The Progressives Governors Forum is set for a clash with FCT Minister Nyesom Wike after it rejected his rainbow coalition.

Wike, who is a PDP member but has strong affiliation with the APC, has formed what he described as a ‘’Rainbow Coalition’’ in Rivers state where members of the coalition would work in the interest of both the APC and PDP in Rivers State for the 2027 general election

After a closed-door meeting in Abuja on Monday, September 14, the APC chairman of the Forum and governor of Imo State, Hope Uzodinma, announced the forum’s position on such affiliation

In a communique read to the press after the meeting, Uzodinma said the APC governors will not support any political arrangement that is capable of weakening the election of APC candidates across the states.

They argued that any agreement outside the one only for APC members will undermine the party candidates across the country.

‘’The Forum unanimously resolved that its members will not participate, support or endorse any political alliance or arrangement capable of undermining the re-election of Mr President, weakening the APC or adversely affecting any candidate of the party at all levels.

In other words, the forum has no intention to support any candidate at any level that is not an APC candidate, because our candidates are being sponsored by our party.

The governors’ campaign commitment is exclusively to all APC candidates.

No arrangement that causes confusion, divided loyalty, or conflicting interest within the party will be entertained’’

[22] Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. [23] They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. [24] I say to myself, “The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for him.” [25] The Lord is good to those whose hope is in him, to the one who seeks him; [26] it is good to wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord.

Impatience has sent many to an early grave; this scripture is reminding us to wait patiently on the Lord, because God is never late, he is always on time.

Part 3: The Man Who Learned Her Language Wrong on Purpose

Six months into properly dating considerably longer than the ruse that had started it all Elias invited Nadia to his apartment for dinner, nervous in a way she hadn't quite seen from him before.

"You're doing the thing," she observed, watching him fuss unnecessarily with plates already perfectly arranged. "The thing where you get quiet and start rearranging furniture that doesn't need rearranging."

"Am I that obvious?"

"Extremely," Nadia said, amused. "What's going on?"

Elias took a breath, setting down the plate he'd been needlessly repositioning. "I want to show you something. My grandmother's, actually. I've been meaning to for a while, and tonight felt right."

He retrieved a small, worn box from a shelf, opening it carefully to reveal a stack of old letters, yellowed with age, written entirely in Farsi.

"These are hers," he said. "Letters she wrote to my grandfather during the year they were apart, before immigrating here together. I can read most of it, though some of the older dialect and handwriting still gives me trouble."

"You want help translating them properly," Nadia said gently, understanding.

"I do," Elias admitted. "Though I confess, part of me has been putting it off. Reading them feels like the last real conversation I might have with her, in a way. Once I've translated everything, that's it. Nothing left undiscovered."

Nadia reached for his hand. "We don't have to rush it. We could take our time, work through a letter or two each week, if that feels easier."

"I'd like that," Elias said, visible relief in his expression. "I think I've been waiting for someone I trusted enough to share this with properly, rather than doing it alone."

They spent the following months working through the letters slowly, evenings that started as translation exercises turning into something considerably more intimate Elias's grandmother's voice emerging clearly through decades-old ink, her humor, her fierce love for a husband she'd waited a year to properly join, her hopes for a family she'd never fully seen grow up.

"She writes about wanting grandchildren who'd speak both languages fluently," Elias said one evening, voice thick with emotion after translating a particularly tender passage. "I always felt like I disappointed her, growing up mostly speaking English at school, losing fluency over the years."

"I don't think that's disappointment she'd feel, watching you now," Nadia said softly. "I think she'd be rather proud, actually, watching you deliberately relearn what you'd lost, specifically to hold onto her memory properly."

Elias studied her, something deeply grateful and increasingly certain in his expression. "I don't think I could have done any of this without you, Nadia. Not just the translation. All of it feeling less alone in missing her, in wanting to properly honor what she left behind."

to be continued... ☕💛

The Cartographer of Forgotten Names

Wilhelmina Fairweather made her living drawing maps of places that no longer existed vanished villages, rerouted rivers, borders erased by war or time commissioned mostly by historians and the occasional homesick descendant of the displaced. It was steady, quiet work. She preferred it that way.

