humble you in ways no map ever could. The 500 languages are not cap. Most of them are just quietly dying (Bura has an estimated 11,000 speakers with most young Bura people now not able to speak the language) while we debate whether they exist. And that is the real conversation Nigeria should be having.

[Olamilekan Samuel, MD🍃 @doctrLakes]

I actually pray for my patients
When the prognosis is bad, I pray their hearts to hope
When it's end stage and terminal, I pray our conversations lead to light
I have a group of Christian doctors where we deliberately meet to pray for patients especially bad cases

Few months ago, we had a terrible case the best of hands didn't know the way forward and the patient had given up, ready to pull the plug.
Following that rounds, I took some time in the call room to really pray for him so the Holy Spirit instructed I visit, so I stayed back after work in order to visit in the night

That night I came into the ward, had some good gist that consentingly led to conversations around faith, hope and the person of Jesus and we basically held a full blown service.

Right that night, it just appeared a new burst of hope and direction for everyone.

Earlier this week, I saw him from a distance walk out of the outpatient department with his two legs and my heart was merry!
I may not be able to go to church every time because of work but I understand that I am God's workmanship created for good works in the health sector and for me? I was called!

[Bitto Keren K Esq. @KerenKBitto]

😭😭😭😭😭Ahhh God

My Goodness please run to the A and E o

I had a cousin who once swallowed Udara seed, that’s how three days later he started complaining of stomach pain and the family thought it was normal, went to hospital, nothing was wrong, but he stomach started getting bigger, then one day a small green shoot started coming out of his navel.

That’s how they had to take him to the village and plant him in the soil and now he is an udara tree😭😭😭😭😭🤧🤧🤧💔💔💔😩🥺😞.

[Cake & Small chops sensei @mildred_ojm]

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[Cake & Small chops sensei @mildred_ojm]

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[Ojukwu (Conquest) Emmanuel, MD @OlisExchange]

@ThatCruiseMedic Please can I get a step by step guide from you Chief🙏

[Amaka @Macazeee]

My parents were married for 55 years. One morning, my mom was walking downstairs to make breakfast for my dad when she suddenly had a heart attack and fell. My father lifted her as best as he could and almost carried her to the truck. He drove to the hospital as fast as possible, ignoring traffic lights along the way.

When they arrived, she was already gone.

At the funeral, my father did not say a word. He stared into space and barely cried.

That evening, his children stayed with him. In the middle of our grief and memories, we shared stories about the happy times. He asked my brother, who studies theology, to tell him where Mom might be at that moment. My brother spoke about life after death and shared thoughts about where she could be.

My father listened closely. Then, all of a sudden, he asked us to take him to the cemetery.

“Dad,” we said, “it’s 11 at night. We can’t go to the cemetery now.”

He raised his voice slightly and, with tearful eyes, said, “Please don’t argue with me. Don’t argue with a man who just lost his wife of 55 years.”

We fell silent out of respect. No one argued again. We went to the cemetery. Using a flashlight, we found her grave.

My father sat down, prayed, and then said to us, “It was 55 years. Do you understand? No one can truly speak about real love unless they have shared their life with someone.”

He stopped for a moment and wiped his tears.

“She and I were together in good times and bad,” he continued. “When I changed jobs, we moved together. When we sold the house, we packed and started over. We shared the happiness of seeing our children become parents. We cried together when loved ones passed away. We prayed side by side in hospital waiting rooms. We supported each other in pain, hugged each other every day, and forgave each other’s mistakes.”

Then he paused again and said, “Children, all of that is over now, and tonight I feel thankful. Do you know why? Because she left before me. She did not have to feel the pain of burying me or being alone after I was gone. I will carry that pain instead, and I thank God for that. I love her so much that I would never want her to suffer.”

When my father finished speaking, my brothers and I were crying. We hugged him, and he comforted us by saying, “It’s alright. We can go home now. It has been a long day.”

That night I truly understood what real love means. It is more than romance or physical attraction. It is two people standing beside each other, committed to one another, through every good moment and every hard time life brings.

Peace be in your hearts.
#copied

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[Walter 🇳🇬 🇵🇭 🇨🇦 @gamerwalt]

He didn’t lose his worth when he lost the job. He just lost the costume. The man was always the real asset.

