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 Agriculture / Re: Mobile Soil Test Kit by samzy1: 6:22pm On Mar 25, 2019 |
Cee9: Hi, please is there anyway to contact for your mobile soil test kit? |
| Agriculture / Re: Mushroom Cultivation Simplified by samzy1: 4:39pm On Jan 16, 2018 |
benzion72: It takes selflessness to share knowledge It takes wisdom to know that this' needful. Hence, anyone who says it's impossible, should get out of the way for those who're doing it already. I've been in talks with you through mail, and I'm amazed at your willingness to reach out and help. Thank you so much. Thanks for teaching and sharing these knowledge; I definitely will teach others too. I promise not to hoard this knowledge. 5 Likes |
| Literature / Black Sunday by samzy1: 9:49pm On Apr 10, 2017 |
BLACK SUNDAY Monday, April 10, 2017 9:23 AM There were rapid images flashing through the screen of my mind as I dreamt on, it felt so real, as if I was in those images. I could hear gun shots and screams, though I couldn't make out the words of the people shouting. Bisola wake up! Bisola wake up! I felt someone shaking my shoulder, but the voice seemed to come from somewhere distant in my dreams. It kept calling my name with more urgency till a slap landed on my cheeks that wiped the images out of my eye. There was no room to get angry as I jumped up from the floor where I was lying down and started rubbing my cheeks. The look on Mumcy's face was that of terror, I had never seen it before. Her hair was disarrayed, eyes reddened with tears, streaks of mud on her wrapper, and to cap it, she somehow had lost a foot of her slippers in whatever must have made her get that disarrayed look. I didn't get a chance to ask her the numerous questions that was beginning to form in my mind, we had quarreled last night, so I was wondering, why wake me up at this time? why slap me? Did she want to come and start her early morning talk again about how hard life is, and how to keep my purity and all that? All these questions, I didn't get an opportunity to ask when I heard the gunshot. It felt so real, unlike what I was used to in those American movies. I jumped up in fear, and bent my shoulder in a semi squat as if I was dodging a flying ball over my head. Next came the crash. I've never been in a riot before, just the tales and stories I read either from newspapers or watch in the news whenever I have the opportunity to do so. I rushed out to see what was happening, what had crashed, only to be met with a scene I will never forget. I saw a caterpillar mowing down Kehinde's house, and I remembered that Kehinde's grandmother was paralyzed and couldn't move an inch on her own. I forgot totally about my mother who was beginning to wail behind me at the door. As I made for Kehinde's house, I felt a hand grip my wrist and draw me back with such a force that I fell down on my butt. I looked up only to find a Police Officer with a mean look on his face, telling me that if I liked my life, I should better run away from that place. I tried to protest and explain that my friend's family house was the one been crushed, and I wanted to help, he cocked his gun, and with a deadly look on his face, said "I'll open fire on you if you no commot from here." I scrambled on all fours in a hurry as I tried to get away from the police officer. My heart was beating faster. All around me, I was bearing cries and shouts, I was wondering what caused this, what had we done wrong. Otodo Gbame has never seen this kind of brutality, and I wondered why now? As if the police officers got a new order on their walking-talking, they started beating up people who wouldn't leave their houses. I watched helplessly as two police officers drag Yusuf by the waist (the way they drag a thief) from their house as he tried to stand up to the police officers after they had pushed his father who had a stroke. They didn't stop there, they went back in, started throwing the few properties they had, outside. My eyes were already teary, the sob in my throat, I couldn't shout, I couldn't cry. I hadn't cried since my father died 12years ago, and I wasn't give these fools the benefit of seeing me cry. But my eyes remained teary. The cloud had gathered already, if you looked up, you could see shades of grey in the sky, amongst the clouds. I didn't know what to do next, whether to run back to our house, since the policemen and their cohorts hadn't gotten there yet, or just help someone else; but before I could make up my mind, my decision was already made for me. The houses that hadn't been bulldozed yet, were been set on fire. It didn't matter to them if people were inside or not, property or not. I could hear some women lay curses on the policemen, their families, children, wives, even the