#Please share this if you think any Nigerian girl or woman follows you

[oxiiiii]

Nigerian women beware. Sexual abuser alert!!!

The pictured person name is Terdoo Oluwadara Bendega. His MO is to drug women, make non-consented sextapes of them and blackmail them with it.

His strategy is emotional manipulation and preying on women’s romantic desires.

He is a rapist who beats up women, stalks women who dare leave him, blackmails them, distributes and sells their sextapes.

He has different burner account across social media including a telegram account.

Know is face, know his name. Avoid him and let every woman know to avoid him.

The law may never prosecute him; as they rarely prosecute rapists. Make sure to help other women not to fall victim.

Post stolen from ig @ naijafeminists

[migleefulmoments]

Klaineownsmysoul and her response to my message 'Heaven help us all. How do you know that person is in fact a child? Because they say so? You believe everything you read on the Internet, then?' (um, isn't that what the coven do? lol) I never saw the child's initial post; but did see their response to it, and have no reason to believe they aren't a child; a child who's maturity level far exceeds the coven's. Wish they'd practice what they preach and stay in their own lane.

Flowers finally got an anon and it really set her off...she went on full bitch mode and then tagged it #Michy. Sorry Flo, it wasn’t me. I find it HI-LARIOUS that they keep misidentifying anons as me. Their maniacal documenting of IP addresses is even more of a waste of time if you can’t figure out who sent it. 

Here’s the progression of the conversation: 

flowersintheattic254

Darren laughing anon - feel the need to debunk again?

I think @cassie1022 is correct. It’s like a regular bowel movement with you.

I do worry about you anon. That you wait for the slightest thing to jump on.

So I guess that some of SK are on that compilation and he looks happy. Of course he is, as they are people he’s known since university with a shared sense of humour and D riffs off some of them naturally. The girls and wives unfortunately facilitate the beard, as do some of the men occasionally and we all know about the sham, but I guess they get some attention from that. I suppose everyone needs to work. D just did a show with some of them so I guess he has repaid their loyalty for whatever they supported him with.

Doesn’t make M less of a beard. I also wouldn’t say the recent SK weddings showed Mi@rren as a perfect couple (see below), but you can dream away Anon.

Also from the beginning they all had a pretty insensitive attitude towards M. Regardless of what changed as time dragged on they didn’t show much respect in the early days. Yup I hope you can defend these heinous people making a joke at M’s expense. Please attack their extended families and threaten to dox them professionally in the name of Mi@rren too you absolute ass.

leka-1998 Oh, thanks for reminding me of the first wives club. In the words of L/ena H/all, “First husband? Hahahahaha, kidding!!! First and only husband.”

Caution, dramatic gif incoming.

flowersintheattic254 @leka-1998 😂. Thank you.

************************************

Flowers:  Wow anon - Guess my last post really stung you huh!

I was going to write you a long response as I do have some points to make about SK and their mutually beneficial arrangements, then I realized what you said was a tad petulant and childish. You know just saying they are all in a happy love bubble with no supporting argument doesn’t make it real right?

Then I realised you are just one of those people that have to have the last word. So here have this on me.

Anonymous asked:

Okluvubye😘😂

#michy #hey look i got the last word #so I’ll be the fool this time.

************************************************

anon: You know why I sounded like a fucking child is because I am a child because no grown woman has time to bitch on a blog and google about having the last word.And I might be a child but judging by your posts I’m a lot more mature.I don’t go around and criticizing a celebs wife and weirdly fetishising about two guys that don’t even seem friends.Hope someday you get a grip on reality and realize that spending your day blogging about people unaware of your existence is a waste of time.kluvyabye*

flowersintheattic254 answered: I wasn’t going to post you, but I wanted to show my followers just how crazy you still are (although between me and you, I think they already know) 😉. Also way to go on the whole maturity thing with how you started and ended your email. Cleary ‘more mature* of you 🤦‍♀️.

You should copy the historic example below and send me some love 😀. Instead of shooting a quick anon of hate.

Let me be very clear about something. I don’t care what you think of me, my blogging habits or any of my other interests and you won’t police what I write. So I will continue to mock you and not take anything you say particularly seriously and do me. I like me, a me who is happy and confident in what she knows and who she is.

I will ask you one thing, as you always say the players don’t know of our existence. Then why are YOU so bothered about it. Why is your belief so fragile it’s threatened by what we write here. Your fragility over proving her authenticity as a wife and D’s str8ness isn’t badass and neither is this anon.

So here’s a message from me to you below. Maybe try it?

Toodles!!!! 👋

klaineownsmysou

************************************************

Anonymous asked: You and your so called friends wouldn't know a TRUE sign of maturity if it bit you on your nose. Grow the fuck up! Chastising a child because she dared to question you and your hags is low. Darren would be so proud. Shame on you.

Klainownsmysoul: Heaven help us all.  How do you know that person is in fact a child?  Because they say so?  You believe everything you read on the Internet, then?  OK, well I’m a Nigerian prince and I have a fortune to send you if you’ll only share your routing, account, and social security numbers with me.  And if so, why is a child sending hateful messages to strangers - not “questioning” as you put it - but a rude vulgar comment?  And you’re ok then, with them doing so?  They are allowed to say whatever they like and spew vile ridiculous messages to anyone and no one can comment otherwise?  I’m sure D would be proud of that as well.  And you for doing the exact same thing.  Congratulations.  I’d bring up the term “ironic” here but I’m not sure you’d understand.

One more time for the people in the back: WHY DO YOU CARE SO MUCH?  Why are you stalking blogs that post content you don’t agree with?  I just don’t get it.  And we are the crazy obsessed ones? I have never once sent nasty notes to someone on this site and will never do so. Sending hate via the anon feature is the coward way’s out.  I don’t reblog, like, or comment on every post that comes across my dashboard; I am perfectly capable of scrolling by something and letting it go - that is what mature people do.  Perhaps give it a whirl?  Meanwhile, me and my hags will be over here in our little corner.  Try staying in yours.

#Anonymous

************************************************

What a hot mess of total nonsense.  

[uzumaki-rebellion]

“Wet Sugar” [Part 2 of 30]

Summary: Erik opts to keep his distance from Yani and focus on Klaue and getting to Wakanda. Erik also meets his new temporary roommate...

NSFW. Mature audience only. As always, thanks for reading and please comment/reblog if you enjoy the series. Hi new readers, happy to meet you on this new Erik journey. Part 3 on the way....

"To every hundred niggas that came and gone missing Only a handful will go the distance I swear I seen this shit coming as if I was living up under the plumbing While niggas was riffing and mumbling 'bout, what they could do I was cooking gumbo whipping the voodoo I was in the jungle running with Zulu's We was looking past the struggle while life was moving so fast You had to be shopping at Ginsu To the top of the food group Doing what I want and how I should too

Stepped in the waters The water was cold Chi in my body But it didn't touch my soul Stepped in the waters The water was cold…"

Anderson.Paak – "The Waters"

He tells her his name, his real name, and the girl who talked to animals allowed her big wide eyes to ease up on their sharpness.

Yani sat back and allowed the water to catch her back as her body disappeared under the small wave of balmy liquid that lifted her away from him. Erik stayed put, watching her backstroke away from him and further out into the sea. He wanted to follow her, felt his toes grip the sand under his feet to cast off after her, but he felt stalkerish and remained where he was.