The request that arrived by post was unlike any other: no coordinates, no historical records, just a name. Marrow's Hollow. Beneath it, a single line: I need to know it existed. Please. I'm running out of time to prove it.

No return address. Only a postmark from a town three hours north that Wilhelmina had never heard of, and stranger still a name for the sender that appeared nowhere in any registry, census, or archive she could access. Odalys Krane. A woman who, as far as official record was concerned, did not exist.

Wilhelmina should have ignored it. Instead, she found herself driving north the following weekend, an old habit of curiosity she'd never quite outgrown.

The town, when she found it, was unremarkable — a gas station, a diner, a library with hours posted but rarely kept. The librarian, an elderly man named Aldous, squinted at the name Marrow's Hollow like she'd spoken something half-remembered from a dream.

"There was a settlement out past the ridge," he said slowly. "Before my time, even. Wiped off every map sometime in the fifties. I always heard it was a mining accident the whole company town just... stopped being funded, stopped being visited, and eventually stopped being acknowledged at all. No ***** certificates. No closure notice. Just silence."

"And Odalys Krane?" Wilhelmina asked.

Aldous's expression shifted, uneasy. "That name I don't know. But if she's asking about the Hollow, my advice is to let it stay forgotten. Some places got erased on purpose."

Wilhelmina didn't let it stay forgotten. She drove out past the ridge that same afternoon, following an old logging road that grew narrower and rougher with every mile, until her car could go no farther and she continued on foot.

She found the town by accident or by something that felt less like accident the longer she stood there. Collapsed buildings, softened by decades of overgrowth, arranged in the unmistakable, deliberate geometry of a place people had once lived, worked, and loved in.

And standing in the middle of the ruined main street, waiting as though she'd known exactly when Wilhelmina would arrive, was a woman in clothing at least seventy years out of fashion, watching her with quiet, patient hope.

"You came," the woman said. "I wasn't certain the letter would even reach anyone willing to listen."

"Are you Odalys?" Wilhelmina asked, though some instinctive part of her already understood the answer wasn't going to be simple.

"I was," the woman said. "A very long time ago. I need your help, Wilhelmina Fairweather. I need you to put us back on the map properly, permanently before the last person who remembers we ever existed finally forgets, and Marrow's Hollow disappears not just from paper, but from memory itself."

to be continued... 🗺️🕯️

“Grant” scams in Nigeria have become a more advanced format of the old Yahoo scam model. This is based on information I have confirmed from a source.

The pattern is similar to schemes like Theobarth, Semi, Telpecon and others. It often works as a coordinated operation involving multiple people. Some team members keep victims updated with fabricated news, screenshots and promises, while the actual person behind the scheme stays away from social media to avoid attracting the attention of agencies like the EFCC, ICPC and others.

The team continues feeding beneficiaries with hope and fake updates until people eventually get tired, give up or withdraw.

Grant na format in Nigeria. I repeat: GRANT NA FORMAT!

Some NGOs may also be used as part of the setup. There is reportedly another one currently making rounds where selected “beneficiaries” are being asked to pay ₦50,000 each.

So, if you receive a message saying you have been “selected,” please don't immediately feel lucky. You may actually have been selected as a target.

Imagine collecting ₦50,000 from 109 supposed beneficiaries. That is ₦5.45 million from people who were simply made to believe they were receiving a grant.

Don't let excitement over “free money” override common sense. Verify everything independently before paying anyone a dime.

Grant na format. Abuse me now and thank me later.

Part 2: The Restorer Who Uncovered a Wedding That Never Happened

Theodosia and Augustus spent the following days searching county records, church archives, and old newspaper microfilm, slowly piecing together fragments of Cordelia Ashford's brief, mysterious existence within the Winslow family.

