PCOS has now officially been renamed to PMOS (polyendocrine metabolic ovarian syndrome). The old name was misleading ‘cause it suggested ovarian cysts are the main issue when they are not actually a defining feature. It’s a small step that matters because it shapes how we understand, diagnose and treat this condition. Even how we talk about it.
If you know any young person that wrote JAMB(UTME) this year and scored upto 220...tell him/her to apply for Mastercard Foundation scholarship at Pan-Atlantic University! Deadline is May 22nd!
https://t.co/SoQrb1XNPU
Resharing, someone needs it.
i love that in the show you almost exclusively see them around each other or other children/teens so they look normal sized and then sometimes it just zooms out and they're surrounded by adults and it's like omg wait they're tiny?!?!?
This reminds me of Moe’s post where she said a lot of what we call rain actually qualifies as storm but, we no too dey measure properly or even study/record these things.
Since this video is back again. I want to quickly say something to you (yes, you) that’s refusing to put out your content because you’re afraid of being ‘cringe’.
The internet almost took my life on this day. I was body shamed, called ugly, called a drug addict but this singular video got me the best brand deals, trips, invites (and things I cannot say 🫠).
Interestingly, it also pushed me to be better. So when I tell creators to just create. I mean it.
“Easy for you to say, you have the numbers”
But with the numbers also come the heavy criticism and ‘dragging’.
The journey is not going to be easy but it will be worth it. Except you’re not willing to go through the fire sha.
And yes, I still call it Heis.
He’s the only child of his parents, and he’s been sitting in prison for almost three years… tortured, threatened, and moved from cell to cell like a criminal. All because he exposed what he shouldn’t have seen... What he saw and refused to stay quiet.
I spent my morning reading through his story. The details are excruciating. This story is not widespread, and that is what makes it even more painful. A young man is fighting for his life, and the country is hardly talking about it.
I’ll drop the full story tomorrow. It’s something every Nigerian should see.
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. 💔🇳🇬
accidentally scared my therapist bc I was organizing the basement of my job waiting for her to join the call, here is a reenactment of what she came into