@HandofArsenal@HandofArsenal, I’m just a fan from Nigeria. Not famous, not in London, and maybe this never reaches you.
But if it does by any chance, please pass this to Gyökeres somehow, for the sake of Arsenal family 🥹
We want this recreated with Arsenal fans.
I trust and love you! ❤️🏆
@nonewthing You're wrong this time Sir.
This isn't about Man City.
This is about us.
Liverpool did it last year, we could have been home and dry...we had one job to do and flunked it badly.. that's the sad reality
@OnyeUwaoma88 The funny thing about this talk is the person you're calling poor might hardly have the resources to pool 20m block at a time but you see that house, 100k here, 200k there and voila they have a place of their own that has the potential to appreciate. Situations differ
@winexviv I still think going into the field for a period of 18-24 months would be highly beneficial to the trainees. Pick existing businesses in the line of work they've trained for and attach them there.
Yesterday, I found myself sitting quietly outside a gate, just taking in the stillness of the afternoon, when a man approached me. He looked to be in his early thirties.
“Good afternoon, ma,” he said.
I responded, assuming he needed directions or had a simple question. But instead, he hesitated, then said he needed help.
“What kind of help?” I asked.
He paused. Fumbled. His words refused to come out. At some point, I felt a flicker of irritation rise in me. But I checked myself and softened my voice.
“Go on,” I said gently. “I’m listening.”
He finally spoke. He said he had just received a call that his brother was sick and admitted in a hospital. He wanted to at least buy some drugs for him, but he had no money.
I asked where the hospital was.
“Area 1,” he replied.
We were in Gudu. If you know Abuja, you would get what’s going on.
“Do you live around here?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
That was when the cracks began to show.
“So why are you here?” I asked. “You don’t live here, your brother isn’t here, yet you’re here asking for money?”
He paused again. This time, longer. He knew. I knew. The story had fallen apart.
Then he adjusted it. Said he had come to see someone around the area, hoping to raise some money.
“How much do you need for the drugs?” I asked.
Another pause.
“Seven thousand,” he finally said, almost like he had just picked the number from the air.
I looked at him and said, “I don’t have ₦7,000 to give you. And your story… you know it’s not straight.”
Normally, that would have been the end of it. I would have sent him away, maybe even with a stern warning. But something about the moment held me back.
Maybe it was the way Nigeria is right now.
Maybe it was the quiet desperation in his eyes.
Maybe it was the simple truth that things are hard, especially for young men trying to survive.
I knew there was no brother in any hospital.
But I also knew he needed something. Maybe food. Maybe just a way to get through the day.
So I gave him ₦1,000 and told him, “Next time, have your story straight.”
He left, and I sat there for a while, thinking.
How many young people are out there, stretched thin by this economy, forced into awkward, undignified moments just to get by?
And I couldn’t help but wonder if he had just been honest, if he had simply said, “I’m hungry” or “I need help,” would he have received more?
Because beneath the clumsy lie was something real.
It is not easy for a grown man to stand before a stranger and ask for help.
There is a kind of quiet breaking that happens before that moment.
And that… more than anything… stayed with me.
I wish fucking silly levels of wealth on you. I wish you FU kinds of money. Throwing wealth on your community kinds of money. Feeding the hungry kinds of money. You're built to give. You deserve riches. You deserve abundance pouring out everywhere.