governor, for letting this happen. Just as I was rushing back home to go pack the few belongings we had, something caught my peripheral vision, four police officers were heading to the makeshift building we used as a school, 10 liter gallons in hand. I stopped dead in my tracks, because I was a volunteer teacher there. It was the only thing I could do, while waiting for admission. These men started pouring petrol on the makeshift structure, and before I could get there, they had lit it up. I couldn't hold back the scream, as I shouted. It felt like a hot iron searing through my heart. The last solace I had, the only thing that still made sense to my life, the only thing that I found joy in doing, was going up in flames. As I tried getting closer, one of them pushed me. I fell. He walked up to me, bent over and gave me a sound slap. I choked on my cry. "Are you stupid? Do you think we're joking here? Come on, will you get out of here?" he shouted at me. I could smell his breath, it reeked of alcohol. My eyes were lit up with stars as I struggled to gain composure. "Oya gerraway you," the other officer behind him shouted. I managed to get on my feet and start running back to my house. As I turned back, I saw some men in uniform pointing towards the direction of my house; my heart skipped faster, I started shouting "Mama, run ooo, run oo" infact, I didn't know what to shout as I tried to run faster. I could feel the heaviness in my calf as I tried to run faster. All around me, people were jumping into canoes. Owning a canoe around my neighborhood was the only thing that set you apart from been extremely poor, for we all were poor. But at least, each family tried to own at least one canoe. I could see people jumping into their canoes with bundles of cloth wrapped inside a bigger cloth on their heads, or in between their arms. Every other property, forfeited. We had only one boat, though 'twas old and leaking. Mama was already tying up our cloths, and my kid brother, who's just 14years old, was doing his best to stay composed as the man of the house. I didn't wait to wonder what was going on in his head. I helped Mama tie the remainder of our cloths inside the biggest bedspread we had, and Tinubu carried it on his head as he made for the canoe. It was if everyone in Otodo Gbame was running away from an incoming Tsunami, and rushing to the safety of their boats to paddle away to the a safe haven, only that this time, we were all running away from the officials of the Lagos State government, the police force and their bulldozers. I saw women carrying their suckling children into the rain, frail grandmothers and grandpas been helped into canoes, I saw people who were bruised in various degrees been helped into canoes, as we all tried paddling away from the shores. My thought went back to Yusuf, what had become of him? Did he make it from the police clutch? We paddled to where other canoes were, just to have a feeling of safety amongst kin, only to discover the worst had happened. I first saw Yusuf's blue polo, the one he was wearing when he was dragged out of their house. I though he was just lying down on the boat, till I saw blood stains, as I got closer, I began to make out the words of the men and women around, Yusuf had bled to death, from the cuts and beatings of the police and their fallen house. The rain had begun falling, the scene in front of me was not like anything I've ever read, heard or seen. Now I let go of all the restraint, I screamed…it wasn't just your normal scream. It was my own way of asking God if there's a thing called Justice. What would become of us, of this nursing mothers and their babies, in this rain, of these old ones, of each and everyone of us? Will there ever be justice? Haven't we suffered enough? NB: This' just a fiction, a conjured story trying to depict the event that happened in Otodo Gbame, yesterday 09-04-2017. #JusticeForOtodoGbame #GeneralSam
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| Food / Where Can I Buy Sacks For Rice Packaging (apart From BAGCO) by samzy1: 11:17am On Apr 05, 2017 |
Good morning Peeps, Please I'm a rice farmer, and I'm in a dilemma. I need a company where I can buy sacks (bags) used in bagging rice, apart from BAGCO (their minimum order is caring me away for now - 5000bags, minimum order. Please help a farmer. |
| Family / My Reply To Sen. Ahmad Yarima On Under Age Marriage by samzy1: 7:30pm On Jul 22, 2013 |
