OMO!
On my way to work this morning, As I boarded the bus going to lawanson from Cele, As driver start car, the light inside his car blinked like it was a lightning that was about to strike, na so everybody wan japa from bus 😂, before we realized the light came from his car
🚨🔴 Understand Carlos Baleba to Man United deal fee will be £65m plus £5m add-ons.
Cameroon midfielder has authorization to travel from Brighton as Manchester United have booked a medical over the weekend.
Here we go, confirmed. 🇨🇲
🚨 Michael Carrick: “We’re looking to strengthen the squad”.
“We’re certainly working towards that, we’re trying to make the most of the opportunities to finish the window stronger than we went into it and we’re in a good way to doing that so far”.
I watched a guy on the bus today. 6:45 AM in the morning while jogging, His eyes looked heavy, like he was carrying the weight of an entire lineage on his shoulders. But immediately he sat down, he brought out his phone and started scrolling TikTok.
As a Biomedical Engineer, I wanted to snatch that phone from his hand.
See, let me tell you the bitter truth nobody wants to hear.
Most of you are not lazy or "unlucky." You are chemically sabotaging your own destiny before you even brush your teeth.
The first 60 minutes of your day is a war zone. Your brain is begging for direction. It runs on dopamine, that’s the fuel for your motivation. But what do you do?
You wake up. Your eyes haven't even adjusted to the darkness of your room, and gbam, you pick up your phone.
You check WhatsApp to see who ignored you. You check X to see who is fighting. You check Instagram to see your mates buying cars you can't afford yet.
You think you are just "waking up," but scientifically? You are flooding your brain with cheap, unearned dopamine. You are frying your reward system. By 8 AM, your brain is already tired. It has consumed "content" but produced nothing.
And let me speak to the men for a second.
I write about men a lot because I see what you go through. The pressure is much. You wake up and the first thought is Rent, School fees, the woman you want to impress.
It is terrifying.
So, you grab your phone to escape. The phone is your pacifier. It numbs the panic of the morning. But that comfort is a lie.
When you start your day with cheap dopamine, actual work feels like torture. You have programmed your neurochemistry to be a consumer, not a king.
You are training your brain to be weak in a world that eats weak men for breakfast.
Here is the hard truth (and you can drag me if you like):
Your morning mood doesn’t determine how your day goes. It determines your capacity to suffer for your success.
If you can’t survive the first hour of the day without a screen, how do you want to survive the economy?
Protect your first hour.
Don't touch that phone.
Stare at the ceiling. Pray. Do pushups. Go for a morning jug or walk.
Let your brain starve for a bit so it learns to hunt for the hard things.
Stop feeding your destiny to the algorithm.
It happened during my internship at the Teaching Hospital, inside the NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit).
We had a premature baby in Incubator 3. Baby Farouq. He was a fighter. He was hooked up to a mechanical ventilator because his tiny lungs couldn't work on their own yet.
His father, Mr. Ahmed, was always there. He was a tall, strong man, but in that ward, he looked small. Every evening, he would stand by the window, watching his son, whispering prayers.
That night, I was doing my rounds, calibrating the oxygen sensors on the ventilators to make sure the flow was perfect. Mr. Ahmed was standing right beside me, asking, "Engineer, the machine is sounding smooth today, abi?"
I smiled and said, "Yes sir, Farouq is doing well."
Then, it happened.
NEPA took the light.
The hum of the ventilators died instantly. The room went pitch black.
Usually, the big industrial inverter kicks in within 5 seconds. We waited. One second. Five seconds. Ten seconds.
Silence.
The batteries were old and hadn't been replaced despite three memos written by the HOD.
Chaos broke out.
The Doctor, Dr. Yusuf, screamed, "Ambu-bag! Everyone, manual ventilation!"
I didn't wait. I switched on my phone torch and dove behind the ventilator. I thought maybe it was a fuse. Maybe I could bypass the inverter and connect it to a portable UPS we kept for emergencies.
Mr. Ahmed grabbed my shoulder. His grip was shaking.
"Engineer! Fix it! Why did the machine stop? Fix it!"
I was sweating. I ripped the back panel open. I was checking the terminals with my screwdriver in the dark. I was praying to a God I hadn't spoken to in years. Please, let there be a residual charge. Please.
But the battery indicator was flat. 0%.
Dr. Yusuf was manually pumping air into the baby’s lungs with the hand-pump, but it wasn't enough. The baby needed the specific pressure only the machine could give.
Mr. Ahmed saw his son turning blue. The strong man broke. He fell to his knees, holding the leg of the incubator.
"NEPA, bring light! Oh God, bring light! My son is going!"
���For 15 minutes, we fought in that darkness.
I was trying to swap the power cord to a different socket, hoping maybe one line had power. My hands were trembling. I felt useless. All my engineering knowledge, all my circuit theory, useless because of diesel and batteries.
Then, Dr. Yusuf stopped pumping. He lowered his head.
Mr. Ahmed screamed. "Doctor, why did you stop? Pump him! Engineer, put on the machine now!"
I stood up, holding my screwdriver, tears running down my face. I couldn't look at him.
"Flash."
The bulbs flickered. The AC hummed. NEPA brought the light back.
The ventilator screen lit up. Beep. Beep. Beep.
But it was pumping air into a corpse.
Mr. Ahmed didn't cry immediately. He just stared at the machine that came back to life two minutes too late. Then he looked at me.
"You fixed it?" he asked, his voice broken.
I couldn't tell him I didn't fix anything. I couldn't tell him that his son died because someone in the administrative block didn't sign a check for batteries.
That night, listening to a grown man wail for his son in the corridor, Nigeria broke me. It taught me that in this country, your technical skill means nothing if the system wants to kill you. 💔🇳🇬
Sometimes, you read a story that makes the blood in your veins run cold.
Blessing's baby, Victory, was born premature and diagnosed with hydrocephalus (fluid in the brain), and she needs an urgent ₦1,000,000 surgery to survive.
Instead of support, Blessing’s husband called her a witch for having a sick child and threw her and their baby out onto the street.
Now, Blessing is alone, fighting for her daughter's life with nothing.
Her husband turned his back, but we will not.
AprokoNation, let's be the family she needs right now. Let's save Victory.
Account Name: Obukohwo Blessing
Account Number: 3581115542
Bank: EcoBank
If you cannot donate, please, I am begging you, your retweet is a powerful gift. It might be the one that brings the help this mother and child desperately need. God bless you.
TRAGIC DEATH : SOMTOCHUKWU CHRISTELLE MADUAGWU
December 26, 1995 - September 29, 2025
It is with heavy hearts that the management and staff of the ARISE News Channel announce the passing of our beloved colleague, News Anchor, Reporter and Producer, Somtochukwu Christelle Maduagwu. Sommie tragically passed away in the early hours of Monday, September 29, 2025 following an armed robbery incident in her residence in Katampe area of Abuja that is being investigated by the Nigeria Police.
Sommie, 29, was not only a cherished member of the ARISE News family but also a vibrant voice that engaged and connected with our viewers.
Beyond the airwaves, Sommie was a lawyer who was a professional and supportive colleague and a friend to many.
We extend our deepest condolences to Sommie’s parents, siblings, extended family, friends, and loved ones at this difficult time. Sommie’s voice is now silent but her spirit, passion and legacy will endure as part of our collective memory. We remain in shock and call for a speedy investigation, apprehension and prosecution of the culprits.
Hadiza Usman-Ajayi
For Management