Maya

Big Baby🍼, Writer✍️.

[Omo Kogi (Yagba) 🌍 @harrysone9]

If this pops up on your TL, repost it; it costs you zero naira..

[Koinonia Global @koinoniaeni]

"Arise, shine; for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee." Isaiah 60:1 (KJV)
_
Beloved, we gladly welcome you to the Sound of Revival Conference, UK, an atmosphere of revival, transformation, and encounters with Jesus Christ.

As we fellowship tonight, may your heart be stirred afresh, every burden lifted, and your life aligned with God’s divine purpose. Stay expectant and connected. The Lord is set to visit you mightily.

#KoinoniaUK
#KoinoniaGlobal
#TheSoundOfRevival2026

[Peter Teal @RealPeterTeal]

@bstract_thot Yeah I mean if I was 37 still living with mom and dad, I think dad would be within his rights to sacrifice me

[smv @slimvnsn]

My father never came to a single thing I invited him to.

Not my primary school graduation. Not my secondary school prize giving where I collected 3 awards and kept looking at the gate. Not my university matriculation. Not the ceremony when I got called to bar in 2012. I'd send him the date weeks in advance and he'd say I'll try and that was always the full sentence. I'll try. No follow up. No explanation after.

My mother would sit in his place and clap loud enough for 2 people.

I stopped inviting him after the bar call. Not from anger. Some people love you completely and still cannot show up and after a while you stop making them feel guilty about it.

He was not a bad man. I want to be clear about that.

He was a mechanic in Mushin for 35 years. Worked 6 days a week. Sent every one of us to school. Never raised his hand. Never left. The lights stayed on and the rent was paid and there was always food and he did all of it quietly without asking to be celebrated.

He just could not sit in a plastic chair and watch something.

I accepted that and moved on.

Last year I bought my first property. A flat in Ojodu. Took 9 years of saving and 2 years of paperwork and a lawyer who nearly finished me. When the keys finally came I sat in the empty flat on the floor for an hour just breathing.

I called my mother first. She screamed. My sister cried.

I didn't call my father.

3 days later he called me.

Said he heard about the flat from my mother. Said he wanted to come and see it.

I didn't know what to do with that so I just said okay. Gave him the address. Figured he'd say I'll try and we'd never speak of it again.

He showed up on Saturday at 9am.

Stood at the door in his good agbada. The one he only wears for serious things. Holding a small nylon bag.

I let him in and he walked through every room without speaking. Not quickly. Slowly. Like he was counting something. He checked the pipes under the kitchen sink. Knocked on the walls. Opened and closed the windows twice each. Looked at the ceiling in every room the way only a man who has fixed things his whole life looks at ceilings.

Then he came and stood in the sitting room and looked at me.

Said the pipework is good. Said the windows seal properly. Said whoever built this knew what they were doing.

I nodded.

Long silence.

Then he opened the nylon bag.

Inside was a small framed photo. Me at maybe 7 years old sitting on the bonnet of an old car in his workshop. Grinning. Both legs swinging. He's standing beside me with his hand on my shoulder looking at something outside the frame. I remember that day. I had gone to the workshop after school and he let me sit there while he worked and gave me a Fanta and put a Michael Jackson cassette on the small radio.

I didn't know anyone had taken a photo.

He said he kept it on his workshop table for 22 years. Said he wanted me to have something for the new place.

I held that frame and stood very still.

He said he knew he missed things. Said he was not good at the sitting and watching. That crowds made something in him go wrong in a way he never knew how to explain.

Then he said the flat was good and he was proud and he asked if there was anything in the kitchen because he hadn't eaten.

I laughed.

Made him eggs and bread while he sat at my kitchen table in his good agbada like he owned the place.

We ate and he told me about a car he was working on. I told him about a case that was giving me trouble. Normal conversation. The kind we should have been having for years.

He left at 1pm. At the door he gripped my shoulder the same way he did in that photo.

Didn't say anything.

Didn't need to.

The photo is on my sitting room wall now. First thing I hung in the whole flat.

Some fathers cannot sit in the plastic chair.

But mine drove to Ojodu in his good agbada on a Saturday morning with a 22 year old photograph in a nylon bag.

That was his standing ovation.

I just didn't know to look for it in that shape.

[David Fischer @DavidFischer]

I lose followers every time I post about Jesus.

So I will post it again.

Jesus is Lord and King!

[The Biblical Man @Biblicalman]

Jesus rose from the dead and the first person He went to was His brother who thought He was crazy.

Not Peter. Not John. Not the twelve.

James.

His kid brother. The one who grew up sharing a room with God and didn’t know it.

