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Culled from Dr. Subramanian Swamy’s facebook wall.

A snippet of an article about Dubai from the Independent:

There are three different Dubais, all swirling around each other. There are the expats, there are the Emiratis, headed by Sheikh Mohammed; and then there is the foreign underclass who built the city, and are trapped here. They are hidden in plain view. You see them everywhere, in dirt-caked blue uniforms, being shouted at by their superiors, like a chain gang – but you are trained not to look. It is like a mantra: the Sheikh built the city. The Sheikh built the city. Workers? What workers?
Every evening, the hundreds of thousands of young men who build Dubai are bussed from their sites to a vast concrete wasteland an hour out of town, where they are quarantined away. Until a few years ago they were shuttled back and forth on cattle trucks, but the expats complained this was unsightly, so now they are shunted on small metal buses that function like greenhouses in the desert heat. They sweat like sponges being slowly wrung out.
Sonapur is a rubble-strewn patchwork of miles and miles of identical concrete buildings. Some 300,000 men live piled up here, in a place whose name in Hindi means “City of Gold”. In the first camp I stop at – riven with the smell of sewage and sweat – the men huddle around, eager to tell someone, anyone, what is happening to them.
Sahinal Monir, a slim 24-year-old from the deltas of Bangladesh. “To get you here, they tell you Dubai is heaven. Then you get here and realise it is hell,” he says. Four years ago, an employment agent arrived in Sahinal’s village in Southern Bangladesh. He told the men of the village that there was a place where they could earn 40,000 takka a month (£400) just for working nine-to-five on construction projects. It was a place where they would be given great accommodation, great food, and treated well. All they had to do was pay an up-front fee of 220,000 takka (£2,300) for the work visa – a fee they’d pay off in the first six months, easy. So Sahinal sold his family land, and took out a loan from the local lender, to head to this paradise.
As soon as he arrived at Dubai airport, his passport was taken from him by his construction company. He has not seen it since. He was told brusquely that from now on he would be working 14-hour days in the desert heat – where western tourists are advised not to stay outside for even five minutes in summer, when it hits 55 degrees – for 500 dirhams a month (£90), less than a quarter of the wage he was promised. If you don’t like it, the company told him, go home. “But how can I go home? You have my passport, and I have no money for the ticket,” he said. “Well, then you’d better get to work,” they replied.
Sahinal was in a panic. His family back home – his son, daughter, wife and parents – were waiting for money, excited that their boy had finally made it. But he was going to have to work for more than two years just to pay for the cost of getting here – and all to earn less than he did in Bangladesh.
He shows me his room. It is a tiny, poky, concrete cell with triple-decker bunk-beds, where he lives with 11 other men. All his belongings are piled onto his bunk: three shirts, a spare pair of trousers, and a cellphone. The room stinks, because the lavatories in the corner of the camp – holes in the ground – are backed up with excrement and clouds of black flies. There is no air conditioning or fans, so the heat is “unbearable. You cannot sleep. All you do is sweat and scratch all night.” At the height of summer, people sleep on the floor, on the roof, anywhere where they can pray for a moment of breeze.
The water delivered to the camp in huge white containers isn’t properly desalinated: it tastes of salt. “It makes us sick, but we have nothing else to drink,” he says.
The work is “the worst in the world,” he says. “You have to carry 50kg bricks and blocks of cement in the worst heat imaginable … This heat – it is like nothing else. You sweat so much you can’t pee, not for days or weeks. It’s like all the liquid comes out through your skin and you stink. You become dizzy and sick but you aren’t allowed to stop, except for an hour in the afternoon. You know if you drop anything or slip, you could die. If you take time off sick, your wages are docked, and you are trapped here even longer.”
He is currently working on the 67th floor of a shiny new tower, where he builds upwards, into the sky, into the heat. He doesn’t know its name. In his four years here, he has never seen the Dubai of tourist-fame, except as he constructs it floor-by-floor.
Is he angry? He is quiet for a long time. “Here, nobody shows their anger. You can’t. You get put in jail for a long time, then deported.” Last year, some workers went on strike after they were not given their wages for four months. The Dubai police surrounded their camps with razor-wire and water-cannons and blasted them out and back to work.
The “ringleaders” were imprisoned. I try a different question: does Sohinal regret coming? All the men look down, awkwardly. “How can we think about that? We are trapped. If we start to think about regrets…” He lets the sentence trail off. Eventually, another worker breaks the silence by adding: “I miss my country, my family and my land. We can grow food in Bangladesh. Here, nothing grows. Just oil and buildings.”
Since the recession hit, they say, the electricity has been cut off in dozens of the camps, and the men have not been paid for months. Their companies have disappeared with their passports and their pay. “We have been robbed of everything. Even if somehow we get back to Bangladesh, the loan sharks will demand we repay our loans immediately, and when we can’t, we’ll be sent to prison.”
This is all supposed to be illegal. Employers are meant to pay on time, never take your passport, give you breaks in the heat – but I met nobody who said it happens. Not one. These men are conned into coming and trapped into staying, with the complicity of the Dubai authorities.
Sahinal could well die out here. A British man who used to work on construction projects told me: “There’s a huge number of suicides in the camps and on the construction sites, but they’re not reported. They’re described as ‘accidents’.” Even then, their families aren’t free: they simply inherit the debts. A Human Rights Watch study found there is a “cover-up of the true extent” of deaths from heat exhaustion, overwork and suicide, but the Indian consulate registered 971 deaths of their nationals in 2005 alone. After this figure was leaked, the consulates were told to stop counting.
At night, in the dusk, I sit in the camp with Sohinal and his friends as they scrape together what they have left to buy a cheap bottle of spirits. They down it in one ferocious gulp. “It helps you to feel numb”, Sohinal says through a stinging throat. In the distance, the glistening Dubai skyline he built stands, oblivious.