''Nigeria has many uncountable problems and none of them is early marriage. As a matter of fact early marriage the solution to about half of our problems. For those who wonder if I can give my daughter(s) out in marriage at the age of 9 or 13, I tell you most honestly, I can give her out at the age of 6 if I want to and its not your business. This is because I am a Muslim and I follow the example of the best of mankind, Muhammad ?. My Reply: First of all, I think it's high time some people start thinking with their heads instead of the beards on them. Nigeria has many uncountable problems, and seriously, early marriage is one of them. The last time I checked, Nigeria wasn't and isn't an Islamic nation, neither are the laws governing its subjects derived from the Koran. The bane of every society's problem, is not its leaders, neither is it its government, rather, the Family. Below is my reply to Sen. Yarima's reasons: Reply 1: At the age of 12, a mother should have start noticing the feminine changes in her daughter's physique, knowing fully well that she's transcending into womanhood through puberty. What happens when the father can't play his role as a father in the life of his daughter because he's always absent or too busy to give attention or can't even keep track of how children he has; while the mother fights the battle of raising the child with little or no input from the father; and sometimes, a care free hand is given to this child, and at the age of 12, the father and mother can't even tell who their child has become. And here you are campaigning that a child be given out in early marriage because you can't do ur duty as a father. Reply 2: I remember the orientation we were given at home while growing up. I know the things we were exposed to even as we stepped into primary school. I know how strict our parents were, to the kind of friends we kept, friends we brought home, friends we visited, books we read, movies and television shows we watched; the punishment that faced us each time we defaulted from them. The fear for what will become of my fate, served as a check mate for my actions. And please don't tell me this is a new age, that the world has evolved more than it was during our time, because the other kids coming tops in their class, being responsible and being good object of examples, are people's daughters too. The difference is their parents did their job well, while you didn't do yours, and the result is what you see kids do behind the toilet on valentine day. Reply 3: Why will young girls flood the street at night, looking for men who will sleep them and give them N500 in exchange if not for the kind of hands they were dealt with while growing up. Train up a child in the way he/she should grow, and when he/she is old, they'll never depart from it. Why will a child give her body in exchange of N500n if not for the fact that she can't get that N500 at home at home from her parents. And you sit down there suggesting that she be given out in marriage at the age of 12, when you can do something to ensure that the female child don't lack the basic things she need while growing up. Reply 4: What of other parents who don't send their daughters overseas to trade their bodies for money and send the dollars home? What of the parents who strongly encourage their daughters to be educated, to be skilled in one art or the other? What makes them different from the lousy parents who can't fulfill their God-given duty? Reply 5: Living in a city where government officials pick undergraduates who are old enough to be their daughters, to wild sex parties, is not the problem, but seeing and knowing that such act exists, and failing to take actions or enact laws that would stop these heinous acts is more shameful. Reply 6: You know that there exists chemists who collect N2500 to perform abortions, yet you let the practice live as a law maker; then what does it say of you? Does that make you an accomplice to an ongoing crime? Does that not reflect the kind of leader you're? You see, the bane of these problems is the family, and the key players are the parents. Giving your daughter(s) out to marriage at the age of 6, is nobody's business and will never be. But my fear, is for the families that can't protect themselves, the widows under pressure from over zealous kinsmen, to give their daughters at that young age. What happens to the girl who gets married at that young age, and by 26 or 27 or 28, is already tired and fed up with the marriage and is embittered with regrets for the youthful days she missed due to early marriage, for the things she didn't do, and the life she didn't live as a young girl. What happens when divorce becomes the next option. What becomes of the offspring of that marriage, who are now affected by the broken homes, no fatherly figure, loose motherly presence. What kind of children do you think they'll become? #Think with your head not beard #Child not bride #Gen. Sam
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| Jokes Etc / The Memoires Of A Final Year Student In Unn by samzy1: 2:04pm On Jul 11, 2013 |