"Here," Augustus said, pointing to a brief newspaper mention from early 1963. "A small notice announcing Cordelia had 'returned to her family estate in the countryside, citing health concerns.' No further mention appears afterward."

"That seems remarkably vague," Theodosia observed, "for someone who'd married into such a prominent local family."

They traced Cordelia's own family lineage, discovering her parents had passed decades ago, though a distant cousin, Marguerite Ashford, still lived in the region, potentially holding family knowledge about Cordelia's actual fate.

Marguerite, elderly but sharp, received them cautiously, though her expression shifted considerably once Theodosia explained the scratched-out wedding portrait's disturbing discovery.

"I always wondered if someone might eventually properly investigate," Marguerite admitted, settling carefully into her chair. "Cordelia was my father's cousin. Family legend always claimed she died of illness shortly after her wedding, though I've long suspected the actual truth was considerably darker."

"What do you believe happened?" Theodosia asked gently.

Marguerite's expression grew troubled. "My father mentioned once, only briefly, before he passed, that Byron Winslow had been considerably controlling, even abusive, throughout their brief marriage. Cordelia apparently tried leaving him multiple times, though family pressure and Byron's considerable wealth and influence always somehow prevented her escape."

"Do you believe he harmed her directly?" Augustus asked carefully.

"I've always suspected as much," Marguerite said, old grief evident in her weathered voice. "Though nothing was ever properly investigated at the time. The Winslow family's influence effectively silenced any potential inquiry."

Theodosia felt determination building steadily. "Then perhaps it's finally time someone properly investigates, regardless of how much time has passed."

They approached local authorities with their findings, though the considerable time elapsed now sixty years complicated any potential formal investigation significantly. Still, Detective Priya Sundaram agreed to review the case, intrigued by the mysterious circumstances and troubling family history.

"If Byron Winslow's estate contains any physical evidence," Priya said, reviewing their compiled research, "we might finally uncover what genuinely happened to Cordelia, despite the considerable decades that have passed."

They obtained permission to properly search the now-empty Winslow estate, hopeful of finding some overlooked evidence that might finally reveal Cordelia's true, tragic fate.

to be continued... 📷🚨

Part 3: The Mapmaker Who Charted Impossible Hearts

Their relationship deepened steadily over the following months, the silver thread growing increasingly vibrant with each passing week, though Bellamy found herself relying less on its visible confirmation and more on the genuine, authentic connection they were building through honest conversation and shared experience.

"I've been thinking," Julian said one evening, watching her carefully sketch a customer's requested map, "about your gift more broadly. Have you ever considered using it more deliberately, to help others the way you're now trusting it for yourself?"

Bellamy paused, considering the question seriously. "I've helped occasionally, when circumstances seemed to properly call for it. Though I've always been cautious about interfering too directly in others' paths."

"What made you finally trust it for your own happiness?" Julian asked curiously.

"You, mostly," Bellamy admitted, smiling warmly. "Watching that thread grow so consistently, so genuinely, alongside everything we've built together through honest conversation—it became increasingly difficult to properly doubt what was clearly, authentically developing between us."

Julian reached for her hand, warmth and genuine affection evident in his gentle touch. "I'm profoundly grateful you did, Bellamy. I don't believe I've ever experienced connection this genuine, this certain, with anyone else."

Word gradually spread through their small town about Bellamy's unusual gift, curious neighbors occasionally seeking her guidance about their own uncertain romantic connections. She found herself, cautiously at first, then increasingly confidently, helping others navigate their own paths toward genuine happiness, drawing on her own experience with Julian as gentle, reassuring proof that trusting authentic connection confirmed by magic or otherwise could lead toward genuine, lasting fulfillment.

"You've helped considerably more people find happiness these past few months," Julian observed one evening, watching her guide another hopeful young couple through her small shop. "I think witnessing our own genuine connection has given you courage to properly trust your gift more broadly."