Think about James for a second. His older brother is Jesus. Not “Jesus the Christ.” Not “Jesus the Savior.” Jesus the guy who worked in the carpenter shop and came home smelling like sawdust and sweat. Jesus who snored. Jesus who ate too fast. Jesus who their mother treated different and James never understood why.

Because Mary kept her mouth shut.

Luke 2:19. She kept all these things and pondered them in her heart. Angels showed up at His birth. Shepherds fell on their faces. Wise men brought gold. And Mary told nobody. She just watched her firstborn grow up in a ghetto in Nazareth and kept the secret in her chest like a coal she couldn’t put down.

James didn’t know his brother was God.

He knew his brother was weird.

He knew his mother looked at Jesus different. He knew Joseph moved the whole family to Egypt when they were little and never fully explained why. He knew that one time his parents lost Jesus at the temple and found Him three days later arguing with rabbis like He owned the place. Twelve years old. Already gone.

Then Jesus grew up. Worked the shop. Paid the bills.

Because Joseph died — the Bible doesn’t say when but Joseph disappears from the story — and in Jewish custom the eldest son takes over. So Jesus wasn’t posing for paintings in that carpenter shop. He was feeding His family. Putting bread on the table for His mom and His brothers and sisters in a town so poor Nathanael said “can anything good come out of Nazareth?”

Then one day He left.

Walked away from the shop. Walked away from the family. Left James holding the hammer and the bills and the responsibility for a widowed mother.
James was pissed.

Mark 3:21. His own family went to collect Him because they said He was out of His mind. That’s James. That’s the brothers. Showing up to bring the crazy one home before He embarrasses the family worse.

John 7:5. His brethren did not believe in Him.
His own blood. Ate dinner with Him for thirty years. Didn’t believe.

Then Wednesday happened.

The brother James thought was insane got arrested at night by temple guards. Got beaten until His face swelled shut. Got whipped until His back looked like raw meat. Got nailed to wood and hung up on a garbage hill outside the city.

And James had to stand somewhere — maybe in the crowd, maybe at home, maybe hearing it secondhand — and process the fact that the brother he called crazy just died like a criminal.

Three days and nights of silence.

Three days of James sitting with the guilt of every eye roll. Every argument. Every time he told people “I don’t know what’s wrong with Him.” Every time he showed up to drag Jesus home because He was embarrassing the family name.

Then Sunday morning.

Jesus rose. Conquered death. Walked out of the tomb.
And He went to James.

1 Corinthians 15:7. He appeared to James.

Not in a crowd. Not at a distance. He went to His brother. The one who didn’t believe. The one who thought He was crazy. The one who was pissed that He left the family behind.

He showed up and let James see the holes in His hands.
Matthew 28:10. Go tell my brethren. Not my servants. Not my followers. My brethren.

John 20:17. My Father and your Father. My God and your God.

He rose to the highest position in the universe and His vocabulary didn’t change.

Most men get a promotion and stop returning phone calls. Jesus conquered death and called the brother who doubted Him family.

James went from “He’s out of His mind” to leading the church in Jerusalem.

James went from trying to drag Jesus home to writing a book of the Bible.

James went from skeptic to martyr. They threw him off the temple wall and when he survived the fall they beat him to death with a club. He died for the brother he once thought was insane.

That’s what happened when Jesus showed up after the resurrection and said brother.

One word changed everything.

He’s not calling you servant today.
He’s not calling you subject.
He’s calling you what He called James.
Brother.
The same James who didn’t believe. Who rolled his eyes. Who showed up to take Him home. Who sat in the dark for three days choking on regret.

He went to THAT guy first.

If He went to James, He’ll come to you.

[D. @Lush_Beauty1]

My favorite part of resurrection is when they went back and didn’t find Jesus where they left him!! Don’t let NOBODY find you where they left you. Elevate! He got up! You can too! Nothing is too hard for my God!

[Adam | Faithful Messenger @Adam_FaithfulM]

In 1986, the American Medical Association published an article titled "The Physical Death of Jesus Christ". It details the entire process of Jesus' trial to His death on the cross.

In Luke 22, before Jesus is arrested, it is written that He was in great distress & sweating blood. Although rare, it is recognized as Hematidrosis, a condition caused by high levels of stress.

At the time, the crucifixion was considered the worst death for the worst of criminals. But this is not all Jesus faced. He endured whipping so severe that it tore the flesh from His body. He was beaten so horribly that His face was torn & His beard ripped.