For most of us, the journey started four years ago, while some, it was five years and others, six years ago. I watched as many alighted from their buses in Peace & Ifesinachi Park; carrying heavy bags and boxes full of cloths and foodstuffs. I’m sure a lot of advice were given; infact I can just imagine fathers, mothers, uncles, aunts, guardians, sitting their wards down, giving and raining advices upon them: “do this, don’t do this, go here, don’t go there, don’t make bad friends, don’t go after girls (for us boys), don’t go after boys (for them girls), don’t join cults, read your books and so forth.” I can just imagine their wards shaking and nodding their heads “yes sir, yes ma” in mock obeisance and cut short the advice time. I can imagine tears shed before the goodbyes, I can still hear the parting words of encouragement from my parents to make them proud as I become a Lion. Running thro and fro our faculties for clearance, praying each day to get a reg number so you could become a full student. I remember the long queue in our faculties as we were cleared and fully admitted; I also remember the long and tiring and boring hours we spent in PAA all in the name of orientation. I remember us running in packs as wolves from our departments to GS building for GS 101 and GS 102 just to get at least, because the hall was always over crowded. I remember the 8 in 1 and the 10 in 1 we bought for our lectures, the ginger to copy notes we failed to copy; the feigned disappointment at lectures missed. I remember the 8 o’clock lectures which were like every day; so we had to wake up at least by 6am (for those of us who stayed in franco in our first in our first ear) to take our bath and wait in line for the okpa women, especially the Eni-njoku Okpa woman to come. Failure to wake up on time, meant you were going to stand in a very long queue before it was your turn to bath. The three hour lectures were the most boring and tiring because it always come last; and so, we had an average of 10 hours of study time or should I say, 10 hours of being in the class every day, Mondays to Fridays. The cloths we washed and left outside to dry, only to come back and find them missing; and probably, see another student flexing with it few weeks later; the buckets stolen at the tap or tank; the days of drought in franco when neither the tap rushed nor did the tankers come to fill the tank, when boys would climb the tanks to scoop the remaining water in the tank, when boys would troop to the swimming pool with buckets just to fetch water. I remember the nights, especially during the exam period when the school generator would choose to become faculty and NEPA or PHCN would look for one excuse or the other not to give us light. The night classes at NSLT, Carver building, Pre-fab and Social Sciences, even in the reading rooms of our hostels, all made us who we are today. I remember the pure water and mishai or biscuit that accompanied each night class. I remember the reading partners we had in our first years and the friends we made because they proofed to be knowledgeable in one course or the other. The reading group made up of friends and roommates are not left out. Infact, the days when we would go to class 20 minutes before the lecture starts and use our bags and books to keep space for our friends and reading partners. Those days when we would borrow a t-shirt from one friend, a jean from another roommate, a snicker or shoe from another friend in another hostel, a watch from a roommate and now bath ourself with a perfume or body spray that we’ve been hoarding for quiet sometime, just because we promised a classmate or friend in Mary Slessor/Akintola or Bello that we were coming to see her that night. Those days when we moved in packs of friends and jonzed together. I remember the riot days, when students took to the streets crying and shouting “we no go gree oo, we no go gree” while our “oga at the top” was busy chilling in CEC; when students were jumping windows, dodging rubber bullets from soldiers and looting staff properties. Those days we wished and prayed earnestly for strike because of the long holidays that come with it. I won’t forget the term papers and the deadlines; the days when we went on 1-0-1 or 1-1-0 or 0-0-1; when N50 – bread 30, groundnut N20 or 5 fibre biscuits and chill it down with gallon water. Those were the days we would always pray to have garri at home because after forming fine boy with the borrowed clothes in Chitis, Sweet Berries, Coke Villa and 11:45, we would come back with empty stomach so hungry that G4 without sugarwould be the only way out. And those were the days we remembered to visit all the female friends we hadn’t visited in a long while, with the hope of getting something to “chow” when they invited us in. Those were the days when we