*****

My husband drives a taxi now. He used to be a bank manager. He says he's never been happier.

The first time I saw him behind the wheel of that rickety Toyota, I didn't recognize him. The fluorescent light of the fuel station made him look older, more worn. When he saw me... standing there with groceries, mouth open... he didn't flinch.

"Get in," he said. "I'll take you home."

"Tunde, what..."

"Get in, Amara. Please."

I got in. The car smelled of air freshener and yesterday's passengers. The dashboard had a crack running through it. His suit... the good one he wore to his branch manager position... hung on a hook behind him, wrapped in plastic, like a costume from another life.

"They laid me off three months ago," he said, pulling into traffic. "I'm telling you now because I couldn't bear to say it before."

"Three months?"

"I've been driving since week two. The taxi belongs to Uncle Sola. He takes a percentage."

I stared at his hands on the wheel. Calloused now. The gold band I gave him on our wedding day, slightly loose, catching the streetlights as we drove.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Shame." He said it simply, like naming a weather condition. "I couldn't face you. The man who promised you everything, driving strangers to the airport for small change."

"We could have..."

"I know. We could have used savings. Your salary. But I needed to feel useful. To contribute. To not just sit in that house and watch you become the provider."

We drove in silence through Lagos traffic, past the bank building where he used to work, past the restaurants we couldn't afford anymore. The danfo beside us honked aggressively. Life went on, indifferent to our reckoning.

"The children?" I asked.

"Don't know yet. I tell them I'm consulting."

I reached over. Touched his knee. He flinched, then relaxed into it.

"You're not less of a man because you drive a taxi," I said.

"I know. I'm still learning to believe it."

"Then I'll believe it for you. Until you catch up."

He pulled over... illegal, dangerous, but necessary. Put the car in park. Turned to me with eyes that held thirteen years of love, failure, hope, and stubborn refusal to quit.

"You were supposed to marry a bank manager," he said.

"I married you," I replied. "The job was just a detail."

We sat there, hazard lights blinking, while Lagos flowed around us like water around a stone. That night, I made his favorite soup with the little we had. He ate three bowls. In the morning, he left at 5 AM to start his route, and I kissed him like I used to... like he was still the man who'd carry the world for me.

Because he is. The world just got heavier. And he's still carrying.

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[Ojukwu (Conquest) Emmanuel, MD @OlisExchange]

@RichardEdeh46 @leodey4u Woji mayi mayehh😂

[Medzonetv @Medzonetv]

Imagine going through secondary school and 5 years of Medical School without ever seeing a "B" on your result slip.

Read that again.

From JSS3 till now, this young man has never recorded a single B. Not once. Not by luck. Not by chance. By discipline.

Starting as the best student in WAEC in all of Lagos State, @donye_goodness has continued to defy all odds with:
✅ 100L: A perfect 5.0 CGPA.
✅ Pre-Clinicals: Distinctions in Anatomy, Physiology, and Biochemistry.
✅ Clinicals: Distinctions in Pathology, Pharmacology, Paediatrics, O&G, and Community Medicine.

But grades are only half the story. While most students are struggling to survive the volume of medical literature, @donye_goodness was busy rewriting it.

He didn’t just study Anatomy; he authored "Donye’s Destroying Anatomy Vol 1" - a book handwritten from cover to cover. He didn't just practice MCQs; he went further to create a database of over 2,000 MCQs with answers for those coming after him.

I don’t typically write things like this, but excellence like this should never be whispered. @donye_goodness, the medical world isn't ready for the impact you’re about to make.

If you believe hard work deserves recognition, say something.
If you believe excellence should be celebrated, leave a word.
If you know someone who needs this kind of motivation, tag them.

Some people chase greatness.
Others become it.

Give this man his flowers now! 💐🎓

[💂🏻‍♀️👋🏻вєαя🍻🇬🇧™ @BigBearF1]

I was washing the car with my son earlier,when my neighbour suggested a sponge might be more effective.

[Prem Soni @ValueWithPrem]

15 things to do with your father while he is still alive. I lost mine 8 years ago.