A crown of thorns, 2-3 inches long cut deeply into His scalp. The leather whip used to flog Him had tiny iron balls & sharp bones. The balls caused internal injuries while the sharp bones ripped open His flesh. His skeletal muscles, veins, & bowels are exposed, causing major blood loss. Most men do not survive this kind of torture. After Jesus was severely flogged, He was forced to carry His cross while people mocked & spat on Him.

Crucifixion was a process meant to instill excruciating pain, creating a slow & agonizing death. Nails as long as 8 inches were driven into Jesus' wrists & feet. The Roman soldiers knew the tendons in the wrists would tear & break, forcing Jesus to use His back muscles to support Himself to breathe. Imagine the struggle, the pain, the courage...Jesus endured this reality for 3 hours!

The Gospel of John writes that after Jesus' death, a Roman soldier pierced His side with a spear & blood & water came out. Scientists explain that from hypovolemic shock, the rapid heart rate causes fluid to gather in the sack around the lungs & heart. The accumulation of fluid in the membrane around the heart is called a Pericardial effusion & the lungs is called a pleural effusion.

To the world, Christianity is as foolish as it can get. They believe it's for the weak. But when you are confronted by the reality of the cross, it's clearly not a pretty sight. It is brutal & horrific.

This is the weight Jesus carried. The weight of the sins of the world, all so that we can live. God's wrath is fully satisfied in Jesus. This is what it took. Repent & believe! Jesus is “God among us” in the flesh. Jesus is our Savior. Jesus loves you so much that He went through this spiritual and physical punishment for your sins and mine.

Jesus is the LORD, Almighty God, Everlasting Father.

Thank You, Jesus.

[smv @slimvnsn]

For 3 years I took the same danfo from Oshodi to CMS every morning. 6:20am. Standing by the overhead bridge where the conductor always shouted "one more, one more" even when the bus was already full.

His name was Baba Lawal.

He had a system. Before every trip he tapped the roof twice with his palm. Not for the driver. The driver never waited for it. It was something he did for himself. I never asked why.

The window seat behind the driver was always mine. Even when I came late and the bus was halfway loaded, he'd hold it. Just point when he saw me pushing through the crowd. No words. Just a point.

2018 they expanded the BRT corridor. The danfo route got squeezed out. One week Baba Lawal was there. Next week a blue BRT bus stood in his place. No announcement. No last trip. Just gone the way those things go in Lagos.

I started taking the BRT. Faster. Cleaner. The seats were assigned. I always ended up somewhere in the middle.

Six years passed.

Last March my car broke down near Aguda in Surulere. My mechanic was unreachable so I pushed it into the nearest compound with a compressor running. Small place. Zinc roof. Radio going. A boy maybe 9 years old was sitting on a bench drawing something on the back of a cornflakes box.

I looked at what he was drawing while I waited.

It was a danfo. Yellow with the black stripe. Passengers in rows. The window seat behind the driver was empty.

I asked him why that seat had no one in it.

He said his grandfather told him that seat belonged to someone.

I looked up.

Baba Lawal was sitting in the corner of the workshop watching me. Older. Thinner. His hair fully white. But he was already looking at me the way you look at someone you recognized before they recognized you.

Then he told me his wife used to take that route every morning before she died. Window seat behind the driver because she liked to watch the road. He gave it to people who came early and stood quiet. Said they were the ones actually going somewhere.

I had been sitting in a dead woman's seat for 3 years and never knew it. He asked about my car. I told him. He called his son over.

Before I left, he tapped the roof of my car twice with his palm.

I didn't ask why this time either.

[smv @slimvnsn]

There was a woman who sold rice and stew outside my office building on Broad Street. Every day for 4 years. Big pot. Blue plastic chairs. She knew everyone's order before they reached her table.

Her name was Mama Chidi.

Mine was the last plate before she packed up. 1:45pm. Every day without fail she'd see me coming and start dishing before I even sat down. Extra meat. Never charged me for it. I asked her once why.

She said I looked like someone who skipped breakfast.

She was right every time.

2019 she stopped showing up. No warning. Just gone. I asked around. Nobody knew anything. I switched to a restaurant down the road. More expensive. Smaller portions. Spent 4 years just quietly missing a plate of rice I never properly appreciated.

Last month my colleague forwarded a Twitter post into our work group.

A young guy. Maybe 25. Saying his mother used to sell food on Broad Street before she had a stroke in 2019 that took her left side. That she was recovering but kept asking about her regulars. That she cried one day saying she never got to say goodbye to any of them.

I DM'd him immediately.

He called me 10 minutes later.

She was sitting right next to him.

I heard her voice through the phone. Slower than I remembered. But she laughed when he told her who it was.

She said she always saved my plate last because quiet people need someone looking out for them.