"I believe you're right," Bellamy agreed, smiling warmly. "I spent years cautiously observing from safe distance, worried about interfering or witnessing painful heartbreak. But experiencing genuine happiness myself has taught me the true value of gently, compassionately guiding others toward their own authentic connections."

Nearly a year after Julian's first visit to her shop, Bellamy found herself standing beside him near the very coastline she'd originally, mistakenly agreed to map for him, watching sunset paint brilliant colors across gently rolling waves.

"I have something to ask you," Julian said, retrieving a small, carefully wrapped box from his coat pocket.

to be continued... 🗺️💫

Part 2: The Mapmaker Who Charted Impossible Hearts

Julian studied her with growing fascination, genuine curiosity replacing his earlier casual charm. "Can you actually see it right now? This thread you're describing?"

"I can," Bellamy confirmed, glancing toward the silver light connecting them, brilliant and unmistakable in her unique vision. "It's grown steadily brighter each time you've visited, actually. I've never witnessed one develop quite this intensely, this quickly."

"What does that mean, precisely?" Julian asked.

Bellamy considered her answer carefully, years of cautious observation informing her response. "Typically, brightness indicates genuine compatibility, deep potential for meaningful connection. Though I confess, I've always been rather hesitant to properly trust the visions, even when they've seemed remarkably clear."

"Why hesitant?" Julian pressed gently.

"I've watched countless threads over the years," Bellamy admitted. "Sometimes people recognize their connection properly, build genuine happiness together. Other times, despite clear indication, circumstances or poor timing intervene, and the thread simply fades, unfulfilled."

Julian studied her thoughtfully. "And you've never tested this ability for yourself before now?"

"Never," Bellamy confirmed. "I suppose I've always been rather protective of my own heart, having witnessed so much heartbreak through others' experiences."

"I understand that hesitation," Julian said gently. "Though perhaps, given how remarkably intense this particular thread seems, it might be worth properly exploring together, rather than allowing caution alone to determine the outcome."

Bellamy felt warmth spreading through her chest, genuine hope building steadily despite years of careful, guarded distance from her own potential happiness. "I think you're right, actually. Perhaps it's time I trusted my own gift, rather than simply observing everyone else's connections from careful, safe distance."

They spent the following weeks getting properly acquainted, deliberate conversation building genuine understanding alongside the ever-present, steadily intensifying silver thread only Bellamy could properly witness.

"I confess," Julian said one evening, several weeks into their growing connection, "I've never felt quite this certain about anyone before. Is that simply because of your gift's visible confirmation, or something else entirely?"

Bellamy considered the question seriously. "I believe it's genuinely both, actually. The thread simply confirms what we're already discovering naturally, through honest conversation and authentic connection."

"Then perhaps," Julian said, reaching for her hand with growing affection, "we should continue trusting both equally, moving forward."

to be continued... 🗺️💛

The Weaver of Wishing Threads

In the village of Aldermoor, Sable spun thread from ordinary wool that somehow, occasionally, granted the small wishes of whoever wore garments made from it nothing extravagant, simply gentle nudges toward hope, courage, or unexpected kindness. Her grandmother had taught her the craft, though warned repeatedly that thread woven from genuine, selfless intention worked considerably more powerfully than thread spun carelessly.

Tonight, a stranger arrived at her small shop, exhausted and travel-worn, carrying a single tattered glove.

"I need this repaired," he said, setting it carefully on her counter. "It belonged to my late wife. I know it's simply fabric, foolish sentiment perhaps, but I can't properly let it fall apart entirely."

Sable studied the glove carefully, old instinct stirring immediately. "What's your name?"

"Cedric," he said. "And I apologize if this request seems unusual."

"Not unusual at all," Sable said gently. "Grief attaches meaning to precisely the objects that deserve it most."

She worked through the evening, weaving new thread carefully into the glove's worn fabric, genuine empathy guiding her careful stitches. When she finished, the glove seemed to shimmer faintly, warm despite the shop's cool evening air.