1. Ask him what he was like at your age because once he was the same age you are right now & Watch his face light up as he tells you stories from when he was younger

2. Record his laugh when he tells one of his signature jokes. Someday you will replay the video over and over just to hear it again

3. Ask him about the proudest moment of his life. (Odds are he will say when you were born)

4. Ask him his favourite songs
Listen to them together, laugh, sing and be happy. These will become your most cherished memories in years to come

5. Take a picture of him doing something he loves. Watching tv, gardening, playing the guitar, anything. When you look back these will be the pictures that will make you smile the most

6. Tell him you love him even if it's something you don't normally do.

7. Tell him you are proud to be his son/daughter This will mean more to him than you realise (even if he doesn't show it)

8. Listen to music from his youth and watch him turn from dad into a young man again

9. Take a short video of him talking about something random sacred Someday even the ordinary things he said become

10. Bring up something you are thankful for from years ago

11. Ask him what it was like for him growing up

12. Call him for no reason
Don't take being able to do this for granted.
Someday you would give anything to hear his voice again.

13. Take a picture of just the 2 of you together

14. Ask him to show you an old photo of him because seeing him young will remind you that he wasn't always Dad

15. Tell him something you are struggling with, no matter what age you are Because even when your grown it means the world to him to feel like he can still help

Let him give you advice, even if you don't need it because one day you will give anything to hear his voice guiding you again

[Dr. M.F. Khan @Dr_TheHistories]

On June 6, 1963, in a small London boxing gym, six-year-old Patrick Power walked in with the simple hope of learning how to defend himself against schoolyard bullies. His oversized gloves and small frame told the story of a boy trying to build confidence in a world that felt a little too big. What he could never have imagined was that, on that very day, the gym doors would open to reveal Cassius Clay—soon to be Muhammad Ali—who was in London preparing for his upcoming fight with Henry Cooper. Instead of focusing solely on his own training, Ali’s attention turned to the smallest fighter in the room. With warmth and curiosity, he approached Patrick, ready to share a moment that would become unforgettable.

Ali knelt to Patrick’s level, showing him how to throw a jab, move his feet, and stand tall with confidence. He teased and encouraged him with his trademark charisma, turning the session into a game rather than a lesson. Then came the playful sparring match: Patrick threw light punches while Ali exaggerated his reactions, stumbling dramatically and finally collapsing in mock defeat. The room filled with laughter and applause as Ali, the heavyweight contender, let a little boy feel the joy of victory. For Patrick, it was like stepping into a dream—he was no longer just a boy learning to fight; he was a champion, if only for a moment.

That morning was more than just child’s play. It reflected the essence of Muhammad Ali’s greatness outside the ring: his compassion, showmanship, and ability to make others feel special. Long before his name became synonymous with activism and humanitarianism, Ali was already showing the power of kindness, humor, and humility. For Patrick Power, the memory remained etched forever—a moment of joy, respect, and empowerment given to him by a man who understood that true champions lift others up.

© Reddit

#drthehistories

[Baba Banaras™ @RealBababanaras]

When 740 children were about to die at sea and every country said “no,” one man who had every reason to remain silent said “yes.”

It was 1942.

A ship was drifting in the Arabian Sea like a floating coffin.

On board were 740 Polish children. Orphans. Survivors of Soviet labor camps, where their parents had died from illness or starvation. They had escaped through Iran, only to face another terrible fate.

No one would accept them.

The British Empire, the most powerful force of the time, refused entry at port after port along the Indian coast.

“This is not our responsibility. Go away.”

Food was almost gone. No medicines. Time was running out.

Twelve-year-old Maria held the hand of her six-year-old brother. She had promised her dying mother she would protect him. But how do you protect someone when the whole world turns against you?

Then news reached a small palace in Gujarat, India.

The ruler was Jam Sahib Digvijay Singh Ji, the Maharaja of Nawanagar (Jamnagar).

When his advisors told him that 740 children were stranded at sea after being denied entry to all Indian ports by the British, he asked just one question:

“How many children?”

“Seven hundred and forty, Maharaj.”

He paused and calmly said:

“The British may control my ports, but they do not control my conscience. These children will dock at Nawanagar.”

The advisors warned him:

“If you defy the British”

“Then I will,” he replied.

He sent a message to the ship: You are welcome here.

When British officials protested, the Maharaja stood firm.

“If the powerful refuse to save children,” he said,
“then I, the weak, will do what you cannot.”