SamaOnPoint’sBlog…..always ONpoint

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#SaveSeyanu; A SAVE OUR SOUL APPEAL
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By praying, you have contributed.
By spreading the word, you have contributed.
By donating, you have contributed.

Here’s a “SAVE OUR SOUL” appeal to everyone out there. A student just like you are or like you were sometime ago, a brother, a friend, a colleague, a roommate, a hostel mate, a course mate, someone’s son, and above all, a human like you is down with Acute Myeloblastic Leukaemia (AML) or “Cancer of the blood”. His name is Oluwaseyanu Olurotimi Bashorun, a student of the Federal University of Technology, Akure (FUTA) with matriculation number AGY/12/8975 (Applied Geology). He has been on admission at the Obafemi Awolowo University Teaching Hospitals Complex (OAUTHC) since January 2014 and diagnosed to be suffering from the terminal Acute Myeloblastic Leukaemia (AML) or “Cancer of the blood”. The first phase of the induction plan to have allogeneic transplant has begun after which the patient will need chemotherapy followed by bone marrow transplant at the Narayana Hrudayalaya Health City, Bangalore, India. The pre/post-surgery cost is estimated at 15 million naira. All sources of income are gradually running dry if not dry already. The situation of things with Oluwaseyanu Bashorun and his family at OAUTHC doesn’t look good at all. Please for God’s sake, let’s help him by making sure the good and kind hearted people of Nigeria read this and contribute to his life. No contribution, whatsoever and in whatever form is small. Please #SaveSeyanu.

For further enquiry/assistance, please contact 08025393481, 08189743073
Bank Details: Oluwaseyanu Bashorun
Account Number: 00 55 61 25 03
Bank: Diamond Bank.

Please keep preaching and contributing to the #SaveSeyanu gospel till our brother is saved from this terminal ailment. Please, let’s #SaveSeyanu
May GOD reward and bless you all abundantly.

On a positive note, the #SaveSeyanu movement has generated over 2.5 million naira in less than 7 days. It wouldn’t have been possible if not for your assistance. may GOD bless you. In a bid to reduce the stress on our esteemed contributors, you can also donate to the #SaveSeyanu project via this mode:

“Text CLINIC to 32285 at N30 per text message. You can send as many times as you wish.”

It could have been me. It could have been you. It could have been any of us.

#‎SaveSeyanu‬ #‎helpAbrother‬ #SaveSeyanu #SaveSeyanu

Kindly read more on the #SaveSeyanu gospel via:

http://lm.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.today.ng%2Fmetro%2Ffuta-student-oluwaseyanu-down-with-cancer-of-the-blood-seeks-n11m-for-treatment%2F&h=dAQGcRfcO&enc=AZNR-aSfWeYOKEnmZcXG7PGMUZbCU01fMWztTIFnuOfODxVxlvIGxYkyDfBwfBWmeb0&s=1

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#FEGOCOOSA
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It’s the annual reunion of members of the prestigious Federal Government College Ogbomoso Old Students’ Association [FEGOCOOSA] tagged “BLAST FROM THE PAST RELOADED”.

EVENT: #FEGOCOOSA Annual 2014 National Reunion

VENUE: Yard 158, Oregun Ikeja, Lagos.

DATE: Saturday, December 6, 2014

RED CARPET: 4pm

GUEST ARTISTE: Sound-sultan

MC: Basketmouth and Teju babyface

DJ: DJ MixxMaster Tee

SIDE ATTRACTION: Raffle draw to win awesome prizes.

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BLAST FROM THE PAST
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The homecoming of FEGOCOOSA members to our campus back then in my secondary school days ranks definitely top of the “good old golden days” of the boarding house. Such immense visit was usually during the week-long ceremony of the school’s Founders’ Day celebration. It was usually epic. During the week of the Founders’ day celebration, we, as students, would be treated to numerous “off-the-list” special treatment. There would be film show, damn, the film show were usually like a carnival, because during your stay in the boarding house, you could count on your finger tips, the number of times you watched television not to talk of a film! There would be a special social night, mini debate competition, and to cap it all, there would be special delicacy served at the dining hall with a bottle of HOT soft drink, usually coca-cola and fanta! What more can one ask for as a student of the boarding house than a prosperous Founders’ Day celebration?
GOD bless all members of FEGOCOOSA who made us enjoy such merriment, may GOD continue to take you all HIGHER, may HE make you BIGGER and BETTER.