She was real.

Yemanjá.

Erik felt the blood in his body coursing through him, the thrumming of searing red in his veins making him clench and unclench his fists.

Disǎ.

He sat back in the water and let it buoy him up, his eyes following the path of Yani's body swimming. He found it odd that he could look at this woman and think of his ex-girlfriend Disǎ who he left behind in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

No, maybe it wasn't odd, because the way he was reacting to this young woman treading about in open water was the same way he reacted to his first love…Disǎ.

The voice.

Like Yani, Erik had only heard Disǎ's voice before he met her, and something about the tone, the lilt, the inflections, the sonic soothing he received from it made him weak for her before he even saw her face. He felt a weight drift down on him. He put Disǎ through hell, denied her things that she wanted, made promises he couldn't keep, and she left him. Refused to connect with him ever again. Walking into that relationship had been an exercise in self-flagellation. Love was something he never sought out because he knew he was not made to love and settle down.

He was a mover, a nomad…he had no real home, not really, no place to lay his head and call his own. Rootless. He had to be rootless in order to finish the path that had been laid out for him. A path that started when he found his father dead in his apartment. Dead and alone.

Erik had to keep himself emotionally dead inside and alone too. All that love ever did for him was rend his body in half and grind his bones into dust. So he knew something was wrong when he heard Yani's voice speaking to a damn lizard in a tree, recognized the tell-tale signs of that dangerous pursuit into madness. He had only ever felt that way before with his ex. All that fucking back and forth with Disǎ when he graduated from M.I.T., joined the Navy, made Special Ops, and then headed into the work of a mercenary for a greater good…it stripped away a relationship he held dear and couldn't hold onto because he was never around. And that feeling, that feeling of wanting someone was seducing his conscious mind as he watched this girl swim.

Life was about choices.

And sometimes choices meant letting things be.

The heat and the dazzling sunlight and the beauty of the pale blue sea were probably just fucking with him anyway. Plus, he hadn't gotten his dick wet in a long time, and to come across a woman with a body like that…naked, on an isolated beach…well shit, no wonder he was feeling punch drunk with lust.

Nigga, get your shit together.

Yani wasn't feeling him anyway, every time she looked at him it was like she had an extra sour lemon in her mouth.

Erik dragged himself out of the water and put his trunks back on.

He didn't bother to look back at her when he left.

###

After lunch, Klaue left a message on Erik's cell to meet him in the third house. His private abode.

Erik meandered down the compound walkway toward the house. It was perched closer to the edge of the hillside overlooking the sea. Erik caught breathtaking views and when he entered the house after a retinal scanner cleared him, he felt like he was entering an ancient Zulu enclave. Nothing in the house matched the light-colored airy Caribbean theme of the other houses. The dark shadowed interior of dark-grained wood and dark furniture enveloped South African artwork, with a plethora of large carved wooden masks, and plenty of drums. Djembes, dunduns, a three drum bata set, bougarabous…

Erik stepped in front of a djembe and rubbed his fingers across the skin. His fingers ticked up and he began beating out the rhythms he learned as a child from his Uncle Bakari when he used to drum for his grandfather and mother when they taught capoeira back in Oakland. The heel of the palm, then his fingers struck the skin harder, faster, and the acoustics picked up the sound and drowned the room with the ferocity he slapped down.

Erik rocked his shoulders and let his head droop forward, his locs flopping over his eyes as he allowed the drum vibrations to move through him. He let his head bob as he remembered days back in Oakland on school lunch tables, pounding out beats with his fists when there were no drums, or finding the hollow parts in his chest or thigh when he would strike his own body with his open palm to create the percussive boom bap to help his childhood friends spit bars in ragtag cyphers. He felt the moist sensation in his mouth as he shaped his lips to beatbox in time to his drumming. It all came back to him vividly, joyfully, and he couldn't help the curling of his bottom lip as he bit into it, thinking of his days running the streets, just being hood wild and free.

He ended the cadence with a slowing down of his hands until only his fingertips were caressing the edges of the drum.

"Well look at you."

Klaue's voice brought him out of his reverie and Erik stepped away from the djembe.

"Hope that wasn't some artifact," Erik said.

Klaue shrugged and headed over to a round old-world wooden globe. He pulled the top back and inside of the globe was a hidden bar filled with various liquors and libations.

"Share a whiskey?" Klaue asked.

"Sure."

Klaue poured them healthy amounts in crystal tumblers and handed one to Erik.

"Interesting décor."

"I wanted to have a bit of home away from home. Of all my hideaways, this place is my favorite."

"It's pretty sweet. Quiet too."

"Not for much longer. Once everyone is here, I'll need you to keep your foot on their necks."

"Newbies?"

"Most you know from the Kabul job. Is your man Tahir still a no show?"

Erik took a deep drag of the whiskey. It was aged to perfection. He let a bit of it linger over his teeth before swallowing.

"They still got him on that no-fly list. He's chillin' in Damascus. He can do any other jobs you got, but Africa is a no go."

"Too bad. Good man. And that is what we need. Good men."

Erik studied Klaue's face.

"What's the problem?"

Klaue glanced at him.

"You can always read me so quick. It's Huntsman. I really don't want to use him, but I can't find anyone else with experience on the borders."

"Tahir will probably be tied up the next six months—"

"Too long to wait."

"W'sup with Huntsman?"

"He has issues…with you."

"That's his problem. He don't even know me."

"Ah, but he knows your reputation. Something about you sticks in his craw."

"You don't have to use him."

"With no Tahir available, I'm afraid I do. Unless you have someone else."

"Nah. I culled away my last team. I only have three that I stick with now and we freelance for DynCorp most jobs. Those guys are already under contract."

"Timing is key with these next two jobs."

"You still toying with using submersibles?"

"I will need our pretty blue metal for that."

The holy grail. Vibranium.

"I got some leads that I hope will pan out soon," Erik said. He could sense Klaue chomping at the bit.

He really did have some leads.

One was from a friend of his mother's who worked with the British Museum. She had passed on some information about some museum exchanges up on the horizon, a collection of fifteenth-century West African armaments and masks. It wasn't the collection he was looking for, but it was part of an exchange program originating out of Benin. Erik and Klaue would be heading to Angola in a month to set up an arms deal and then slip into the Northeastern part of Nigeria to covertly meet with some members of Boko Haram and the Nigerian government. Klaue played both sides of every deal he made. Erik planned on slipping into Benin and checking out the newly constructed Royal Benin Museum. His research uncovered plans for the museum to start receiving indigenous stolen art on a rotating basis from European museums that held plundered artwork from an 1897 British invasion in Dahomey. Erik needed to see for himself if any pieces contained vibranium.

His tongue gently tapped against his tattoo inside his lower bottom lip. He could feel the irritating cutaneous sensation tickling his gums from the traces of vibranium used in the vibram tattoo ink. The itchy tickling only happened when he was near pure vibranium. Like the pure vibranium emanating from Klaue's prosthetic arm.

Klaue picked up the whiskey bottle again and Erik took another half tumbler of the dark amber liquid.

"I want you to move down here in this house when all the men are here. There are some conversations we need to have in private."

