I love how chowdeck had to fuck around and find out that AI was never going to do their customer support ✋🏿, hire real ppl.

These are their faces... Keep circulating it massively, they must be caught and brought to justice #JusticeforOchanya

may her rapists never know peace

and if you have EVER violated a woman’s body in any way, shape or form—forcefully taking what she didn’t want to give you—may the universe never EVER be kind to you.

Still about that poor girl who was raped to death by a father and son… You see, like I said the other day, if you’re someone who thinks deeply about rape and femicide cases that make it to the internet, and you truly fear God, the Nigerian justice system will shake you to your core. Because you’ll realize that it could happen to anyone, your sister, your daughter, your mother, or any woman you hold dear and chances are, you’ll never get justice. The saddest part isn’t just the horror of what that girl went through, but the fact that the family who destroyed her life are still living theirs normally, almost a decade later. The mother of the house, who should have been her protector, hid her medical test results from the doctors who tried to save her. And when she was finally exposed, she spent barely five months in jail. The father, a pastor and lecturer as at 2018 when the incident happened, still holds both positions today–in 2025. Students still attend his lectures, people still sit in front of him every weekend, listening to him preach about righteousness, about the Jesus he betrayed in his own home. And the son, who was equally involved, walks freely today, even pursuing a music career, singing to a world that doesn’t know the blood his hands once touched. A whole family conspired in the torture and death of a helpless girl, a child who lived under their care for four long years and they are still walking free. Sometimes, it’s not the crime that breaks you, it’s the silence of a system that protects the criminals. A system that preaches morality on paper but practices selective justice in reality. Let’s not be quiet. Let’s continue to lend our voices for this girl and for every other girl whose life was stolen by cruelty, silenced by fear, and forgotten by a system that never cared. Because if we stop speaking, we become part of the silence that protects evil. May the soul of Ochanyan rest in peace and many other girls like her who had died in this horrible manner. #JUSTICEFOROCHANYAN Frame 1 and 2, The Ogbuja family (the rapists). Frame 3 and 4, Ogbaje Ochanyan, the victim.

I have never come across a kid that suffered so much like Ochanya. Sh returns from school 2pm. Victor returns home by 3 and then forces himself on her. He continued raping her for months. Then one day, the Father came home and caught his son raping the innocent girl with tears in her eyes. Instead of stopping his son in his early 20, he pushed the son away from her, and climbed the innocent girl. The next day, the man returned home very early from work to wait for the girl. Immediately she arrived from school, he began to rape her. His son walked in, and took turn. It continued for years. Father and son raping a girl of eight years turn by turn, year after year—tell me something more cruel and barbaric. The little girl from 8 years became 10, and became very sick. The aunty, Winifred's mum found out, but she kept shut. When the doctor's test results came out, she hid the results. Yes, she's an accomplice. At the early stage of discovering that Ochanya was sick, it would have been easier to treat, but she deprived her treatment. While the girl was sick, it didn't stop Winifred's Father and brother from still raping her. For five years, nobody in the family reported the case to the police. It was Ochanya that opened up when she was already dying, but Mr. Andrew like a Nigerian politician still fought his way through the case. Ochanya finally d!ed at 13, guess what! Winifred's Father influenced the doctor's autopsy. That's how heartless humans can be. Winfred is living her career. Victor, the rapist is living his dream career. The rapist-father is still a lecturer teaching teenagers. (Imagine a rapist among teenagers). But they deprived Ochanya her dream of becoming a medica doctor. Now look at the smile on Victor's face, but another family would weep at the thought of his actions. How do they sleep in that home knowing that they are all rapists, murderers and accomplices? Until Justice is served, we remain Ochanya's voice. Ochanya deserves justice. Silence in the face of injustice is INJUSTICE—and evil.

Not suicidal or anything, but I never liked it here.

The fastest way to become appropriately confident is to become dangerously competent.

In literature, there's this idea called "the author's death" it means that when a book is written and released, the author's personal intentions doesn't define it's meaning. Instead, the meaning belongs to the reader. Their interpretation, their imagination, their context.