"There's something you should understand," Sable said, handing it back carefully. "My thread carries old magic, responding to genuine, selfless wishes. This glove may occasionally offer gentle comfort or guidance, though I cannot properly predict specific outcomes."

Cedric studied the glove with cautious wonder. "You're saying it might somehow help me process my grief properly?"

"Perhaps," Sable said honestly. "Though the magic responds unpredictably, guided mostly by genuine need rather than direct request."

That night, wearing the glove for the first time since his wife's passing, Cedric felt an unusual warmth spreading through his hand, guiding him gently toward an old letter tucked inside his coat pocket one his wife had written weeks before her *****, which he'd never properly found courage to read.

He returned to Sable's shop the following morning, visibly moved.

"It led me to something important," he said, showing her the letter. "Words from my wife I never knew existed until last night. I don't understand how the glove knew, but somehow, it did."

Sable felt genuine warmth at witnessing her craft's meaningful impact. "Sometimes," she said softly, "our own hearts already know exactly what we need. The magic simply helps guide us there, gently."

to be continued... 🧶✨

Part 2: The Keeper of Autumn's Last Light

Callahan studied his surroundings with visible disorientation, autumn leaves he remembered vividly now scattered and withered around him, the forest's atmosphere shifted subtly toward winter's approaching chill.

"How long have I truly been trapped?" he asked, though he'd already guessed the painful answer.

"Three years, precisely as you said," Wren confirmed gently. "The forest doesn't lie about such things."

Callahan absorbed this slowly, grief resurfacing alongside genuine gratitude. "My sister," he said suddenly, alarm evident. "She must believe I simply vanished, or worse."

"Perhaps we should properly find her," Wren suggested. "Let her know you've finally returned."

They walked together through the darkening forest, Callahan sharing fragments of his story as they moved his grief over losing his fiancée to sudden illness, his desperate, reckless wish to somehow delay winter's arrival, hoping foolishly it might somehow prevent further loss.

"I understand grief driving desperate choices," Wren said softly. "Though I confess, I've never personally experienced loss quite that profound."

"Consider yourself fortunate," Callahan said, though warmth entered his voice as he studied her curiously. "What exactly is your role here, keeper of autumn's light? You mentioned it's a family duty."

"My family has protected the transition between seasons for generations," Wren explained. "Ensuring one season properly, gently gives way to the next, rather than clashing too abruptly. It's rather solitary work, admittedly."

"Solitary sounds lonely," Callahan observed gently.

"Sometimes," Wren admitted, surprised by her own honesty. "Though I've grown accustomed to it, mostly."

They reached the forest's edge as evening properly settled, Callahan's sister's modest cottage visible in the distance, warm light glowing invitingly from its windows.

"Will I see you again?" Callahan asked suddenly, surprising them both with his directness. "I confess, three years frozen alone in that forest, and yet somehow tonight feels like the first genuinely warm connection I've experienced in far longer than that."

Wren felt unexpected warmth spreading through her own carefully guarded heart. "I return to this forest every year, precisely on autumn's final day. Perhaps you might visit then, if you'd like."

"A year feels considerably long to wait," Callahan said, smiling despite his exhaustion. "Might I visit sooner, properly, beyond simply autumn's ceremonial duty?"

Wren considered his earnest request, old caution slowly giving way to genuine curiosity and unexpected hope. "I'd like that, actually," she admitted softly.

to be continued... 🍂💛

A 13- year-old Junior Secondary School (JSS) student of Ihyau El -Burhan Academy, Phase 3, Gwagwalada Area Council of the Federal Capital Territory (FCT), Alhassan Jamil, has d!ed after he was swept away by flood on Wednesday, September 9.

Father of the deceased, Jamil Maikasuwa, while narrating the incident to DailyTrust, said he picked his son up on his motorcycle to drop him off at the school, but while crossing a double-cell culvert, his son seated at the back, fell into flood water.