Erik didn't question him. It took him this long to be invited to stay at any of his safe houses. That meant that he was now part of the trusted inner circle. He would just have to watch out for Huntsman. He was Klaue's boy for the last seven years, but Erik was aiming to be the only righthand man. Getting to the safe house was the culmination of meticulous, deliberate, and patient planning. Their first meeting in Iraq gave the man an intro to who Killmonger was. They didn't meet again until an arms deal in Kosovo proved fruitful when Erik's new team was able to assist Klaue through a mutual trustworthy middle man. It was then that Erik first showed Klaue a small amount of vibranium he stole from some arms dealers he tracked down to a small forgotten village in Iraq.

Erik ignored Klaue after that, turned him down for several jobs before Klaue started hinting that he may need to return to Wakanda and steal again. Then and only then did Erik drop word that he was down for any excursions into his father's country. The two men teamed up within months to help one another scour the earth for any pockets of vibranium they could find. On those missions, they only worked with each other and two other men, Tahir and one of Klaue's boys, a fellow South African who asked very little about the blue magic. A year later, Erik was now sipping brown liquor in the man's private home.

"Let's take a walk," Klaue said.

Erik followed him down a pathway that led to another section of beach hidden from where Yani's cove jutted out.

Klaue took off his sandals and his feet touched the sand.

"Hot!" he said slipping the sandals back on.

Erik's flip-flops felt too thin for the sand in this particular area that was littered with a few broken seashells.

"What do you want out of life, Killmonger?"

Erik stared at Klaue. The whites of the man's eyes were a little pink, and there were tiny spiderwebs of broken blood vessels cresting his nose. The man did like the sauce a little too much. Erik had personally witnessed him overconsuming alcoholic beverages to the point of falling over and having to be carried off by Erik or his other men.

"Money. What else?" he answered.

Klaue let his eyes trace the horizon of ocean before him.

"You know, at one time I was a billionaire."

"Really? How you fuck that up?"

Klaue guffawed and his laughter made him rock back in his sandals and clutch Erik's arm for balance, spilling a little of his drink on the sand.

"I sold my entire cache of vibranium to a Tony Stark creation."

Erik's eyes fixed on Klaue. He had a history with Tony Stark himself, but he didn't let on about it.

"I was operating out of an old shipping tanker in Johannesburg. Had my entire supply of vibranium warehoused there. Perfect set up. And then these fucking enhanced bastards show up with this thing…"

Klaue's right wrist rubbed his left arm while still holding his drink. His eyes grew course looking and his accent flared up.

"I'm no fool. I make a deal and billions are dropped into my offshore accounts. I'm set. Ready to retire and live out the rest of my life here. But then Sokovia goes down, and fucking Stark goes back and…."

Klaue's jawline clenched tight and his left arm closed up his mechanical fist.

"Billions wiped out. Like it never happened. And I'm left to start all over again."

"You kept your entire supply in one spot?"

Erik wanted to laugh at the man, but Klaue was tipsy, and a tipsy Klaue could get agitated and rachet up to bastard behavior in mere seconds.

"I had a fortress set up on that tanker. It was safe. After everything was taken away, I learned of a small portion hidden away in what I thought was a discreet location…"

"The Mosul statues…"

"I still don't know who really took it. S.H.I.E.L.D. maybe. The Pentagon. Perhaps even that ass Stark…fucking Iron Man…Iron Prick."

Klaue raised up his tumbler toward Erik's face.

"When I ask you what you want, Killmonger, I need to know the God's honest truth, because when I finish off these next few jobs, I'm going back to the source. With your skills and mine, we could steal even more vibranium than the first time I went in. I'm the only person who went into Wakanda…and lived to tell the story."

Erik's jaw clenched.

The first time Klaue went in.

With the help of his father, Prince N'Jobu, a man who only wanted to bring the vibranium out to help his woman and her people. All those in the diaspora.

Erik gulped down all of his whiskey.

Focus.

Erik fought back the whispers in his mind to kill Klaue where he stood. Because of this cretin, his father was killed. Because of this shit stain of a human, his father was unable to save his mother. Because of this devil, his family had been destroyed.

"What's the story on that place?" Erik asked.

"It's my white whale. But that's a story for another day. I want to talk Angola logistics now."

Erik wrenched his eyes away from Klaue and gazed out at the water. He had to hold onto his mental acuity. His own temper could carry him over the edge and destroy all of his plans. This was the long game. He had to hold on and not give in to the rage festering in his belly. He couldn't wait to crush this weak maggot. And like his Uncle, King T'Chaka, Erik would take great pleasure in destroying Ulysses Klaue.

###

Yani stood by the intercom at the front gate. The guard on duty, Jamie, watched her try her best to carry on a discreet conversation with her cousin Kendall who stood on the other side of the gate.

"Twyla just said she couldn't watch her today. C'mon now Yani, take your baby!"

Yani could hear her Sydette babbling a mile a minute behind the thick metal divide.

"Can you keep her for me, just for a couple of hours? I have to finish one more house and then I can leave," Yani said, the pleading in her voice not moving Kendall one way or the other.

"I would if I could, but I'm going to hang out with Bunny and Gregory. They might let me record some things at their place. I can't have a baby there with me. You know they smoke—"

"Kendall, please—"

"Yani, I can't watch you pickney. Sir, please open the gate."

Yani and Jamie could see Kendall on the security viewscreen holding Sydette in her car seat with her baby bag slung on his shoulder.

Yani's eyes glanced at Jamie.

"Open the gate please, Jamie," Yani said, defeat and weariness in her voice.

Jamie punched in the gate code and it slid open.

"I'm sorry, Yani," Kendall said. His deep dark chestnut skin was shiny and he sported a fresh baldie cut. He shoved Sydette's car seat handle into her hand and Yani grabbed the baby bag.

Kendall ran back to his idling work truck and hopped in with gardening equipment uncovered in the rear.

"Don't be late tomorrow. Tell Freddie Mr. Klaue wants the trees and the bushes by the front and middle house trimmed."

Kendall just waved and drove off, his truck backfiring as he left.

Yani rubbed her hand gently over her daughter's soft dainty curls. Sydette was sweating from the heat, the dampness making her baby hairs stick to her scalp.

"Mommy is glad to see you, but I have to work. I need you to be a good girl today for me. Yeah?"

Jamie gave her a serious look.

"Don't tell anyone she's here, please Jamie? I don't want to cause my Auntie trouble."

Jamie nodded and Yani scurried with her daughter to the apartment under the first house.

Leona was feeding dirty sheets and towels into the washing machine. A huge stack of clean sheets waited to be folded and put away.

"Auntie," Yani said with Sydette clutching her chest.

"What she doing here?"

Yani felt her spirit sink from the sound of her Aunt's annoyed voice.

"Kendall brought her. Twyla can't watch her today and he has somewhere to be so he can't keep her for me—"

"Call your mother—"

"You know I can't do that—"

"What you expect me to do?"

"Can she stay up here with you? I need to finish the second house—"

"And I need to finish this bedding and get ready for dinner. You have to take her with you."

Yani sucked her teeth. Sydette balled up her fist and sucked on it then dropped her head down on Yani's left breast and tried to suck through the t-shirt. Leona gave a sympathetic look but then continued putting sheets into the washer.

Moving swiftly back to the middle house, Yani entered it slowly.