Looking forward to rubbing shoulders with some of you at this years’ annual reunion billed to take place on, Saturday, 6th December, 2014.

Well, as for you who are not products of FGC Ogbomoso, you all could just re-enroll and get admitted into FGC Ogbomoso. LOL. Anyway, you are all invited to our reunion, let’s show you how a reunion is being done! Proper school, proper reunion *in wizkid’s voice* #DisturbingLagos *pops collar*.

SamaOnPoint’sBlog…..always ONpoint

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FGC Ogbomoso Chronicles II… By Adetutu Babatunde Yomi

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INFORMATION UPDATE: Good day folks. Have you liked this page on Facebook: “Trailblazer and Friends”?
I’m sorry, I haven’t told you about the page. It’s solely a charity movement. It’s just your little way of contributing your own quota in making the world a better place, regardless of the ‘peanuts’ we earn. Please, kindly help spread the gospel, the page needs more likes and activities. God bless you.
SIGNED: Trailblazers and Friends
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Honestly, if we ever talk about Federal Government College Ogbomoso and we don’t get to talk about the food aspect, the “gist” just isn’t complete! The dining hall experience is one memory that I’ll forever relish whenever I think of my alma mater, Federal Government College, Ogbomoso.

* * * * * * * *

I remember vividly, how guys gathered in front of a well right opposite Unity House Junior Boys Hostel. This gathering came up usually on weekends, (reason being that most students, on weekdays, go for breakfast from their hostels in the morning before heading to class, then from class to lunch and from wherever to dinner), usually when it’s about half an hour or even 1 hour to meal time. You just find guys seated there and talking about some random stuffs (for ‘em mind!). Virtually everyone gathered at that rendezvous had something in common – to get to the dining hall on time so there would be the possibility of enough “claiming”….

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VOCABULARY DEVELOPMENT
claim
Pronunciation: / ‘klām /
VERB [with object] – unfairly acquire abundant meals, typically without showing emotions for other party/parties entitled to the meal.
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… or better still, be among the first four students on the table, (the first four on the table were usually the lucky ones). Most of those times, I also found myself in that discussion group but trust me, I just wanted to while away time (yeah just like every other person in the gathering), my mind was always far away from there. All I just wanted to hear was the bell for food (someone is laughing abi – like say no be wetin dey your own mind sef dah tym). Later on, this well also became a meeting point for some set of guys. Those were the self-acclaimed “big boys” that had vowed never to step their feet into the dining hall (O.B.O’s of life! #Respect). Now these ones would be waiting for other students to leave the dining hall, (they did this on days when students ate meals which they were able to “smuggle” out of the dining hall to take to their hostels e.g. bread, moi-moi, akara etc). Once students are seen leaving the dining hall, they swing into action and they begin approaching students who have been able to smuggle some food out of the dining hall, for a “share of the spoils”. You’ll hear them say “abeg make I carry one bite na” (patent folly! LOL)

I remember vividly the “delicacies” we were served back in FEGCO city. Talk of the BEANS, something I choose to call a pot of murky water with some unfortunate grains of beans drowning beneath it. You really had to stir well to bring the whole thing to life. I remember well how weevils turned the pots of beans to their Jacuzzi ( ‘cos you’ll definitely find them chilling on the surface), and one guy in my house then, whom we referred to as “prof.”, would say, “but seriously, these weevils are very proteinous in nature” (says who? Sufferhead!!!) I also remember the TEA we were served, a mixture of hot water, smoke and sugar (did I really drink that? Yuck!). For those who had the opportunity to serve soup/stew (especially the days we ate meat), they stirred and stirred! One would actually think they were stirring vigorously so that the oil, pepper and water (which apparently were “beefing” one another) …

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VOCABULARY DEVELOPMENT
beef
Pronunciation: / bēf /
VERB – to keep malice, refrain from having contact with eachother.
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…’cos they chose to stay away from one other, could unite for the sake of the students. NO! Na lie! They did so to catch a very clear glimpse of the bigger meats in the pot of soup. Once they see a big meat, you’ll be surprised at the deceleration speed of the stirring of the soup which I honestly think isn’t up to a split second! (#FEGCO peeps! I hail thee!).

There were some days when I really wished we were just 2 or 3 on a “single pot” and not more than 5 or 6 on a “double pot” (damn, enough claiming!).