In August 1942, the ship struggled into Nawanagar port under the blazing summer sun.

The children walked like ghosts, exhausted, hollow-eyed, many too weak to walk. They had learned not to hope. Hope had become dangerous.

The Maharaja was waiting for them at the dock.

Dressed simply in white, he knelt so he could be at eye level with them. Through interpreters, he spoke words they had not heard since their parents died:

“You are no longer orphans.
Now you are my children.
I am your Bapu, your father.”

He did not build a refugee camp.

He built a home.

At Balachadi, he created something extraordinary, a little Poland in India. Polish teachers who understood trauma. Polish food flavored with memory. Polish songs in an Indian garden. A Christmas tree under a tropical sky.

“Suffering tries to erase you,” he said. “But your language, culture, and traditions are sacred. Let us preserve them here.”

Children who had been told they had no place in the world finally found a home.

They laughed again. They played again. They returned to school. Maria watched her brother chase peacocks in the palace gardens, and her body remembered what safety felt like.

The Maharaja visited them often. He remembered names. Celebrated birthdays. Watched school plays. Comforted children who cried for parents who would never return. He paid for doctors, teachers, clothes, and food from his own money.

For four years, while the world was torn apart by war, 740 children lived not as refugees, but as a family.

When the war ended and it was time to leave, many cried. Balachadi had become the only home they truly knew.

The children grew up and spread across the world, becoming doctors, teachers, engineers, parents, grandparents. And they never forgot.

Warsaw’s Good Maharaja Square stands in Poland. Schools bear his name. He was awarded Poland’s highest honor.

But the true memorial was not made of stone.

Its value was measured in 740 saved lives.

Even today, 80 years later, they still gather. They tell their grandchildren about an Indian king who refused to turn compassion into political calculation.

[Psychodoctor @Psychodoctor06]

Indirect Counselling :

A mother once came to me worried about her 13 year old son’s rebellious behaviour.

She was certain of one thing: he would never agree to talk to a counsellor.

So I asked her,
“What does he love doing?”

Her answer. Chess.

I asked her to come for her 'headache' and to bring her son along.

Before they arrived, I set up a chess position on the board in my clinic.

I spoke to the mother about her 'headache', examined her and prescribed medicines.

Meanwhile, the boy’s eyes were fixed on the board.

I casually asked, “Do you play chess?”

His face lit up. He talked about his classes and tournaments.

I invited him for a quick game. We played. He was good.

I gave him a tough fight and let him win.

We fixed a day to play again.

Week after week, he came.
Not for counselling.
But for chess.

Between moves and silences, trust formed and he opened up.

The problems came out not because I asked directly, but because he felt safe.

I could do interventions and put in some suggestions as he had become receptive.

Over time, something changed.

His rebellion faded.
My chess improved too. 😊

Counselling isn’t about forcing a conversation or giving direct suggestions.

It is about developing a rapport, creating a connection and then giving suggestions.

It is about meeting a child where their heart already lives.

Sometimes healing doesn’t begin with questions.

It begins with a game,
a shared interest or
a moment of joy.

Meet them in their world first.

The healing follows.

#therapy
#Parenting

[Mr PitBull Stories @MrPitbull07]

WE ARE THE GENERATION THAT WILL NEVER COME BACK
A generation that walked to school and then walked back
A generation that did their homework alone to get out asap to play in the street.
A generation that played spent all their free time on the street with their friends
A generation that played hide and seek when dark
A generation carried wallets full of photos.
Today, our whole gallery lives in the cloud.
A generation that made mud cakes
A generation that collected sport cards
A generation that found, collected and washed & returned empty coke bottles to the local grocery store for 5 cents each, then bought a mountain Dew and candy bar with the money
A generation that made paper toys with their bare hands.
A generation who bought vinyl albums to play on record Player
A generation that collected photos and albums of clippings.
A generation that played board games and and cards on rainy days.
A generation whose TV went off at midnight after playing the national anthem
A generation that had parents who were there
A generation that laughed under the covers in bed so parents didn't know we were still awake
A generation that is passing and unfortunately it will never return!!
I loved Growing up when I did!✌️😎

[Ojukwu (Conquest) Emmanuel, MD @OlisExchange]

@Dr_TheHistories The best of men are still men🌹