"Inside," she called stepping in and looking around. Thank God, no one was there. The soft bristle broom she was using to sweep the floor was leaning against the couch. She tossed the baby bag on the floor near the couch and plopped her butt down with the car seat. Sydette's saliva had soaked Yani's shirt.

"Hold on, gyal," Yani said hoisting up her shirt and releasing her left breast. Sydette latched on her nipple and Yani cradled her head and watched her daughter suckle like she was starving.

"I know I left you plenty of milk with cousin Twyla. Why you so greedy? Huh? Where you put it all?"

Sydette's cheeks puffed and hallowed as she fed on Yani. A thousand thoughts went through Yani's head. What if Twyla couldn't watch Sydette over the weekend? She had plans to go out, the first time in a long time. Her cousin Kendall was set to perform for the first time in a club that hadn't seen Yani's face since she first got pregnant with Sydette. She didn't even have to sneak into it anymore now that she was finally of legal age. It was a tourist trap for sure, but the D.J.s there were really good and played a good mixture of Hip Hop, Soca and other types of music that she enjoyed.

She couldn't be too mad at Kendall. He really wanted to make music and the local producers Bunny and Gregory were giving him a chance to record something. They helped her baby's father get his first and only record deal. Maybe her own cousin could do better and go further.

Sydette's lips slowed down, her sucking not as desperate. Yani kept an eye out for Klaue's men in case they were returning. Wednesday was cleaning day for the compound, and the regulars knew to stay busy while she and Leona worked the place. There really wasn't too much to do, in Klaue's place or the first house, but Hunstman and Polk were slobs. She hated touching their sheets or towels because she once found obvious semen stains on them. Nasty.

Yani lifted Sydette up to check her diaper. She smelled okay and was dry, so no need to change her. When her eyes were drooping and her lips fell away from Yani's nipple, she was gently burped. Yani allowed her baby to sleep in her arms for a bit. She was tired herself, still thinking of all the things she had to do. Friday morning and afternoon she was scheduled to work her third job at the Eco Tours company giving kayak tours through the mangroves. Unlike Klaue's compound, she couldn't hold Sydette to her breasts while she paddled through mangroves and oversaw hermit crab races.

Something had to give soon, she was wearing herself out. And that something was Chez. She felt her stomach knot and tension crease her forehead as she thought of Sydette's wayward father. He paid no decent child support, promised to at least help with babysitting (which he never did), promised to seek better work so that she could drop one of her jobs and care for Sydette on her own and not pass her baby girl off to various relatives. It was hard not to hate Chez, especially since he had another baby with another woman only three months after Sydette was born. Worse still, he was living with that baby's mother and paying her rent while Yani had to share a bedroom with Sydette and Twyla.

She knew it was mean, but she was so happy that Sydette looked like her and not like him at all. She would hate to think how she would feel if she had to look down at a child on her tit who had that man's face, no matter how fine he was. And Chez was fine. And selfish. And a bully. And abusive at one time…

Yani shook her head from the thoughts. She needed to get the middle house clean and vacate the premises before Klaue or anyone knew she had a baby around. She had to coat the floor tiles with a protective tile cleaner that prevented sand and grout damage.

Just get through the next two hours.

She wished she could be back out in the warm water floating on her back. Naked. At peace. Alone. Not responsible for anyone or anything.

"Oh, Sydette. I wish I had done better. I wish I had done so much better."

She kissed her daughter's sweat-laden forehead. Standing up she turned on the air conditioning and tried to focus on the task at hand.

Two hours.

###

The middle house smelled clean and was quite cool when he entered it from spending time with Klaue. Erik kicked off his sandals and left them by the front door. The tile looked polished and a less dingy from when he first arrived. He was ready to relax and maybe lounge by the pool.

His mind was still calculating all the things he had spoken to Klaue about in planning their Angola run. The base of operation that they would work from in Angola still needed to be prepped and ready, the warehouse that was to be used to house the new crop of munitions and rocket-propelled grenades had recent fire damage, and when Erik looked at satellite photos of the landing strip where they would import the black market goods, he discovered an uneven and unsafe landing zone. Large potholes and depressions peppered the ground. There was a lot to take care of in a short period of time. A political problem sprang up also because of a new governor in the province who was flexing a bit of muscle to try and intimidate Klaue. This new guy was not playing the game of allowing their crew to circumvent the regulatory and oversight systems they were used to bypassing with monetary incentives to look away like previous government officials had done. Erik already decided if the man became a problem, he would nickel his brain and keep it pushing. Klaue had no problem with that. Erik knew how to dispose of problematic bodies and loose lips. He had the scars to prove it.

Erik turned down the air and went into his room. Taking off his shirt he folded it and placed it on the dresser by the window. He was about to power dive on the bed when he noticed a baby lying on it.

The hell.

The baby, a girl by the looks of the butterfly barrettes pinned to her curls, was sound asleep on her stomach, her backside up in there air a bit as if she woke up suddenly, moved, then fell right back to sleep.

He walked over to the side of the bed staring at her. He could hear someone moving in the kitchen, there was the sound of sink water rinsing down. Leona or Yani perhaps still working.

Erik crawled onto the covers trying not to rock the double bed too much with his big body. He laid back resting his head on a pillow. When he turned to look at the baby again, her eyes were open and she was staring at him. Looking about eight or nine months old, she didn't cry when she saw that a stranger was right next to her. Instead, she gave him the biggest toothless smile, a stream of slobber falling from her mouth onto the blanket, and he saw that she had dimples like him.

"Hey, Lil Mama. What's your name?" he whispered, making his voice as soft as he could. She babbled something and more clear saliva dribbled down her chin. Her chubby arms spread in front of her and she bounced her body and grunted like she needed help.

Erik reached over and picked her up and that startled her and her fat cheeks twisted up and she started crying.

"Aww, why the tears? We was cool just a second ago—"

"Sorry! Sorry!"

Yani swept into the room and scooped the baby out of his arms.

"I didn't think anyone was using this room. It was so clean. I didn't even touch it. Give me a few minutes and I can go through here—"

"Nah. I'm good. I clean my own room. You don't have to do all that for me. I'm self-sufficient."

"I wish the other men were like that."

He watched Yani's lips get tight after she said that.

"Don't tell them I said that."

"I didn't hear a thing. She yours?"

"Yeah."

"What's her name?"

"Sydette."

"She's cute. Looks like you."

"Thanks. We'll get out of your way—"

"You can leave her in here with me if you still need to finish. I think she finds me acceptable. She's not crying anymore."

He reached out and stroked the girl's cheek and Sydette touched his finger, then grabbed it.

"Sydette," Yani said pulling her hand away from Erik's finger.

Erik found himself staring at Yani's face.

"My babysitter fell through, so I had to take her…please don't say anything to the others. I'm not supposed to have her here while I'm working."

"Won't say a word."

"I'm done, so..."

"Will you be working here tonight?"

Why the hell did he ask that?

She had a baby, so obviously she had a man too…

"No. I have another job I do at night, and I need to leave now so I can get ready for that."

"Oh. Okay," he said.

He was still sitting on his bed, and she was holding her baby in front of him. He was feeling hella awkward. Sydette stared at him, and then she smacked her lips and turned back to Yani.