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VOCABULARY DEVELOPMENT
* Single Pot – pot of meal designated to 10 students.
*Double Pot – pot of meal designated to 20 students.
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However, you get disappointed most times. You’re already seated there; thinking folks aren’t coming for food on this day (and praying seriously in your heart that they shouldn’t come!). The next thing is that you take a look outside the window, what do you see? An ARMY of FEMALE students trooping out en masse from their hostels (baddest market ever liveth)!!!
The girls in my secondary school have this common trait – they all walk/do things in drove. Either it is just to fetch water at the borehole, or to visit the dining hall, or to honour the sports day, or to reluctantly report to the labour ground, these girls move in mass! I think it’s more of a “girly” thing though, protecting ‘emselves from any and all forms of harms.
You know, I just wonder if those girls held meetings before they come for food. In a flash, you realise you’re about 12 on a single pot and about 22 on a double pot; the plates always neatly lined up in 2 rows – just like we have when two teams are filing out for a football match)!!!
One of the prefects asks everyone to stand up for prayers:

PREFECT: “For the food we’re about to eat we…”, just as the prefect is about to complete the prayer, the Food Master (a teacher in charge of dining hall activities) interrupts, “who asked you to pray? Can’t you see students are still coming? Will you be the one to give them food?” The prefect looks motionless, not knowing which of the questions to answer first. Before you know it, you are already about 14 on a single pot and 25 on a double pot! Take a look at everyone’s face that time, you’ll actually think the death of a prominent person had just been announced (My bad!).

Now, for each house, we had some guys who some of us referred to as “strikers” and “supporting strikers”. I think I’d love to use the term “Warlords” for them. Yeah! I think warlords is just perfect because you find them in the front-line always while hundreds of students followed their trail (you wanna call them trailblazers too?).

TUNDE OGUNSANYA a.k.a. BAGGY STUFF! I actually shouldn’t have started a new paragraph but this guy deserves it – #RESPECT! Master Baggy Stuff, I hail thee wherever you are. I swear down, if this guy didn’t serve food at any point in our senior secondary school days, honestly he chose not to. See! Even if you happen to be at the entrance of the dining hall when the bell for food rang, you just walk in, you’ll find Baggy Stuff already seated comfortably behind the pot of Rice, Eba, Amala, just mention the meal, he’ll be there first. If I were to read his mind then, he’ll probably be like “fuck soup/stew! Na that one go belleful person?”
The next person that comes to mind after Baggy Stuff is BIGGY (can’t remember his real names). He is another warlord! A great commander of the pots! The only time Biggy wouldn’t get to serve would be when the school is on holiday! I’m not surprised about these 2 anyways, they were probably twins in the previous world, the nicknames say a lot, BIGGY and BAGGY! (Is someone already thinking of naming his/her twins that?).
Honestly, it would b unjust if I don’t mention the last warlord for Unity House. Folks, I hope you won’t be surprised if I tell you this warlord is a SHE? Ladies and Gentlemen, give it up for… (ok! I honestly think she deserves to have a paragraph all to herself).

OTITE COURAGE! If I call her Hercules (supposed son of the Greek god, Zeus), I might not be totally right but I’ll be sure close to it – Fast, Energetic, Muscular, Ambidextrous (yeah! ‘Cos she can handle the pot of food and soup/stew at the same time and pace!). I will never forget the day I was opportuned to serve soup on a wonderful Saturday afternoon. While serving, she wasn’t just comfortable with the way I was serving the soup. She gave me this very stern look, “come! Serve that thing well o. I don’t want to hear that soup isn’t enough ooo. If you cannot serve, give someone that can ooo ehn ehn!”. I sensed threat and trouble in that very short but highly pregnant sentence of hers. Been that very skinny and frail looking guy back then (and still is), I imagined myself and her in a combat in just about 5 seconds. As soon as I came back to reality, “peace talks” was the only thing that could come to my mind readily (yeah peace talks! LOL). With a well composed grin, I said to her, “well if you know you can serve it better, come and take over”. Need I say more? She gladly accepted the offer! I sat down, blessed my food, ate my food quietly, everyone did the same, lunch was over, everyone went to their hostels and no one was hurt!!!

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Thanks Y’all for sparing your time to read this piece written by Adetutu Babatunde Yomi. Edited by Salami Ismail Oyewale [@sama_on_point].
Do have a blessed day. Cheers to the weekend. Don’t drink and drive. Alcohol is no excuse for rape, #SayNoToRape.
#‎myFGCstory‬ #‎RelishedMoments‬ #FEGCOchronicles

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Ups and downs
October 20, 2014 • By sama_on_point

Good morning to you. Welcome to Monday. It’s a new long week. Definitely gonna be filled with ups and downs.

Down – I’m yet to sign a professional and lucrative football contract.

Up – I acquired a brand new #Adizero #Messi10 design soccer kicks by #Adidas last week.

Down – I’m broke!

Up – my beard is really coming along quite nicely.

Down – I woke up to a scorpion by my side! Scared the sh*t out of me.

Up – I’ve been very much enjoying my new life style.

