professional accountant and writer, financially nd emotionally intelligent...lover of God and all that's good...lover of arts, family, coffee, life, and music.
@E__Umoh@dammiedammie35 People wey go still invite the woman. Na yesterday I know sey those people like aproko. See as Dem dey ask questions like people wey dey Waka from stream with bucket of water for their head
The first priority a woman must have before she becomes a wife & mother, is to make sure that the man is not a criminal.
The first priority a man must have before he decides to be a husband & father, is to make sure that the woman understands & values legit ways living.
End.
Here are other “pastors” and “ministers” in Pastor Tobi’s church SPAC Nation.
They just released a video with a track song that says “welcome to SPAC nation you mug” as an evangelistic outreach.
This is Gospel Kinanee.He left home at the age of 14. 18 years later, he was found in a prison in Port Harcourt with reportedly no clear record of any offence, conviction, or case file explaining why he was there.
He left home at 14 and was found in prison at the age of 32.
In 2007, Gospel went out to play with friends, returned home to eat, and later stepped out again.
He never came back.
His family searched everywhere.
Police stations.
Hospitals.
Prisons.
Nearby communities.
There was no trace of him.
His father reportedly sold valuable family properties, including a large farmland, to finance the search for his missing son.
Years passed, but no answers came.
Eventually, the grief became too much.
Both of his parents reportedly died believing their son was gone forever.
For 18 years, the family thought Gospel was dead.
Then in 2025, lawyers conducting a prison welfare exercise at the Port Harcourt Correctional Centre reportedly discovered Gospel Kinanee.
His family was contacted.
His brother rushed to see him.
He immediately recognised Gospel.
But Gospel could not recognise him.
The boy who disappeared at 14 had become a 32-year-old man struggling with severe mental instability.
According to reports, he could barely explain who he was, where he had been, or how he ended up in prison.
After legal intervention, he was finally released and reunited with his family.
Today, Gospel is free.
But the questions remain.
How did a 14-year-old boy end up in prison?
Why did he allegedly spend 18 years there without a clear explanation?
And who will be held accountable for the years of his life that can never be returned?
Some stories are so disturbing that they force a nation to look in the mirror.
This is one of them.
@yk_judd ICAN needs to bring back d topic that describes a professional & ensures it is a chapter in all ICAN foundation syllabuses.
Dt topic existed in d foundation syllabus of 2011.
Knowledge of that chapter will put an end to all these ignorant arguments.
Jacquelyn Irieguna
@slimvnsn So many relationships have broken irretrievably over pride and ego. And yes assumptions.
Even marriages.
Thank God in this case they made peace.
In many cases, they don’t have the opportunity to make peace or should I say they don’t create the opportunity to make peace.
The real tragedy is not the 26 years lost. It is that both men were waiting. Each thought the other had moved on. Each was too proud to check. The silence was not hate. It was two broken hearts assuming the other was fine. That is the lesson. Assume nothing. Reach out. Even if it has been decades. Even if you are scared. Even if they might not reply
@slimvnsn@official_Sheye It would have been more painful if one died before they had a chance at clarity.....
Oga, u just brought out the tears I thought I overcame....
This is a painful reminder that most “broken relationships” aren’t broken by evil, just silence, pride, and assumption.
Two men lost decades over a misunderstanding neither of them revisited.
Lesson: what you refuse to clarify, time will harden into regret. Call people while it’s still repairable because silence always charges interest. You never can tell what will happen next
My father's best friend was a man called Uncle Bayo who disappeared from our lives without explanation. I was 12 the last time I saw him. He came to our flat in Gbagada, argued with my father in the bedroom for an hour, and walked out without saying goodbye to me. My father never spoke his name again. Neither did my mother. Uncle Bayo became a silence with a shape.
Twenty-six years passed. I was in Philadelphia for a conference. A networking dinner at a hotel downtown. Across the room, a man about my father's age caught my eye and held it too long. He approached me during dessert and said my surname like it was a question he already knew the answer to.
We sat in the hotel lobby until 2am. He told me the story my father never did. They had started a construction company together in the early 90s. It had failed because of a contract dispute with a senator. The senator had paid only half the money and refused the rest. The debt had crushed them. Uncle Bayo had blamed my father for trusting the senator. My father had blamed Uncle Bayo for not reading the fine print. The friendship had shattered. Two men who had been closer than brothers had become strangers over something neither of them could control.
Uncle Bayo had moved to America after the falling out. He had built a new life, a new business, a small contracting firm in West Philly. He had married a Ghanaian woman and had two daughters. He had never returned to Nigeria. He had never called my father. He had assumed the silence was mutual.
I asked why he approached me now. He said he recognised my face because I looked like my father at 30. He said he had been waiting for decades to see that face again, to explain something that was never about betrayal. He said the argument had been about shame, not money. Both men had felt they failed each other. Neither had known how to say it.
I called my father from the hotel room. It was 3am in Lagos. He answered on the second ring, voice thick with sleep and alarm. I told him who I was sitting with. The line went quiet. Then my father did something I had never heard him do. He cried. Not softly. The kind of crying that comes from a place words cannot reach.
Uncle Bayo flew to Lagos 3 months later. They met at the same flat in Gbagada. They sat in the same living room where the argument had happened. They didn't re-litigate the past. They just sat together, two old men with white hair and matching hypertension medication, and let the silence heal.
My father died last year. Uncle Bayo spoke at the funeral. He said the greatest thief in life is not money or failure. It is the belief that there is always more time.
Call them. The debt is not theirs. It is yours.