"Oh…Sydette!" Yani squealed when the baby started sucking on her chest, her head moving around searching for a nipple. Erik couldn't help but laugh. Yani lifted up Sydette's chin and the baby began to fret wanting her mother's milk with urgency. Erik stood up and walked into the living room, slipping on his flip flops and heading for the front door.

"I'ma let you handle that and give you some privacy. I'll be by the pool. Before I forget, I'll take the afternoon shift on the beach if you want to keep the mornings."

"Okay," she said.

Her daughter bounced in her arms and Erik could see a mixture of what looked like embarrassment and something else on Yani's face. Weariness.

He didn't see a ring on her finger. She worked two jobs too. She was probably still just a baby herself.

"Sorry about the room," she whispered. Her eyes looked watery like she was about to cry.

"Don't even trip. Sorry for being so neat. I felt like Goldilocks for a minute there."

He tried to lighten the mood for her.

"Goldilocks?" she asked.

"Muh…muh…muh…" Sydette said waving her chunky fingers in her mother's face.

"Someone's been sleeping in my bed because it was just right…the three bears…?" he said.

"Oh!" Yani said. Her face lit up and she smiled, her dark sloe eyes no longer welling with tears.

"Bye, Sydette," Erik cooed out. The baby could only focus on Yani's face, "Bye Yani."

He stepped back out into the sunlight and tried to shake the lingering need to stay in the same room as her. Her baby was so adorable. Sydette's dimples are what sold him. That initial gummy smile. The puffy little curls mashed down on one side of her head. Her little blue t-shirt that couldn't cover her fat little belly all the way. Her little outie belly button.

It was a tough job and he wasn't cut out to do that ever. Take care of a baby? Pfftt. It was probably why his mother only had him. Too much work. And Lil Mama looked like she could be a little pushy the way she was going for Yani's breasts.

Shit.

Erik sat on a lounger by the pool still wearing the trunks he had on that morning with an added t-shirt. He felt a thickening in his trunks, his dick getting a little chubby thinking about Yani's breasts that he saw down in the sea. No wonder they seemed extra ripe. She was full of milk and those big ass dark nipples of hers were making his shit tent in his shorts. Fuck.

Erik reached down and tugged on his bulge, trying to smooth it down from being too obvious. But the minute he touched it, a spark ran down his length, making him rock hard in seconds. No one was around. His eyes scanned the area to be sure and he grabbed the towel hanging behind his head and placed it over his lap. His right hand slipped under the covering. His trunks were loose enough where he could get access to his erection by lifting up a little of the swim trunk material from the bottom.

Damn, his dick was so hard, the thick head firm between his rough fingers. He kept his eyes open and alert for others as he replayed images of Yani in the water.

"That big fat ass…fuck…" he groaned low and into his chest as he plucked at his tip as it pressed against his thigh. The warm ooze of his pre-cum dripped down his leg. He felt his right leg jerk from the sensation. He could see the slight dimpling in her ass cheeks and that layer of fleshy softness around her belly that he loved on women. That space to place his head when he wanted to rest in softness. The faint lines of stretch marks he saw on the sides of her breasts made his mouth chuff, his breath revealing the arousal he got from staring at the beauty of skin breaking to make room for more…more thighs…more ass…more stomach…more big ass titties.

He imagined placing his length in between her breasts and fucking the shit out of her tits, pinching those nipples, making his balls squeeze out a hot thick nut that would drench her neck and chin—

"Oooooh shit!" He gasped as he felt heavy spurts shoot all over his leg and the towel covering him. His eyes rolled back and he was left wondering if that big nut happened because he hadn't had pussy in so long, or if this girl put a spell on his dick. The fuck he look like beating his meat by a pool over some young baby mama he just met? Fuck outta here with all that.

He needed to get out. Go to a bar or club and be around some grown ass child-free bitches. Get his dick wet properly. Chase that nut the right way.

He wrapped the towel around his waist and headed out toward the beach again. Yani was leaving and he could have the cove to himself to rinse the cum smeared all over his leg away. His trunks were soaked with it.

Damn.

From now on he was going to focus on Angola, getting that airstrip ready for Klaue in the next two weeks, and finding a way to get Tahir to St. Thomas.

New rules: Stay the fuck away from Yani.

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]   [Part 4]  [Part 5]  [Part 6]

Tag List:

@fonville-designs​ @soufcakmistress  @cherrystainedlipsbaby @tclaybon  @thadelightfulone @allhailqueennel @bartierbakarimobisson @cpwtwot @shookmcgookqueen @yoyolovesbucky @raysunshine78 @the-illllest @terrablaze514  @l-auteuse

[newssplashy]

“I Couldoun't take it anymore.”

I’ve heard countless patients make this confession in my clinic, quietly, shamefully, tears swelling in their eyes. I wonder if Ms. Kate Spade and Mr. Anthony Bourdain, in their final moments, alone in their apartment and hotel room, respectively, felt the same way.

My formerly homeless and incarcerated patients have shared myriads of stories, swallowed by their depths of despair, often manifesting as anger, frustration, mental illness and substance use. From successful lawyers and scientists to Marine Corps veterans to single mothers from South America.

The mystery and tragedy of suicide is shrouded by an almost cosmic connection between “us” and “them.” I did not know fashion mogul, Spade, but I can relate to being a woman with a highly stressful career; and as a daughter who loves her mother, I can barely fathom her 13-year-old’s emotional state. As a foodie with my own healthy spices website, I always felt that Bourdain had my job. Who wouldn’t want to travel the world, devouring delicious dishes? But like all of us, he had his demons including a debt-ridden career washing dishes as well as a history of drug addiction. And both icons experienced depression and anxiety.

Suicide is not a stranger in my family. Over 35 years ago, my mother’s cousin – Aunty Rita – killed herself in her early 30s, leaving behind two young children, her twin brother and devastated parents. While the details remain a mystery, we believe she lit herself on fire in her home in Bombay. Not a day goes by that her mother and my mother don’t fondly reminisce “Rita’s radiant smile” and irresistible laugh.

While an entire textbook can be written about suicide, I’d like to share five common misconceptions.

“People who take their lives are weak-willed.” As a society, we continue to stigmatize people with suicidal thoughts or who have died by suicide. Socially discrediting someone during their darkest moments deepens their feelings of hopelessness. Many, though not all, experience depression which is a “brain disorder, not a choice, and affects people without regard for looks, wealth or fame,” according to Candida Fink, a psychiatrist in Westchester, NY. The World Health Organization reports ~800,000 suicide deaths worldwide each year. Breaking down the taboo of suicide and mental illness is key in prevention and treatment.

  It mostly affects people who are really struggling – poor, unemployed, homeless.” Suicide does not discriminate. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), suicide rates have increased by 30% nationwide since 1999. While depression was a known diagnosis in ~50% of cases, many other factors play a role. Financial strain, health issues, and stress at home and work were all contributing factors. Suicide is the 10th leading cause of death in the U.S. and one of only three on the rise (drug overdose and Alzheimer’s disease are the other two). Risk factors include prior suicide attempt, personal or family history of substance use or mental illness, chronic pain, family violence and guns at home.  