Down – I’ve been unusually broke. *covers face* It’s possible that some ill-feeling may creep its way in (what would a beautiful lady requesting for lunch do to my ego, for example?)

Up – seriously, I’m rocking the beard.

Mahatma Ghandi, the Indian and human race icon, refused to eat while in prison. He went on “hunger strike” to force the colonialists to free India. Maybe I should do something similar. Refuse to shave until I’m financially buoyant once more.

Down – it could start to get itchy very soon.

Up – in no time at all I could make some handy money winning the #BeardGang contest to be hosted by one of the “clueless” multinationals that fill the country. Isn’t that the norm these days? Companies sponsoring sh*tty contest; from “photo” contests, down to “wear-it-all” contests!

My research this morning, reveals a list of irrelevant contests being sponsored by multinationals: “dancing competition”, #Maltina Dance Hall comes to mind, I’ve seized buying or drinking maltina, it’s my personal protest against that company sponsoring a dance competition for a whole family – dad, mum, son, daughter! WTF??? Where do they get those parents that attend that show? I imagine myself walking up to my father, Alhaji, and the following convo ensues:

ME – “asalam alaykum Alhaji”, then I proceed to prostrate flat on my chest, “I have qualified for a competition sir”.

Alhaji – “good, what’s the competition about”.

ME – “it is organised by #Maltina, the winner goes home with 5million naira, a jeep and bla bla bla”.

I hope y’all have noticed how I’ve stylishly avoided Alhaji’s question on “what the competition is about”, I stylishly ignored the question, and jumped into the rewards of the contest.

Alhaji – “great, you are my true son”.

Y’all know how our parents are usually proud of us when they perceive we’ve brought glory to the family. And once we’ve made an error or brought shame to the household, they refer us to our mothers! Yoruba parents won’t kill me with laughter!

ME – “but, Alhaji, I will need your help sir”.

As usual, my father will frown his face, I’m sure his thoughts will immediately time-travel back to the numerous botched scam I’ve tried to pull on him, then my old man will get serious.

Alhaji – “Ehn ehn, what do you need my help for? If it’s money, I don’t have any spare cash to waste on any useless competition, go and meet your mother”.

Lol, in less than 5 minutes, I’ve quickly metaphorsed from “you are my true son” to “go and meet you mother”.

Me – “Alhaji, it isn’t about money, I only need a little of your time and efforts to win this competition”.

My fathers’ frowned face will relax a little.

Alhaji – “so, what do you need from me for this competition of yours?”

Me – “hmmmm, ehn ehn, Alhaji” then I will go dumb.

Alhaji will raise his voice a bit and yell at me; “what is it you want, talk, I don’t have time to waste”.

Me – “Alhaji, I will need you to go with me to the competition. You and iya Fatai”.

Iya Fatai’s is my fathers’ 6th and last wife, since my mum is late, Iya Fatai will do as my mum for the competition.

My father will raise his voice and yell “Ismaila!!!! Do you think I’ve got the time in the world to waste on such useless competition. What do you take me for?”

My readers, have I mentioned to you that through out my stay, both in primary and secondary school, my father never for once stepped his foot in any of my schools?

Me – “Alhaji, it’s not a useless competition. It’s a dance competition, organised by Maltina. Participants will come with their dad and mum and 1 sibling to slug it out with other families. The winner will go home with the lucrative price gift”.

While I reeled out the contents of the competition, I had instinctively taken about 5 steps away from Alhaji.

Alhaji, in full rage by now, triggered by my revelation that the competition is a dance thingy, will give me the full details of how he met my mother and married her. And how he was very sure I will bring disgrace to his family. And how he doesn’t care because “I’m my mothers’ child and not his child”. It won’t end there. Alhaji will call the eldest son around at the moment. Let’s assume it will be one of my numerous half brothers or foster brothers.

Alhaji will scream – “Lati, Lati, come over here. Give Ismaila 12 strokes of the cane on his bare backs for me”.

Before then, Alhaji would have slapped me, a minimum of 3 times, I would have been told to kneel down, raise my hands and close my eyes! Irrespective of your age, you are never too grown up to be disciplined by Alhaji!

The entire household, and it’s a very big household, I must confess [imagine a 4-bedroom flat with 6 wives, 16 children (10 females; 6 males), about 7 cousins/nieces/nephews, Alhaji loves his house bubbling, at all times. It’s usually a beehive of activities, never a dull moment in his house, by this time, would have stood at standstill. If a pin is dropped, you could hear the sound. Everyone keeps mute when Alhaji gets angry. Then silently, they will all count, and some will cry solemnly for me as brother lati’s 12 strokes of dongoyaro cane lands on my bare back. The only sound will be my shouts/cries: brother lati’s dongoyaro cane landing on my bare bank, and Alhaji’s voice instructing brother lati to beat me harder!

So the thought of the unimaginable pain from Alhaji’s slaps and brother lati’s dongoyaro cane alone, is enough to make me resent Maltina for that sh*tty family dance competition!