had to compromise a little bit just to be accepted by our friends and feel among and fell like we know what’s up. As I sit down recollecting these memories, different thoughts run through my mind: the friends we started out with but are no more today; the friends you saw in class or hostel some days ago only to hear of their sudden demise; the first class and best graduating students that died mysteriously before their convocation day; the student that hanged himself just to end the controversy hovering around him; the student that slumped after writing an exam in front of the biggest eatery in school, and they said the cause of death was stress; the final year student who died along with her family due to food poison; the students who slumped and died on their matriculation day; the friend who died of cancer of the bone marrow; the other friend who died of food poison, just indomie, they said; the lecturers dying at intervals; the students who died in car crashes on their way back home or to school. Hmmmmmmmm. The list is inexhaustible. Ain’t you lucky to be alive today? It is a fact that 60% of us didn’t get the course we applied for, especially we science students who applied for Medicine and Surgery only to be dumped in Biological Sciences or Physical Sciences and so forth. As I look at the faces of my fellow finalists, I’m moved to tears. Tears, for what they have faced in this school. Tears, for what they are facing now. Tears, for what they are about to face tomorrow. Tears, because most of them are not leaving with their mates. Tears, because they are staying back because of one reason or the other. Tears, because 65% of them are leaving school more confused than they were before they got admission. Tears, because most of them don’t even know what to do with the freedom they now have; tears because a lot of them are not even prepared or even the real Lion they’re supposed to be; tears because a lot of them are a shadow of the true picture they ought to represent. I’ve been asking myself this question for some time, and today, I want to ask all the finalists this same question: It’s a wonderful feeling to be leaving this Den after 4,5,6 years of hard work, stress and fun; now making it as a finalist; but wait! Making it as a finalist is not the problem, but making it as the finest you were meant to be, is! So the question is: Are you the finest you can be, the finest you were meant to be? If the answer is NO, then guess, you know what you must do, because out there, there is no space and place for a mediocre YOU, only the best and finest of what you were meant to be. GENERAL SAM. 7 Likes |
| Literature / Re: Young Authors of Nigeria (YAN) -Join Now! by samzy1: 2:27pm On May 04, 2013 |
I've been a silent follower of this thread. I watched as you all clamoured for something good but far fetched; I saw you reach out for it only for it to crumble to ashes when it was within reach. So here is a qestion for all: "has it ever occured to you that you might be approaching this association issue from the blind side without enlightenment? Has it ever occured to you that you should put so much effort in personal work before crying blue murder?" Well, I have a lot of things to say, but will have to cap my pen before it blots. For every self acclaimed writer, this is my advice to you: go and work on yourself, your english, your creativity, your plots, your ability to hold readers spell-bound and glued to your piece, whether fiction or fact; these are what you should be doing now (sorry if anyone disagrees), instead of repeating the same words every day for 1 year and 2 - 3 months. Work on your short stories and novels, get trusted friends to read them, venture out and meet good editors and publishers; start from somewhere, there is a space for you at the top. This is from one writer to others. Be unique for your style of writing, don't try to use other writer's words or expression, be UNIQUE! |
| Literature / Re: My Year Of Trouble And Sexcapades(myts) by samzy1: 12:33pm On May 04, 2013 |
Wia u dey tanx go, kom finish wetin u start ooo. U neva c hell! |
| Literature / Re: NYSC: PPA:- Place Of Promiscuous Assignment by samzy1: 3:13pm On Apr 06, 2013 |
Mazi_Omenuko: Let me take this time out to thank the officials and my fans: @Mazi, There is no blasphemy if I say there is a space for you @ d cadre up there, coz there's only a few of dem there. And I seriously think u shud venture in2 more creative writing, acceptable by d public. U nid a more wider coverage, and 4 u 2 do dat, u nid 2 venture in2 oda genres of writing. Glad 2 av made an aquaintance wif u. |
| Literature / Re: NYSC: PPA:- Place Of Promiscuous Assignment by samzy1: 7:57am On Apr 06, 2013 |
