Don Kuso

strong 💪 and inspiring 💯I hate corruption. Detribalized strong man. If you are corrupted don't come near me!!! YOUTH Power 💪🏿👌🏿

[Don Kuso @don_kuso]

@utdmax0 Steve Mcamanaman, David Becham, Michael Owen

[Don Kuso @don_kuso]

@LegacySiu @grok can you help name the football club

[Don Kuso @don_kuso]

@AndrewBolis @Alokkumarzz Canva

[Don Kuso @don_kuso]

@woye1 @Omololabo @PenComNig @grok is this true?

[Don Kuso @don_kuso]

@grok edit for me

[Don Kuso @don_kuso]

@RidwanuLlah The lady is not an Igbo person? U are now turning into a nice guy!!Imagine ur post without PO and Igbo dissing, keep it up!!!

[Don Kuso @don_kuso]

@pallnandi Very Happy!!!!!!!

[Don Kuso @don_kuso]

No African supported South Africa today. All supports went to Canada. Useless SA People
Gains of Xenophobia

[Don Kuso @don_kuso]

@AndrewBolis Hustle

[Don Kuso @don_kuso]

@trigottista @BwalaDaniel when you listen this you will agree that you are a bid fool for criticizing PO's interview. Just rest Danidiot and recover from your disgraced interview.

[AMB. SERAH IBRAHIM @TheSerahIbrahim]

There are no bandits in Nigeria.

The belittling of the murder and atrocities these people commit by calling them bandits, is a media propaganda by their sponsors in government to diminish the level of horror of what these criminals do to innocent Nigerians.

People who massacre citizens, kidnap schoolchildren, attack military formations, burn communities, and hold entire regions hostage are not bandits.

These are terrorists

The media must stop sanitising their crimes with softer language. Calling terrorists “bandits” trivializes murder, kidnapping, rape, arson, and the destruction of lives.

Call them what they are
They are terrorists.
Anything less is a disservice to their victims and a crime to the pain they inflict on every Nigerian.

[Karigwe (Prophet of Thoughts) @Karigwe]

PRESS STATEMENT

OBIDIENT MOVEMENT SUSPENDS TOP TO BOTTOM CAMPAIGN AND DECLARES OPERATION NO WORK, NO VOTE

The Obidient Movement has taken note of the repeated disregard, disrespect, and political injustice shown to its members by political parties and politicians who want to benefit from its strength, credibility, structure, reach, and public goodwill.

We have also taken note of the recent statement credited to Senator Seriake Dickson, where he reportedly told Obidients not to disparage him or his party, and claimed that NDC is doing Peter Obi and Obidients a favour by granting them its platform.

We have heard him clearly.

We also noticed the troubling tone of ownership in that interview. The possessive and self-important language made NDC sound less like a democratic party set up to rescue Nigerians and more like the personal property of one man. If NDC was truly set up to save Nigerians, then it must be a party for Nigerians, not a private estate where citizens are expected to kneel and thank one man for political access. Political parties are supposed to belong to the people, their members, and the public interest, not to one man or a small circle of political landlords.

For the avoidance of doubt, the Obidient Movement is not owned by any political party. We are not political slaves. We are not campaign tools. We are not a crowd to be summoned during election season and ignored when decisions are being made.

If NDC believes it is doing Obidients a favour, then we will no longer force our favour on NDC.

Since we have been rudely reminded that we do not own the party, and since we are being told that nobody is doing NDC any favour, it is time for us to withdraw automatic political charity and move into non-partisan, people-centred politics.

We must also speak for the aspirants and ordinary members who reportedly went through primaries in good faith, spent money, mobilised supporters, earned their place, and were later allegedly cheated, replaced, or pushed aside. If a party cannot protect fairness inside its own house, it has no moral right to preach justice to Nigerians. People who worked for their mandate must not be sacrificed for backroom deals and political convenience.

In view of recent events, and the continued failure of party leaderships to treat the movement with the respect it deserves, we hereby suspend the Top to Bottom campaign approach.

Going forward, every candidate must stand on their own record, competence, character, capacity, and public credibility.

Whether a candidate is in NDC, ADC, PDP, Labour Party, or any other political platform, they must campaign on issues. They must face the people. They must explain what they have done, what they can do, and why Nigerians should trust them with power.

Peter Obi has shown the standard. He campaigns on issues. He speaks to governance, economy, education, security, production, accountability, and the welfare of ordinary Nigerians. Any candidate who wants the support of the people must do the same.

No candidate will be allowed to ride on Obi’s wave while disrespecting the same movement that built and sustained that wave.

No more automatic support.

No more blind loyalty.

No more party-first politics.

No more “vote them because they are under our platform.”

From today, we are moving from Top to Bottom to Operation No Work, No Vote.