I be wanting God to sit on my bed and just tell me what to do

Please date sweet men. Please date men who can articulate themselves. Please date men who are soft spoken. Please date men who respect their own bodies. Please date men who are kind to your soul. Please date men that are gentle. Please date men who have self control.
(I can't stress this enough)

i don't think people understand…anxiety is so painful…it actually physically hurts.

If you’ve ever opened the Bible you’d see that it was full of apostles constantly correcting themselves in wisdom. Paul called out Peter’s advocacy of circumcision, Priscilla and Aquila corrected Apollos’ teaching on the baptism of John being the ultimate, etc, etc

This girl has been through a lot. Mind you, some Nigerians were reporting her page just for speaking up. Her fellow influencers cut her off, she stopped getting gigs, and now her certificate has been seized. And by tomorrow, everyone will forget about this, that’s the sad reality of living in Nigeria.

Nothing at first, at least not visibly. Provided it’s consensual, everyone smiles. You get your money, he gets his release. The world moves on. But nothing poisons slowly like what feels harmless in the beginning. For the woman, the danger isn’t in the one-time act. It’s in the pattern. It’s in the normalization. It’s in how quickly the brain recalibrates to see the body as a tool for extraction. You begin to skip the hard things—building, learning, failing, starting again—because why suffer when you can just offer? When you know that with a bit of perfume and clear skin and disarming smile, you can raise capital quicker than any grant application. You start to see money as a function of desirability, not capacity. And so, gradually, dangerously, your sense of value becomes outsourced to the gaze of men. And you’ll think it’s power until one day, nobody looks anymore. That’s the part no one tells you. That the sexual economy is a depleting currency. You start at your highest value, and it diminishes over time. Slowly at first, then with shocking speed. Your calls get fewer responses. The offers begin to thin. The men who once lined up now scroll past. And because your entire economic model was built on your desirability, you have no fallback, no structure, no self. Just silence. But worse than the external silence is the internal rot; the erosion of self-worth that comes from years of reducing your sacredness to a transaction. You no longer feel beautiful unless someone pays to confirm it. You no longer feel wanted unless someone proves it with cash. You no longer feel valuable unless you are being consumed. You become a shelf product past its expiry date, watching younger girls replace you at the table you once ruled. Now to the man. At first, it feels like luxury. Like abundance. Like control. Swipe, pay, collect. A new girl every week. And because the body is built for novelty, you begin to chase it like a man possessed. Not sex, novelty. New breasts. New moans. New lies. But here’s what no one warns you about: the more you consume women this way, the harder it becomes to connect to them in any meaningful way. Intimacy becomes foreign. Love becomes fiction. You stop seeing women as partners and start seeing them as ports; places you dock in briefly, never to linger. Every woman becomes a suspect, a potential seller waiting to be bought. You lose the ability to believe in sincerity, because you’ve spent years paying for pleasure and watching women fake it like professionals. And it gets worse. Some of the women you paid? They were in relationships. Some were engaged. Some lied to their men with breathtaking skill. You saw it firsthand—how easily loyalty folds when money enters the room. And now, even if you find a good woman, you won’t believe it. Even if she’s clean, you’ll see stains. You’ll doubt her. You’ll test her. You’ll sabotage your own happiness because your heart has been trained in distrust. You’ll ruin every good thing before it blooms. This is how transactional sex kills both parties: quietly, efficiently. The woman loses value in her own eyes and becomes unable to build herself outside of desirability. The man loses faith in women and becomes emotionally handicapped, unable to connect, only capable of conquest. Both end up in ruins, just different shapes of it. And that’s why ancient traditions were militant about sex within marriage not because they were prudes or sexually repressed, but because they understood what we’re only now discovering: that sex is not neutral. It binds. It breaks. It builds or it destroys. And once it becomes a commodity, it corrodes everything—your trust, your joy, your future, your peace. But you won’t see the destruction all at once. You’ll laugh. You’ll post. You’ll call people who say these things “moral police.” But time is a patient teacher. And if you keep trading sacred things for temporary pleasure, time will teach you too—slowly, painfully, and with no refund.

They Cloned Tyrone is criminally underrated

They bombed Iran TV, live on air

Guys please I need immediate answers: why tf was Amaya weeping during that weird chat she had with Charlie??? #LoveIslandUSA