May the soul of my deceased parents continue to rest in perfect peace. Thank you a lot for everything mum and dad! *gracias*

Apart from that Maltina Family Dance Competition, I can’t think of too many more (if I’ve forgotten obvious ones it’s because it’s really early in the morning and the thoughts of the spanking I could have gotten if I ever raised that sort of competition with my father has really made me not think through for other sh*tty competitions).

Where were we?

Up – I’m glad I’ve written a blog for you to read after my absence all this while.

Down – I woke up this morning to a fully grown scorpion by my side! It scared the hell out of me! You folks should chill till I’m fully made before you start sending snakes and scorpions to me na, please!

Up – thank you LORD for the protection. #GratefulHeart

Yet here we are talking about beards, scorpions, dance competition, when we should be talking about making money or talking politics!

Despite the news of the “ceasefire” agreement reached by the FG and the Boko-Haram sects towards the tail-end of last week, there just seems to be an air of apathy around everything. I can only talk for myself, obviously, but I look at the FG we have, I like the security forces we’ve got, but I just don’t see them doing anything greater than they’ve done in the past, which is clearly not where we want to be.

Everything seems to be hung up on this #2015polls and while there are so many stories, suggestions, hints, allegations, counter-allegations, facts, fictions, lies, spoofs, and vested interests, it seems kinda mad that we’re so hung up on this thing. The reality is that even if we vote in the opposition tomorrow, the winner can’t change the whole problems the country has.

Down – after writing all what I’ve written above, I’m still BROKE this morning!

Up – er … a fantastic sharp-tongued colleague,brother, best friend, former hostel mate, former flat mate, former room mate, fellow gooner [y’all shouldn’t laugh at us ‘cos of #Arsenal’s poor form so far] has promised to wire a huge amount of money to me this morning! I’m anxiously anticipating the alert via text message with heartbreaking patience.

Down – MTN keeps sending their sh*tty numerous messages from 5031, 4100, 5030, 33550, 5021, 5029, 33240, etc. Can’t I sue this mofo company for “disturbance of personal privacy” to make lil’ cash?

Till some other day, have a blessed week folks!

SamaOnPoint’sBlog…..always ONpoint

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On this day, I remember how back then in FGC Ogbomoso, guys had pen-pals from other Unity schools (something peculiar to teenagers of our days then. Sadly, it has become history. No thanks to social media). It was a really cool trend, most especially among the ‘happening’ guys. I remember vividly, how some guys got up to about 5 letters from other schools on inter-house sports days, obviously sent through the schools’ athletes (courier of life!). I remember how peeps, most likely the ones in your clique would rally round to read the letter(s) one of them got. There’s this particular guy in my house, he got about 7 letters on the same day! He was really feeling cool, I was just like “what’s doing this one sef? I wonder wetin gals de see for dis one body sef, with hin big head!” (Did I hear some one from FGC Ogbomoso mention a name? LOL)

Ok fast forward, there was this time I got a letter from one babe from FGGC Ipetumodu, yeah I got one too! The only one I got throughout my 6 years stay in FGC Ogbomoso (hehehehehe…*opens teeth*). I remember she was like a family friend to one of my friends back in school, so while gisting about her one time like that, I just took interest in her and decided to write her.
“Who is Tunde Adetutu?”, senior Bolu Obembe [the head boy then] came into my room asking, my heart almost jumped outta my mouth ‘cos the only thing that could come to my head was “yeeepa! I don enta kwanta!”.

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VOCABULARY DEVELOPMENT

“Kwanta” : / kwa¦an|ta /
Pronunciation: / ˈkwʌntʌ /
NOUN, VERB – worry/problem/difficulty/trouble etc

SYNONYMS to “kwanta” – “gbege”, “yawa”, “gobe”.
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(I trust my FGC Ogbomoso goons not to forget those numerous slangs).

“You have a letter from FGGC Ipetumodu”, the head boy said. Trust me, it was as if the whole of Olumo rock was lifted off ma mind.
“But who could it be?”, I wondered after I had gotten back to my normal self (trust me! You can’t be at peace at the thought of having trouble with some seniors, not to mention the “semi-god-like Headboy”!).

Almost immediately, I flipped open the letter! Lo and behold! It was that babe I had discussed with my friend!
After reading the letter, I felt dragon-flies fluttering in my belly! (Yeah dragon flies! There’s this thing about them which I can’t explain biko!). I can’t remember how many times I read that letter but trust me, it wouldn’t have been less than a million times that day! (You blame me?). For real, everything that day made me feel like I was in wonderland! My rusted bunk seemed like pure gold to me. My tattered mattress (not mine though but a senior chose to ‘abachise/colonise’ my wonderful mouka foam. My bad!)…..