I visited her in Mushin on Saturday. She can't stand long anymore. But she sat up straight in that chair and watched me eat everything she'd made.

Didn't let me leave without packing food for the road.

Some people just decide to take care of you. Before you even know you need it.

[Ifure Usen @real_Ifyarts]

My new pencil art on paper.

Shadows of the evening II

[Moyhin 🤍 @Moyhin_]

Everyone, pause for a moment and think about the fundamental reason why everyone has been dragging Simi for the past few days:

SHE SAID “STOP RAPING WOMEN”, then another person said “what about false accusers”, nd she said “shut the fuck up, I’m talking bout rape rn, don’t ask me to talk bout false accusers”

Ladies and gentlemen- this is the reason why she has been seriously cyber bullied for days.

I need you to pause for a moment and reflect on how inherently unintelligent one must be to find a great offense in what she said and think it is justification to pass solid boundaries just to bring her down.

You have to realize that you’re simply trying to bring her down all because she said “stop raping women”

And wtf do u mean she should apologize??? APOLOGIZE FOR WHAT.

Oh wait “guys I’m sorry for saying that women shouldn’t be raped anymore” or “guys I’m sorry for not speaking about false accusations because I believe that it is a digression from the main topic I choose to focus on” or “guys I’m so sorry for saying men should be held accountable for their actions and shouldn’t give their bad friends space to thrive” or “guys I’m sorry for saying that I’m scared of the society we live in and I have to carry a pepper spray while walking with my daughter”

What kind of stinking dirty smelling irritating apology do you want?

But you know what? If women weren’t being raped in the first place, we won’t be having this conversation and this drags and whatnot.

So to reiterate- STOP RAPING WOMEN.

[Simi @SympLySimi]

I haven't been on twitter today - but someone brought a few of my old tweets to my attention and I can't not address it.

14 years ago, I was 23, so I was definitely not a child. I'm not here to make excuses because I don't have anything to make excuses for. What I can't let anyone do is twist my story to fit false narratives.

In 2012, I lived and helped out at my mom's daycare while I was hustling my music. I tweeted everything that happened in my life, as we all did at the time. Kids can be mischievous. If a child did something I found funny, I tweeted about it. Kids are cute and lovable. I want to hug, kiss and cuddle them. I tweet about it. Nothing I tweeted was from perversion.

I was not famous, so maybe if I was, I would have understood that anything is open to whatever interpretation including being used falsely by a faceless mob. I've never been depraved in my life. You can retweet all the tweets in the world about me loudly crushing on people I admire/d. Or being a cheeky young woman. I wasn't trying to hide it, because I don't have anything to hide.

My team has been deleting some of my tweets because of how sensitive it is for my family. To be honest, I did not want to. I have always spoken against rape and sexual assault even before you knew I existed. It's not a costume I'm wearing, it's who I am. I've never claimed to be perfect. I've never claimed to know everything. I said stop raping women. I stand by it.

[The Charity Guy @roxie_ug]

when this comes to your timeline and you can’t donate, kindly just repost please 🙏

[PVC 【悲報】甲子 @geoffreydpr]

What I said is what I said. Wizkid does not take them seriously since Essence. Do you think the Grammy is really for Afrobeats (African sound)? The answer is no.
People who do not understand African culture — our words, tribes, meanings — put sounds together and judge us. That is what makes us different. If the Grammys truly want to take African music seriously, the nomination and celebration of African music should be normal, judged by African music legends, brought together by Africans.
Like I said yesterday, Afrobeats has already superseded their system. The music has grown globally on its own. Using the Grammys to control Afrobeats is crazy. Afrobeats kings do not need Grammys for validation.
What they need is for their style of music to be respected and allowed to grow freely. Africans should stop making a mockery of their sound by chasing Grammy submissions. You are already validated. Gemi that and hot body which resonate the American market , is gemi dat
For those who are kind and forward-thinking, why not come together and create something bigger? Remember, what Africa can do is greater than the Grammys.
Giving a legend a Grammy backstage is what I dislike the most.
Let’s do better.

[CheeseCake Named Desire. @_Nlechani]

Premium content 😂

[Beth♥️ @queenbeth____]

Please help repost this guys, this girl is too young for something like this to happen to her in Nigeria. She might not be related to you, but for the sake of God, please repost.

[BayuzTv @BayuzTv]

Beyond my comprehension God😭 Best video ever #bayuztv

[Aurum Amare @aurumamare]

my design vs. real life; how’d I do? 🥺

[T🐊 @TxyyxbH]

Underrated career advice: don’t trust any of your coworkers