 Suicide affects everyone equally.” This is a bit of a trick. While suicide does impact people from all walks of life – across races, nationalities, religions, professions – some groups are disproportionately affected. Select at-risk groups (per CDC, NIMH):

Men are more likely to die by suicide, but women are more likely to attempt suicide

American Indians and Alaska Natives have the highest rate of suicide; non-Hispanic whites are 2nd

6% of students in Grades 9-12 reported at least one suicide attempt in the past 12 months; girls attempted twice as often as boys (11.6% vs. 5.5%), highest among Hispanic girls (15%) vs non-Hispanic white girls (9.8%; per 2015 Youth Risk Behaviors Survey)

29% of lesbian, gay or bisexual youth attempted suicide at least once in the past year vs. 6% of heterosexual youth (CDC); suicide rates are highest among transgender individuals (41% vs 4.6% among the general public; per American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (AFSP)

According to the Department of Veterans Affairs (VA), ~20 veterans die by suicide daily; 7,400 vets took their lives in 2014 (or 18% of all suicides in the U.S.). Suicide prevention, along with opioid safety, remain top concerns at the VA.

Physicians have the highest suicide rate among any professional group, with ~400 doctors taking their lives annually in the U.S. In New York City, two doctors and a 4th-year medical student died by suicide in the past five months

A doctor lays on the ground as several physicians stage suicides during an action to denounce the problem of physician burnout. February 18, 2014 in Paris, France. AFP PHOTO / KENZO TRIBOUILLARD (Photo credit should read KENZO TRIBOUILLARD/AFP/Getty Images)

“There’s nothing I can do to prevent a suicide.” – When a person takes his or her life, the people left behind often feel a sense of helplessness, even guilt. When my aunt died, my mother and other relatives felt they should have known; “we could have prevented her death.” As difficult as it might be to accept, no one else can be blamed for a loved one’s death by suicide. However, we can all take key steps. The National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH) recommends the following:

Ask: “Are you thinking about killing yourself?” Not easy, but studies show that asking does NOT increase the risk or suicide or suicidal thoughts.

Be present: Listen to your colleague or loved one. Observe their body language.

Safety: Minimize a suicidal individual’s access to lethal items (e.g. guns, knives, razor blades, stockpiled pills) or places (bridge, highway). Again, not always simple, but removing access to dangerous weapons/locations can be lifesaving. Of note, firearms are the most common method of suicide (with or without mental health issues; source: CDC), accounting for 51% of all suicides in 2016 (AFSP).

Connection: Stay in touch with someone after a crisis or recent hospital release. Suicide deaths decrease when we follow up.

Over 7000 veterans died by suicide in 2014. Manila American Cemetery in Fort Bonifacio, Taguig, Philippines, May 25, 2014. Photo: Ezra Acayan/NurPhoto (Photo by NurPhoto/Corbis via Getty Images)

“I have nowhere to go.” The sense of hopelessness can be profoundly overwhelming. If you or a loved one needs help, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline 1-800-273-TALK (8255) where trained counselors are available 24/7, seven days a week. Other numbers to save in your smartphone: a close friend or relative; the Crisis Text Line, 741741; and the local police department. National Alliance of Mental Illness (NAMI), Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA), NIMH and Zero Suicide also offer excellent free online resources.

When I reflect on this past week, I am overcome with many emotions: sadness, confusion, loss. But I also remind myself to replace my biases patience, kindness and sincerity. I think we can all listen, without judgement, to our colleague who’s going through a divorce; our uncle who’s depressed about his wife’s dementia; our neighbor who wears a turban and smells “like curry.” Ask yourself, “What can I say or do to ease someone’s burden?” Our gestures needn’t be grand. Smile at fellow passengers on the subway. Hold a door open. Offer to carry a stranger’s grocery bag.

And if YOU are feeling helpless, alone and/or have thoughts of hurting yourself, please know that you are NOT ALONE. I promise you, someone will listen. Reach out to someone you know and trust, or to a trained professional. Your life has VALUE.

Pls Comment Below 

This Post First Appeared On Newssplashy- Latest Nigerian News Today

via NewsSplashy - Latest Nigerian News Online

[clausvonbohlen]

24 Deligianni Street, Athens.

24 Deligianni street is where I live. It is a πολυκατοικία – an apartment block. Literally, this means: ‘many (πολύ) – relating to (κατά)  - the home (οίκος) ,  a ‘many-home-dwelling’. Oίκος  is the archaic root that resurfaces in English words such as ‘economy’ (the management of the home), and ecology (the study of the home, in this case planet earth). It is a good example of how, in Greece and in Greek, the ancient and the modern, the old and the new, are interconnected.

  My building is located in Exarcheia, beside the archaeological museum and midway between Exarcheia square, to the south, and Pedio Areos park, to the north. This was once a very desirable neighborhood, but in the 1960s and 70s many of the more affluent inhabitants moved out of the centre and into the suburbs. Immigrant communities were drawn to Exarcheia because of low rents and good transport links, and now it is very diverse, with many Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, Nigerians, and, more recently, Afghans and Syrians.

  The archaeological museum is next to the National Technical University of Athens, the Πολυτεχνείο,  famous for the student uprising against the military junta in 1973, in which 23 students died. Exarcheia has been an area of politicised resistance ever since; the mantle has now been taken up by a broad group that define themselves as anarchists, though this appears – at least from the outside - to include anyone with any kind of grievance.

  My building dates from 1930. It has an old cage lift built by Schindler lifts, a company founded in Lucerne, Switzerland, in 1874. This lift is not much newer, and some of its important looking cables are patched up with yellow insulating tape. To step into it is, firstly, to feel a little bit nervous, and, secondly, to step back in time.

  My apartment is on the fifth floor. It has a terrace on which I have  recently started to grow bougainvillea, jasmine, wisteria, solanum and fragrant rhyncospermum. My mornings now begin with a round of watering, and then the sweeping of leaves and petals that the night breeze has shaken to the ground. It is a fine way to begin a new day, and reminds me of life in a Zen monastery.

  The terrace overlooks the the archaeological museum, which houses the gold mask that Schliemann unearthed at Mycenae in 1876. Caution was not Schliemann’s guiding principle; upon finding the mask, he telegraphed King George of Greece to say, ‘I have gazed upon the face of Agamemnon.’ Subseqent archaeological research has concluded that the mask predates the period of the legendary Trojan war by about 300 years. Nevertheless, when I sit on my sweet-scented terrace and feel the life-affirming tingle of inspiration, then I sometimes wonder whether I might be picking up the energetic emanations of an ancient warrior-poet, relayed to me across the ages through his gold death mask, just a stone’s throw away.

  On other nights, the terrace is an excellent place to watch the clashes between anarchists, who throw Molotov cocktails, and the riot police, who mostly stand around smoking and looking bored. The clashes happen once or twice a month, and they have now acquired an oddly scripted quality, as if everyone involved is playing a role in which they no longer believe. The only exception are the journalists who pullulate behind the police. They are immediately obvious because of the luminous rectangles of their film cameras, and because they wear elephantine gas masks. Sometimes I feel as if I have box seats in an absurdist theatre.