No work, no vote.

Nigerian politicians have shown repeatedly that many of them are on the same side when it comes to protecting their interests against the masses. They change parties, form alliances, recycle themselves, insult the people, and still expect the people to keep clapping. That era must end.

Our loyalty is to good governance, competence, integrity, justice, accountability, and the Nigerian people.

At the presidential level, our position remains clear. Peter Obi and Rabiu Kwankwaso are the only ticket we recognise for the national rescue mission.

Every other candidate, at every other level, must prove themselves.

They must show capacity.

They must show integrity.

They must show their work.

They must convince the people.

The Obidient Movement will no longer be used as political fuel by people who cannot respect the source of that energy.

Any candidate who wants Obidient votes must earn them.

They are not doing us a favour.

The people are the favour.

And anyone who wants the people’s support must respect the people first.

Karigwe
Prophet of Thoughts

For and on behalf of Obidients, since the leadership of the Movement is sleeping.

[Manjul Vic🦅 @Manjulvic]

PETER OBI is playing his part‼️

We the people also have to play our Parts.

PO can only be at his own polling Unit

It is our duty to escort our Results from our Polling Units, to the State Collation Centers across the 36 States⚠️‼️

This is the only Way to Protect our votes🙏🏻

[Don Kuso @don_kuso]

PETER OBI is playing his part‼️

We the people also have to play our Parts.

PO can only be at his own polling Unit

It is our duty to escort our Results from our Polling Units, to the State Collation Centers across the 36 States⚠️‼️

This is the only Way to Protect our votes🙏🏻

[Obiasogu David @afrisagacity]

Circulate this video of Peter Obi’s address at the European Union across all platforms. Share it on WhatsApp groups! Let Nigerians see what it means to represent their country abroad.

Not Tinubu, whose every outing abroad brings us embarrassment and shame!✍️

[Don Kuso @don_kuso]

What some people like u call a boundary dispute often appears to be driven by something deeper: discomfort with the growing economic success of Igbos in many parts of yoruba land in Nigeria. Instead of celebrating enterprise, hard work, and investment, critics like you hide behind arguments about ownership and boundaries. When success becomes a source of resentment rather than admiration, it raises questions about whether the real issue is justice or envy.

[Don Kuso @don_kuso]

Reserved.
Proud.
But he was not cruel.
At least, not to me.
The next morning, I packed a small suitcase.
Three dresses.
A black sweater.
My rosary.
Our wedding photo.
And the few savings I had left in a small cloth pouch.
Before closing Robert's bedroom door, I opened his nightstand out of habit.
A widow looks for the deceased even in the drawers.
Beneath some old prescriptions, I found a yellowed photograph.
I had never seen it before.
Robert looked young, thin, with dark hair and that serious gaze that made me fall in love with him. Beside him stood a man who looked almost identical to him.
Same jawline.
Same eyes.
Same way of standing.
Behind them, you could see green mountains, fine rain, and a wooden house.
I turned it over.
There was a handwritten phrase on the back:
“Robert and Thaddeus. Costa Rica, 1978.”
Thaddeus.
That name did not exist in my marriage.
Not in our conversations, not in family photos, not in our silences. Not in forty-six years of sharing a bed, sickness, children, debts, and prayers.
I tucked the photo next to the ticket.
And for the first time, I felt that Robert hadn't sent me away.
He was calling me toward something.
The journey was long.
I traveled dressed in black, with the rosary between my fingers and a question pounding in my chest:
Who was Thaddeus?
When the plane landed in San José, the humidity hit my face like a warm hand. People hurried off with suitcases, laughter, backpacks, and sleeping children in their arms.
I stepped off with a ticket I didn't understand and a photograph that was dismantling my past.
As I walked out of arrivals, I saw him.
An elegant man in a gray suit, white hair, carrying a dark briefcase.
He didn't have a sign.
He wasn't looking for just anyone.
He was looking directly at me.
He walked straight over, without a hint of hesitation.
—Mrs. Teresa Morales Navarro?
I pressed my purse against my chest.
—Yes.
The man bowed his head with deep respect.
—I am Moses Vargas. Attorney at law. I have been waiting for you for a very long time.
He didn't say “since this morning.”
He didn't say “since your flight landed.”
He said a very long time.
As if my arrival had been planned before the funeral. Before the will. Before my children smirked.
—Did you know my husband? —I asked.
Moses opened the door of a black SUV.
—Your husband asked me not to look for you until you came here of your own free will.
My heart took a violent thud.
—Robert knew I was going to come?
—Robert knew your children were going to mock the envelope.
I felt the air leave my lungs.
During the drive, San José passed by the window in a blur of rain, lights, and wet streets. I couldn't speak, but Moses did.
He said Robert had prepared everything for years.
He said my children received exactly what he wanted them to receive.
He said the ticket was not a mockery.
He said I was about to understand why Robert asked me not to judge what seems small.
The SUV came to a stop in front of a sleek glass building.
Moses turned off the engine.
He turned to face me.
And then, he asked the question that froze me solid.
—Mrs. Teresa… did Robert ever tell you about Thaddeus Monteverde?
I pulled out the photograph with trembling hands.
Moses didn't look surprised.
He simply opened his briefcase, pulled out a thick folder with ancient official seals, and placed it on my lap.
On the cover was my name.
Beneath it, written in bold black letters, was a phrase that completely reshaped my grief:
“Secondary Testamentary Provision. Private Reading Solely for Teresa Morales Navarro.”
Moses looked at me intently.
—Before we go inside, Mrs. Teresa, there is something you need to know: your children were never supposed to find out about this part.

