BBC: “What was your screen time?”
Student: “Nine hours.”
BBC: “You’re gong to have a lot more time to fill. What will you do?”
Student: “Stare at a wall.”
[WATCH] The 63 Khoi and San ancestral remains repatriated from European museums are finally on home soil in South Africa. They will be reburied at the Kinderlê Monument in Steinkopf, Northern Cape, today. #Newzroom405
This brochure was found at the “Wish for a Baby” fertility fair in Berlin.
It advertises a surrogacy program in Ghana.
The package offered to clients includes:
• “Unlimited Frozen Embryo Transfers”
• Up to 10 embryos
• The possibility of “changing surrogates”..
Meanwhile, the brochure explains that surrogate mothers live in agency housing under supervision…
while the clients enjoy a 21-day tourism stay in Ghana.
A reproductive assembly line.
Women managed.
Babies delivered.
Clients on vacation.
This is the reality of the global surrogacy industry.
Y'all mocking his outfit in the replies but this is his signature style. Buddy Guy has said that he wears polka dots as a tribute to his late mother, and overalls to honor his sharecropper parents. He is the eldest of five children and he grew up picking cotton in Louisiana
No One Warns Immigrants About the Silence
When people move to the UK, everyone says, “You’ll be fine.”
But no one warns you about the silence.
The kind that fills your chest when you come home from a 12-hour shift …too tired to cook, too broke to order food …and the walls don’t answer when you talk.
Back home, in Africa, there was always noise …neighbours arguing, radios playing, kids laughing outside, boda guys shouting across the road.
Here, even the air feels like it’s watching you quietly.
At first, you think you’re strong.
You smile through the cold, through the confused looks when you don’t catch the accent, through the “where are you really from?” that hides behind polite smiles.
But it’s the small things that wear you down.
Having to repeat your name until it doesn’t sound like you anymore.
Being called “love” but never truly seen.
Hearing your qualifications don’t count because they’re “not UK standard.”
You start from scratch. Again.
Washing dishes. Cleaning houses. Sending money home like it doesn’t ache.
Telling your family you’re fine, even when you cry at the bus stop because your card declined.
Still… there are moments.
Catching the eye of another African on the bus and sharing a silent smile.
Hearing an Afrobeats song in a corner shop and feeling your heart breathe again.
Cooking familiar food in a cold kitchen and, for a moment, it smells like home.
And slowly, life rebuilds itself.
Not the way you imagined, but piece by piece ….quietly, stubbornly, beautifully.
Because being an immigrant isn’t just about survival.
It’s about learning to belong in a place that never expected you to stay… and still daring to call it home.