  My mother is coming to visit me next month. She will like the fact that I live beside the archaeological museum. When I was a teenager, she once told me that as a young girl she dreamt of becoming an archaeologist. But she never went to university, since from a young age she was a pawn in her parents’ acrimonious divorce, both of whom refused to pay for her education. She ended their ugly game by becoming a stewardess, thereby gaining her total independence at a comparatively young age. But it was a significant moment for me when she told me that she had wanted to become an archaeologist, because it was the first time that I had thought of her as a full person, with a life before I was born, and with dreams and ambitions of her own. I remember feeling a rush of tenderness for her then, as I do whenever I think back to that moment.

  My landlady, Κυρία Φητίλης, lives on the floor below me. She is eighty years old and lives with what I initially thought was her mother, but I have since found out is the family’s former servant. This lady, whose name I do not know, is 99 years old. I don’t think I have ever met a 99 year old before. She is not surprisingly rather shrunken, with tremendous hairs sprouting from her upper lip and chin. She is very hard of hearing, and forgetful, so I have to shout to re-introduce myself every time I enter their apartment to pay my rent. However, she has a bat-like sensitivity for the sound of doorbells, and should her sonar pick up on the ringing of a bell, her tremulous cry of πιος είναι ? – who is it? – reverberates around the entire πολυκατοικία.  But what I find most astonishing is the thought that she was already a young woman when the Nazis came goose-stepping through the centre of Athens.

  Shortly after I moved in, I shared the lift with another tenant, this one in her sixties. Having confirmed that I was the new tenant on the 5ht floor, she then asked me if I was married.

  ‘No,’ I replied.

  ‘Ah, you must meet my daughter. She works in the university museum in Plaka.’

  Then she noted down my phone number. A couple of days later I received a bashful message from her daughter, offering me a tour of her museum. I took her up on the offer and she gave me a very thorough tour of a rather uninspiring museum.

                                 *

  24 Deligianni is pressed up against its neighbours. The buildings must share some of the inner stairwells, since from my own kitchen I can clearly hear the family who live in the next door building, when they are in their kitchen. Most often I hear the mother, whose accent is deep and African, and whose vocal range is impressive. She likes to chat on the phone while cooking; at least, that is what I infer from her long monologues, punctuated by laughter, and accompanied by bubbling and splashing noises.

  In my mind’s eye I can’t help picturing her with a tea towel around her head and a big white apron, like Mammy in ‘Gone With the Wind’. That does, I fear, make me a racist, albeit an unconscious one. In my defence, I did grow up with a much-loved cuddly toy golliwog, and I remember collecting the rather natty little ‘Golly’ badges that came with jars of Robinson’s jam. It is not just Κυρία Φητίλης’  centenarian servant who has seen changes in their lifetime.

  My direct neighbours are a young graphic designer couple who live on the same floor as me. Their apartment is similar in size and shape, but while I have tried to preserve the style and spirit of old Athens, theirs is contemporary and cool and decorated with bright pieces of pop-art furniture. It seems we are all attracted to the unfamiliar, though that means different things for different people.

  I was reminded of this when I met Zoe, a Greek girl who has set up a small artists’ cooperative in an old villa, not far from my apartment. She took me for coffee near the cooperative, in an elegant and minimalist new cafe that serves artesanal coffee. ‘Some Swiss contemporary artists came to visit recently,’ she confessed to me, ‘and I brought them here. They were horrified. So inauthentic! they kept saying. So gentrified! Well, I pretended to agree with them, but the truth is that all my life I have been longing for Athens to get a little bit gentrified, and now that it has – even if it’s just one small cafe – I’m delighted!’

  For some people, Athens is a city with longed for pockets of gentrification.  For others, it is ‘the new Berlin’. For me it is a time-warp to a slower, more peaceful, analogue past. Once again I am brought to the realisation that we all seek out what pleases us, and ignore the rest, and thereby create the reality which we experience, and which we mistakenly assume to be the same for everyone.

                              *

  If I walk directly north from 24 Deligianni street, I soon come to the Pedio Areos park. Many homeless people live here. During the day they mostly sleep in the park, screened from view by bushes and trees. At night they congregate in front of what is now a boarded up building, but was once a tea salon. When I walk past this area in the early morning, on my way to swim in the Panelinios Atheltic Club pool, it is a depressing sight. Some addicts lie passed out on the steps of the building, while others scour the pavement for lost drugs. Small fires smolder, kept alive by pieces of broken furniture. Food remains litter the area and are fought over by dogs and pigeons. But by the time I return from swimming, the street cleaners have swept everything away.

  A few weeks ago I stumbled back this way late at night, rather drunk. I loitered for a few moments and was soon approached by an Afghan  dealer, from whom I bought a small quantity of refined opium. I was reminded of organic farm-to-table restaurants in San Francisco, though happily my Afghan dealer spared me a lecture on the precise location of the poppy field where the opium poppies had been harvested. A bearded hipster waiter in San Francisco would not have been so reticent.

  I also bought what I thought was crack, but turned out to be crystal meth. Service was excellent and the meth dealer even threw in a new glass pipe, for free. Then I went home and smoked my purchases. The alcoholic fug exploded instantly and I felt great. I was way too wired to sleep, but not in a jittery way, since the opium made for a dreamy wakefulness. I stayed up all night and read a book from cover to cover.

  I was still feeling pretty good the following day, but when the crash finally came, it was worse than I have ever experienced. I know that you only ever borrow energy - the loan will always be called back in eventually. But I was not anticipating that eviscerating intensity of inner emptiness. It lasted for four days, during which I scanned every new room for places that could support a noose. Having come through safely on the other side, I can confidently state that this experience marks the end of my intermittent 20 year relationship with recreational narcotics.

  The memory of that wintery narco-weekend has faded. We are now in άνοιξη – spring, literally ‘the opening’. The fine days are here again. And so, on an afternoon with a sky so blue that it hurt, I strolled up Pnyx, the hill where the ancient Athenians held their assemblies. In front of me two dogs were playing, pointed ears bouncing up and down above the meadow flowers. Their owners were two Greek girls whose limpid laughter reverberated in the clear air. Behind me was the βέμα, the speaker’s platform carved out of the rock, from which every Athenian citizen had the right to speak on matters concerning the polity. And beyond the girls and the meadow, hovering in the distance like a vision, was the Parthenon itself, sanctuary of the Goddess, icon of Athens, and symbol of Western civilization.

  As I walked back home, I remembered the line attributed to the Emperor Marcus Aurelius in Ridley Scott’s ‘Gladiator’: ‘There was once a dream that was Rome.’ Perhaps the Emperor overslept; five hundred years earlier, there was a dream that was Athens. It excluded many, but it was a dream nonetheless.

  I opened the heavy front door of 24 Deligianni street and took the cage lift up to my apartment. I went out to the terrace. A pale moon hung low above the archaeological museum. For a few moments, my own life here seemed unreal to me. But perhaps that shouldn’t come as a surprise; it is, in a sense, a dream within a dream.

[alexrascanu]

How to Reach Your Potential: An Interview with Busola Akin-Olawore

Busola Akin-Olawore (senior research executive at Ipsos in Lagos, Nigeria) is taking part in the "How to Reach Your Potential" initiative, a series of 100 interviews with leaders who inspire Alex Rascanu and whose insights can help you reach your potential.