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VOCABULARY DEVELOPMENT
“abachise/colonise” : aba¦chi|ise / col¦on|ise.
Pronunciation: / ˈabəCHaʌɪz / / ˈkɒlənʌɪz /
VERB [WITH OBJECT] – Forcefully take and establish control over.
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…. was just like a mattress that even d president couldn’t afford! My garri infested locker felt lik a treasure box! (‘Cos I remember vividly how I folded the letter neatly and kept in one of my textbooks, one book I didn’t get to open throughout my stay in FGC Ogbomoso!) Wait! did I forget to mention what the letter was all about? Well it was simply:

“Hello Tunde, I got your letter. How is school? Thanks for writing. Hope to hear from you again”.

You know, this feeling of a super-fly dude enveloped me completely that day! Yeah! I wished someone had stepped on me that day, I’d prolly have been like “WTF! How can you step on me? Don’t you know I just got a letter from a ‘chic’?”. (Oh! Woe betide my folly. Lol). Wherever I went that day, I took the letter with me and gladly showed some of my friends (some where just like me! They never got one letter! So I was a step ahead. Some of them are prolly reading this right now! Hehehehehe).

Eh! I don’t intend to bore you with this long epistle. Read if you can! And if you can’t (but I’ll be damned if you didn’t. How did you get here? Lol). You can choose to keep walking and perhaps along the way, think about how to protect yourself and loved ones from the deadly virus, EBOLA! and don’t you ever forget to pray for Nigeria! *wink* Thanks Y’all, have a nice day.
#‎myFGCstory‬ #‎RelishedMoments‬ #FEGCOchronicles

Written by Adetutu Babatunde Yomi.
Edited by Salami Ismail Oyewale [@sama_on_point].

Did you have any “pen-pal” back then? If YES, kindly share some of the funny #RelishedMoments you had with them. Thank you.

SamaOnPoint’sBlog…..always ONpoint

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It’s the TAFA series via |www.samaonpointblog.wordpress.com | from the enigmatic @Tafatruth_show.
You can follow him on the following platforms:
TWITTER: @Tafatruth_show
FACEBOOK: Exquisite ‘Tafa Alawy
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FACT: “Poetry is beautiful but it doesn’t get enough credit.” – @sama_on_point
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Poetry is that sweet rhythmic expression…

Spraying words of joy, hissing melancholic strings of depression…

Poetry soothes as we journey through this strife of a life…

Living standards faltering, altering the thinking faculty of a potential wife…

Poetry is words portraying a graphic detail…

Of those who held the head and those that took the tail…

Poetry is the warning of the yellow leaves…

Poetry is the naivety of the green ones saying “I won’t die, forever this green fellow lives”…

Poetry is the hard worker burning calories for thieves…

Paid in sweats of despair and poverty, so he brings home to his mother gifts of griefs…

This is the theory of 9-5’ers that get home nothing less than eleven…

Out by 5:30am daily, I’m guessing retirement is in heaven…

Poetry is the sun, giving the mind photosynthetic capability…

Poetry is the phoenix renewing the ability of an athlete’s agility…

Poetry is the traffic, the vehicles and their horns honking, the beautifully dented roads, the driver, the conductor and his schemes and screams, the passengers, the hawkers and their not so life threatening marauding runs, the road blocks and the men of the force, the tips for their keeps, the scorching sun that cools because the nights are most vicious…

Poetry is the city, the state, the nation; the state of the nation…

Dastardly photos in the Sun, the pretty pixels in Ovation…

Poetry is a spiritual narration…

Voiced or on paper, Olulu’s 15 or Tafa’s dissertation…

Poetry is beautiful like the sunset from a beach view…

Poetry is the sermon to the audience seated on the pew…

Poetry is my father’s handsome portraits gracing the wall…

A reminder, that the almighty designer won’t inform you when he’ll be making the call…