@ Mazi, I've been commenting my reserve eva since I started reading this thread, and to be candid, I've neva read any piece of work more daring and suspense-filled. Not even my late mentor Chinua Achebe could rival this kind of suspense (though he could on a different genre of literature); even my coach Chimamanda Adichie would find it veri difficult coming to terms wif this inovative writer. From one writer to the other, I duff my cap, and lyk d saying goes on d streets of my fatherland, I will say " iwuh dachi" and 2 all destructive critics :"stay clear, maka mazi agah ko kwah nuclear". Once again, I hail u my manchi. @ ITbomb, kip it up. The gutso is much needed this period. @all, u'r d bomb 4 ur loyalty 2 dz thread. 1 Like |
| Literature / Re: NYSC: National Year Of Sex And Comfort <<<Adventure of the year: 2013 Awards >>> by samzy1: 3:51pm On Apr 01, 2013 |
Well m finally hia; do I go ryt wen IT bomb z nt left or do I go left wen gluv z nt ryt? Anyway, @Mazi, iwu ezigboteh dachi, iburoh Messi, but Nwanne ikpa ga ha, and ife ba ra aba aba go, mokwero iba, iteh ya vaseline. Tuale 2 a gud writa lyk giwan. And eji kwam style na ana ba ta owem officialy na diz ogba koh of diz igwe nmadu. Ka odi kwa ka aneh me. |
| Politics / Re: World's Ten Smallest Militaries- Photos by samzy1: 11:19pm On Mar 28, 2013 |
Scofieldella: Nigerians just dey recruit everyday but they no dey fight any war.. Except, well maybe as back ups for oda countries. U think Nigeria is not engaged in any active combat, then, Scofield in Prison breaks must have more sense, nuts and guts than u do. Have u eva heard of ECOMOG, have u eva checked the stats? That Nigeria has the highest quota of soldiers in the corps? Have you eva heard of AU Peace keeping Corps? That Nigeria has the highest quota of soldiers in the Corps? Same goes for joint UN Peace Keeping Forces, Nigeria has the highest number of African soldiers in d UN Peace Keeping Forces. Incase u dnt knw, al diz fighting u read n watch in the tele, hapening in eastern and northern part of Africa, do u knw hw many Nigerian soldiers are sent there to help maintain peace n stabilize the situation? Guy, no ney yarn akpata or bullshit wen e be sey u no sabi ur onions; and incase u dnt knw, Nigeria has the best infantry forces in the whole of Africa. Or r u a learner? |
| Politics / Re: World's Ten Smallest Militaries- Photos by samzy1: 4:01pm On Mar 28, 2013 |
obadiah777: NIGERIA DIDNT MAKE THE LIST ? OJORO Nigeria has the biggest military, paramilitary and reserve forces in the whole of Africa. It has the highest quota of soldiers in ECOMOG and AU Peace Keeping Forces. In the UN Peace Keeping Forces, Nigeria has the higest quota in the force as highest representation of Africa in the Force. So Nwokem, kedi afa ghi sef, ehhmm Obadiah, next tym dnt tlk trash because it makes u look like a LEARNER; "anama cha kwanu, u myt stil b 1 afta all". |
| Literature / Re: NYSC: National Year Of Sex And Comfort <<<Adventure of the year: 2013 Awards >>> by samzy1: 11:38pm On Mar 18, 2013 |
gluv01: Biensur, je suit cool avec les filles aussi. Permit moi de utilize certianes abbreviation que ont utilizw chez moi quand s'amuser. Par exemple, si je veux diz 'biensur', je coupe ca comme ca: b1sur, je s8 ( je suit),ils sont dis que (ils sont 10 ke). Je espere ke tu comprend b1 ce ke je s8 entrez de ecritz. Cest deja n8 chez moi, donc, dans ce cardre je 10 bon n8 mon nouveau amie. |
| Literature / Re: NYSC: National Year Of Sex And Comfort <<<Adventure of the year: 2013 Awards >>> by samzy1: 10:46pm On Mar 17, 2013 |
ITbomb: Ogbor ncha, no b only vaseline, lux soap nko? |
| Literature / Re: NYSC: National Year Of Sex And Comfort <<<Adventure of the year: 2013 Awards >>> by samzy1: 10:29pm On Mar 17, 2013 |
Billyonaire: In one paragraph you are talking about your girlfriend whose uncle is working at Adax (Addax), and in another paragraph you talk about HOD's daughter, and the entire paragraphs you indicated you are an educale, Intelligent students seldom flirt around in school with 2 girls or more, I am yet to see someone who did that and garnered good grades. it is possible that you are lying that the HOD frustrated you instead admitting that your flirtatious lifestyle distracted you from lectures ?That is what we call flash back, a good writing and naration technique, but I guess u won't know because u ain't a writter. |
| Literature / Re: NYSC: National Year Of Sex And Comfort <<<Adventure of the year: 2013 Awards >>> by samzy1: 10:19pm On Mar 17, 2013 |
gluv01:Il me semble que ils y a certain person qui parle bien le langue francais. Je m'appel Samuel, et vous? |
, I still love afang soup, my next stop maybe ur area; foxy, aboki and all my new twitter friends, you guys are great. Showed me so much love during my hiv period down at twitter 
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