About Busola I am a zealous market research and consumer behaviour specialist with just over about 7 years of experience conducting research in the Finance, Real Estate, FMCG, Healthcare, Education and Telecommunication sectors. I currently work at Ipsos, which is ranked the 3rd biggest market research company in the world. I conduct and oversee their media, advertising and branding research in Nigeria. I am also the founder of Busnailery, a snail farming company where our main goal is to make this cultural delicacy easily accessible and affordable, and Woof Arf Ruff, an ‘everything dog company’. We currently provide services which include advice columns, dog party and event planning, and dog walking. I have a couple other projects in the pipeline so stay tuned. :) I am Nigerian; was born and had my early years there. I moved to Canada when I was in grade 8 and lived there for 10 years. Shortly thereafer, I moved to Spain for a year for a masters in Market Research and Consumer Behaviour at IE Business School. After my masters program, I moved back to Nigeria to begin this adventure I am still on. When I am not working, I love exploring new cultures, reading, going out for a good meal, going to the beach and watching the sun rise and set. You can connect with me on LinkedIn, Twitter, Instagram and SlideShare.

Alex: What is your life’s purpose?

Busola: My purpose in life is to use my gifts to develop people around me and my community at large. To use the things I do well to positively impact my society. I have come to realize that when I speak, people listen. This is one of the gifts I have been blessed with and I want to use it to make a difference in my society.

Alex: What are the three things you’re most passionate about?

Busola: I am extremely passionate about market research; ever since I can remember I have always been a curious cat. I have always wanted to know why; why are things the way they are, why are people the way they are, why do we do/ say something and then do/say the complete opposite. I am fortunate enough to build my career around my passion for market research.

I am also passionate about travel, this could be tied to my curious nature but I have always loved travelling. Exploring different cultures, ways of living and actually immersing myself in the culture for some days.

And then there is food, one of my first loves. Now that I think about it, I believe things I am passionate about goes back to the core of the kind of person I am; a curious cat. I love food, admiring it with my senses, cooking it, and of course devouring it.

Alex: How do you stay healthy? What’s your main health-related goal?

Busola: I am a firm believer that if you eat right, exercise and have a positive outlook on life you are able to perform at your optimal potential. So staying healthy for me encapsulates ensuring I eat a balanced meal rich in fruits, vegetables, dessert and wine :), ensuring I take daily walks twice a day, ensuring I spin/run once a week and do yoga once a week. To also try to keep my mind healthy, I consume positive content only. I don’t watch nor listen to damaging content. When I wake up, I give thanks for another day. I get ready for work and during my commute I listen to podcasts from all around the world from people who have built and are still building their empires.

Alex: How do you build wealth? What’s your main financial goal?

Busola: I define wealth as being financially free and I define this as being able to do what I really want to do in life, being able to be who I really want to be and not being dependent on one source for my daily bread. I strongly believe in having multiple sources of income. Yes, I have a 9-5, but I dabble in so many other things for two main reasons. Firstly, if I lose my job tomorrow I don’t want the burden of trying to figure out where my next meal or rent will come from. And secondly, I do not want to ever feel like I need to stay in an uncomfortable situation just because I need the money. The money I make from these other sources of income is not as much as my 9-5 but that is ok. So, as I mentioned, to build this freedom I own other businesses like Woof Arf Ruff and BuSnailery, and I also work on freelance research and consulting projects. To help build my savings account, every month, once my 9-5 salary has been deposited in my account, I have a standing order with my bank to deposit 15% in my Mutual Funds account and 25% in my monthly savings account. With these steps, I feel more confident and safe with my financial freedom.

Alex: How do you balance work and family life?

Busola: Work-life balance is extremely crucial to me. I feel very strongly about this because I believe your success is a combination of your performance at home and at work. For me, I make sure I make time for things/people and I do everything at the right time. So be it a weekday or weekend, I wake up and plan my day. Obviously things don’t always go as planned, many things do not get completed in the allocated time but I ensure once the time allocated to the task is completed, I move to the next task and I will have to finish the uncompleted task at another time. Also, as much as I love what I do, I actively disconnect from work once I leave the office. I don’t think about it, I just focus on living in the moment and enjoying what I am doing in my life outside the office.

Alex: How do you enjoy spending time with family and friends?

Busola: I love exploring my passions with family and friends. Mostly my passions for food and travelling. I am the person to call when you are looking for a travel partner! I am also the person to call when you are looking for good restaurants in town.

Alex: What has been the most fulfilling role you’ve ever had, or the most fulfilling project you’ve been involved with?

Busola: At an early stage in my career, I decided to move to Nigeria for 6 months to conduct a study on maternal mortality. I conducted an observational study in a teaching hospital in Lagos, and conducted focus groups and surveys around an area of Lagos. Up until now this has been the most fulfilling project I have ever worked on.

I started to understand that life is simplistic; black and white but when you entwine it with culture, the human element, that is when it starts to get complicated. So maternal health, might seem straightforward, take your prenatal meds, eat right, go to the doctor for regular checkups, do not do strenuous activities… However, there are so many cultural elements that prevent people from following these simple steps the doctors have recommended. And the disconnect is that doctors do not take culture into consideration and patients do not take science into consideration. Truly this role was what reaffirmed my career path to me.

I also got to meet people from all walks of life, talk to them and appreciate their stories. I learnt a lot about myself, my past, my culture and I strongly believe that, this understanding is what has helped me develop a strategic plan for my future.

Alex: What’s one career planning lesson that has made a significant difference in your life?

Alex: Being flexible, having an open mind and always being ready to try new things. About 8 years ago I decided I wanted to be a researcher. The kind of researcher I wanted to be was always the part I wasn’t sure of. But I knew I was a curious cat and wanted to spend the rest of my life exploring the reasons why things are the way they are. When I finally figured out what type of researcher I wanted to be, I invested a lot of resources to become the best researcher in that field. And then I got the dream job - working for a top market research company in the world. But yet I am still not fulfilled, I am longing for more - I realized that what I wanted was not what I needed. So now I am back to the drawing board. My point is, as we progress through life, we change our beliefs and opinions, and this trickles into our careers. We change our minds on where we see ourselves in 5 years, what field we want to work in, how we want to work... but that’s ok. It is ok to change, change is good. Being flexible and open minded is good.

Alex: What would you like your legacy to be?

Busola: I was born and currently live in a country where the majority of girls are raised to believe that something has to give. You can’t have it all - the career and the family. And society has pushed us to believe that the family is important. I am not disputing the importance of the family but you can have both, it shouldn’t have to be a choice for women. I want my Legacy to be the ‘woman who had it all’ and who inspires generations of Nigerian women that they can have it all. I understand that to have it all means you will need help, means you will have those rare moments where something will give but those moments are the once in a while abnormalities and not the everyday norm. And I want to make this very clear through my actions and my advocacy.

Alex: Thank you, Busola, for taking part in this interview! Thank you for being so open and for sharing your insights!

Did you find one or more of Busola's thoughts helpful? Are there any ideas or resources that came to mind as you read the interview? Please share your thoughts and feedback in the comments section below, and consider sharing the interview with a friend via social media or email.

Also, consider checking out the How to Reach Your Potential interviews with Trina Boos, Hamza Khan, James Tjan, Vlad Rascanu, Drew Dudley, Alexandru Holicov, Andrew Mizzoni, Christa Dickenson, Louise Adongo, Sarah Chaudhery, Jake Nicolle and Andy McIlwain. Thank you.