Poetry is my muse, poetry is what I use…

To elevate my moods from different morphs of abuse…

If I die today I deduce that poetry will come up as an excuse…

Poetry is Surah Nas and Surah Dua…

Poetry in my faith, poetry in my Dua…

Hip hop is poetry, I’m a fervid advocate…

The defender of what the world wants to abrogate…

Poetry is electricity…

Sparks that enlighten and darken a city…

Power that weaves the minds of people consciously and subconsciously…

I hold dear to my poetry though at times she lies to me preciously…

Poetry is all words no action, is poetry an irony?…

Poetry is what we see daily…

The grateful moan after the climax from your lady…

Sad lies you see on the gorgeous face of your baby…

Poetry is as sweet as poetry is as shady…

Poetry is as sane as poetry is as crazy…

Poetry is primary like red ,yellow and blue…

Poetry is me, him, her and you…

Poetry is Hitler, poetry is Ghandi…

Poetry is a sophisticated fancy…

A luxury that might just come in handy…

Poetry is light, poetry is the knight…

With words turn swords that give the weak might…

Poetry is more than water, three-quarters of the earth…

What is the name of that s**t that broke before your birth?…

Poetry is everything, poetry is even called death…

SamaOnPoint’sBlog…..always ONpoint

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Today’s story is a stone wall reality!
It’s the #Osun2014 piece from one of Nigeria’s leading undergraduate On Air Personality @biodunajibade of #FUTA 93.1fm.
You can follow him on the following platforms:
TWITTER: @biodunajibade
InstaGram: @biodunajibade
FACEBOOK: Abiodun Ajibade
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In the political equation in Nigeria today, whatever side any one may be, no one can deny the awe-inspiring adulation which Ogbeni Rauf Aregbesola enjoys throughout the South western state. Rauf Aregbesola, despite his portable frame is a dynamo of a personality, and like similar powerful personalities in history, his overwhelming presence conjures so much attention.
In the early days of his administration, people talked often about his unusual style of governance. Months after his ascendancy to power, he worked himself to the bones, alone as it were. Many, within and outside the party, just wondered who is this man called Rauf Aregbesola. The opposition grumbled and spoiled to make some of the issue political. Interestingly, the more they murmured about him and his style, the more confused they got, Ogbeni Rauf Aregbesola is on the march again.
I was a witness to the APC mega rally in Osogbo few days ago, Ogbeni was followed by tumultuous crowd, all hailing him, in a way celebrating a triumphant entry, same happened in all of his mega rally from the ancient city of Iwo to Ikirun, Ilesa, Ife Ife etc

In all these, the most remarkable was the fact that Aregbesola wasn’t clad in head-to-toe bullet proof vest. His popularity was his armour. Only a few politicians in Nigeria today could have the courage to walk the streets of their constituencies without heavy police protection.
Aregbesola is a man of the populace, walks freely, shakes hands with tens of hundreds despite the fear of Ebola in Nigeria, he has an outstanding privilege to rule without any fear. Ogbeni sees himself as first amongst equals and relates to every human being that comes into his surrounding with utmost respect and a listening ear to issues affecting the growth and development of the state.
It is important to note that Ogbeni’s impressive record of performance in the last 3.5 years is a leading factor in the unpreceedented reception he receives everywhere he steps in the state. His unique style of leadership, creativity and originality have combined to make him one of the best governors in Nigeria today.

He has greatly transformed the State of Osun in all sectors from youth employment and empowerment to child and maternal health, education, home grown school feeding, culture and tourism, agriculture, care for aged, infrastructure. Every city, town and village in the state has been positively impacted with social infrastructure.
Without mincing words, Ogbeni Rauf Adesoji Aregbesola has won the hearts of his people, old and young, men and women.
Never in the annals of the State of Osun have we had a governor that is very dedicated to the overall developmet of the state, transparent in state finances, highly innovative in governance.
It is no gainsaying that a lot of people who have occupied the helms of affairs in the state at different levels in the past have literarily pinched themselves to be sure if this was the same Osun they had governed in the past.
A big source of worry to Ogbeni’s political opponents is that they could not understand how Ogbeni has been able to coordinate and harness the meagre resources of the state of Osun in a way that ensured continuous execution of landmark projects with lasting positive impact on the citizens.
Ogbeni’s closest rival is Senator Iyiola Omisore, gubernatorial aspirant of the Peoples Democratic Party in the August 9 elections. Omisore is not a newcomer to Osun political terrain, a former deputy governor and a senator, it speaks volume of his political capacity in Osun State but one big negative in Omisore’s political career would forever be his alleged involvement in the murder of Late Bola Ige.

The good people of Osun are not only sophisticated but very wise, and they can discern. The death of the former Attorney
General and Minister of Justice is still very fresh in the minds of Osun people. His alleged involvement in Bola Ige’s murder continues to ring in the heads of the people. I sincerely feel PDP as a party lost the Osun state gubernatorial election the very day Omisore was choosen as the flag bearer of the party. His character and antecedents as an alleged murderer, is enough to convince the people not to vote him in. Expectedly, the victory of PDP in Ekiti State appears to have given Omisore some level of confidence to boast that the party would replicate same in Osun on Saturday, August 9, 2014.

Apparently, From my point of view its no brainer that the August 9 governorship election in Osun State is a tougher test for the Peoples Democratic Party (PDP) than Ekiti State. Subsequently, The Peoples Democratic Party in Osun state has suffered some major setback when two of their strong pillars in Osun state, Alhaji Isiaka Adeleke and former Osun State governor, Prince Olagunsoye Oyinlola defected to the APC based on the fact that the foundation of the party was based on deceits and falsehoods.
It is crystal clear that the geopolitical demographics and permutations currently favor Ogbeni Rauf.
One can go on and on, the point remains that Aregbesola’s achievements are not only real and credible, but have also been acknowledge even from unxpected opposition circles. As the August 9, 2014 gubernatorial election draws nearer a vote for Ogbeni Rauf Aregbesola is definitely a vote for progress and further developments in all sectors in the State of Osun.

SamaOnPoint’sBlog…..always ONpoint