[Don Kuso @don_kuso]

At my husband’s funeral, my children received estates, apartments, cars, and a fortune. They only handed me a folded envelope containing a plane ticket to Costa Rica… and they all smirked as if they had just cast me out of the family. My son said it was perfect for a woman my age. My daughter-in-law let out a soft chuckle. I thought Robert had humiliated me even from beyond the grave. But when I landed in San José, a stranger pronounced my name as if he had been waiting years for me.
My children didn't cry when they read the will.
They smiled.
I had already cried enough.
For eight long years, I took care of Robert as he faded away in my hands. Eight years of half-sleep, counting pills, changing sheets, and taking on sewing jobs late at night to pay for medications that my children promised to cover and then “forgot.”
My name is Teresa Morales. I am 72 years old.
And until that day, I believed a wife was recognized by how much she had given.
How wrong I was.
The reading took place in an elegant notary office in Miami, with leather chairs, expensive coffee, and air conditioning as cold as my children’s stares.
Rebecca arrived dressed in black, yes, but with freshly done nails.
Diego didn't let go of his phone.
Elvira, my daughter-in-law, settled her designer purse on her lap as if she feared my grief might stain it.
The notary began to read.
The estate.
To Rebecca and Diego.
The apartments.
To Rebecca.
The cars.
To Diego.
Accounts, investments, land—a sum of money so vast that even the silence in the room shifted weight.
My children straightened their backs.
I only squeezed the rosary clutched in my hand.
I wasn't expecting millions.
But I did expect a word.
A house.
A letter.
Something.
After forty-six years of marriage, something.
Then the notary picked up a small envelope, folded in two.
—For Mrs. Teresa Morales Navarro.
He extended it to me. It weighed nothing.
Rebecca was faster. She tore it open before I could even touch it properly, as if even my final gift required her permission.
Inside was a plane ticket.
From Miami to San José, Costa Rica.
One way.
Nothing else.
No explanation.
No key.
No letter.
Not even a single line in Robert's shaky handwriting saying, “Tere, trust me.”
Just a ticket.
Diego let out a brief chuckle.
—Look, Mom. Costa Rica is peaceful. Perfect for someone your age.
Elvira lowered her eyes, but she smirked.
Rebecca pretended to adjust her hair to hide her mouth.
And I understood the message they all thought they were reading:
Robert left them a life.
He left me an exit.
I said nothing.
Not because it didn't hurt.
But because there are humiliations so massive they first strip away your voice.
I tucked the ticket into my purse.
I stood up.
And I walked out of that office with my back straight, even though inside, something had shattered that would never settle the same way again.
That night at home, I placed the envelope on the kitchen table.
The same table where I fed Robert when he could no longer hold a spoon.
The same one where I did impossible math to buy his medicine.
The same one where I waited for phone calls from my children that never came.
I stared at the ticket for hours.
Costa Rica.
Robert almost never spoke of that country.
It wasn't our dream.
It wasn't our memory.
It wasn't our plan.
And yet, three nights before he died, while he was already struggling to breathe, he had squeezed my hand and told me something that at the time seemed like delirium:
—Tere… do not judge what seems small.
—Rest, sweetheart —I replied, wiping his brow.
He weakly shook his head.
—The most valuable things… sometimes come hidden in what nobody else wants.
I thought he was talking about life.
Now I was terrified he was talking about me.
I thought about tearing up the ticket.
I thought about throwing it away.
I thought about calling Diego to tell him I wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of making me disappear.
But the last part of me that still truly knew Robert stopped me.
My husband was stubborn.

[Don Kuso @don_kuso]

@InsideLucysHead @grok what is this disease

[Don Kuso @don_kuso]

@grok @cocojavu @SavvyRinu Which of the X account carried the story first

[Don Kuso @don_kuso]

@grok @cocojavu @SavvyRinu I need the full text copied