“Upon discovering that the flood water was coming on high speed, I applied brake but my son, out of fear, jumped from the bike and suddenly fell into the flood water. And immediately when I discovered he jumped down from the bike, I quickly pushed the bike aside and tried to grab his hand in order to save him but unfortunately, the flood water swept him away, ” he said.

Maikasuwa, who is the Special Assistant to the Chairman of the council on Domestic Affairs, said his corpse is yet to be recovered.

He disclosed that some fisher men and divers had been mobilize to go in search of the corpse.

“Actually, my son’s corpse is yet to be recovered, even though some residents whose houses are close to the river bank said they discovered the corpse with his school bag strapped to his back floating. We hope that the corpse will be recovered so we can give him a befitting burial,” he said

Part 4 (Final): The Cobbler Who Mended Broken Promises

Word spread quickly through the town about Rosalind and Edmund's miraculous reunion, Isolde's small cobbler shop suddenly attracting curious visitors eager to understand the remarkable magic that had reunited two people separated by an impossible, ancient curse.

"I never anticipated such attention," Isolde admitted to Rosalind and Edmund, who'd taken to visiting regularly, genuine friendship developing steadily following their extraordinary reunion. "Though I confess, witnessing your reunion has renewed my own faith in the gift's true, profound potential."

"Perhaps it's time you considered using it more deliberately yourself," Rosalind suggested gently. "Rather than simply waiting cautiously for others to properly request it."

Isolde considered the suggestion seriously, old hesitation warring against newfound inspiration. "I've spent years worried about unpredictable consequences, admittedly. Though perhaps witnessing your genuine happiness has shown me the magic's capacity for profound good, rather than simply potential complication."

"Is there anyone you might wish to properly reconnect with?" Edmund asked curiously. "Using the gift yourself, I mean."

Isolde felt old, carefully buried longing stirring unexpectedly. "There was someone, actually. Years ago, before I properly inherited this shop. A man I cared for deeply, though circumstances eventually separated us before either of us properly addressed our genuine feelings."

"What happened?" Rosalind asked gently.

"He left to pursue opportunities elsewhere," Isolde admitted. "I told myself pursuing him would have been foolish, given my responsibilities here. I've often wondered, though, what might have happened had I properly taken that particular risk."

"Perhaps it's not too late," Edmund suggested carefully. "Given everything we've just experienced ourselves."

Isolde considered the possibility seriously, months of watching genuine, unexpected happiness unfold finally inspiring her toward courage she'd long denied herself. That evening, after Rosalind and Edmund departed, she carefully selected a pair of her own worn shoes, mending them with the same deliberate, genuine intention she'd offered countless customers over the years.

The magic responded immediately, warm light gathering around her as she finally, courageously decided to properly test her family's remarkable gift on her own behalf.

She found herself moments later standing outside a modest workshop in a distant town, uncertain exactly how she'd arrived, though genuine hope building steadily as familiar warmth radiated from within.

A man emerged from the workshop, recognition dawning slowly across his weathered, considerably aged features. "Isolde?"

"Theodore," she breathed, overwhelming emotion crashing over her at finally, properly reuniting with the man she'd quietly loved and regretfully lost touch with for years. "I know this seems impossible, but"

"You're here," Theodore said simply, closing the distance between them with genuine wonder and unmistakable joy. "I've thought about you constantly, Isolde. I always regretted never properly expressing how deeply I cared, before circumstances separated us."

"I felt exactly the same," Isolde admitted, tears gathering as years of quiet regret finally, properly resolved into genuine, unexpected reunion.

As they embraced, Isolde understood profoundly that her family's remarkable gift, once used cautiously and exclusively for others, could also serve her own genuine happiness proof that sometimes courage required simply trusting magic capable of guiding hearts precisely where they most desperately, genuinely needed to go.

They married the following spring, Isolde's cobbler shop becoming legendary throughout the region, not simply for skilled craftsmanship, but for genuine magic capable of reuniting hearts separated by impossible circumstance a testament to courage, patience, and the profound, transformative power of choosing genuine love over cautious hesitation.

THE END 👢💍💛✨