https://youtube.com/@scholaruche4614?si=YVn8OvCMe8QrRKnL

My choyce, Lagos Harbour (2026)

30/01/2026

Majesty
Night owned the hospital.
Not the gentle kind of night, but the kind that presses against glass windows and makes monitors sound louder than they should. The ICU lights were dimmed, but nothing about the room felt soft.
Majesty sat beside the bed, fingers laced together so tightly they trembled. The machines did the breathing for him now. Each rise of his chest felt borrowed, temporary—like time itself was holding its breath.
Earlier that evening, she had leaned into a hallway corner, exhausted, emotionally thin. When the question came—“Do you still love him?”—she answered too quickly.
Too quietly.
A whisper meant for comfort.
A truth meant for release.
She didn’t know the walls were listening.
She didn’t know the night nurse would pass.
She didn’t know words could travel faster than footsteps.
Now here she was, sitting in the consequence of it all.
Majesty had always loved him in the quiet ways—adjusting pillows, memorizing his medication schedule, learning the rhythm of his pain. She loved him with presence, not promises. But love, it turned out, wasn’t always loud enough to defend itself.
Her whisper had grown teeth.
She leaned closer to the bed, voice breaking the sterile silence.
“I never meant for you to hear it like that,” she said, though she didn’t know if he could hear anything at all. “Some truths are meant to be carried… not released.”
The monitor answered for him.
Steady. Cold. Unforgiving.
Romance, she realized, isn’t always roses and soft laughter. Sometimes it’s sitting in a hospital chair at 2 a.m., haunted by a sentence you can’t take back. Sometimes it’s loving someone while knowing you may have already lost them—emotionally, even if their heart still beats.
Majesty pressed her forehead against the bed rail.
If he woke, she would speak plainly. No whispers. No hiding.
If he didn’t—this regret would become her lifelong echo.
Outside, the night remained unmoved.
Inside, a careless whisper had rewritten everything.

28/01/2026

People normalize exhaustion and call it ambition.
They normalize pain and rename it strength.
They normalize silence and mistake it for peace.
They normalize surviving without healing, moving forward without processing, and smiling through things that should have stopped them. They normalize being reachable at all times, being useful even when empty, being productive while breaking.
People normalize neglect—of rest, of truth, of each other. They normalize postponing joy, delaying kindness, and treating time as if it will always return what it takes. They normalize warning signs until they become background noise.
They normalize living on autopilot.
They normalize ignoring the body until it speaks loudly.
They normalize almost-living and call it normal life.
What’s dangerous isn’t that these things exist.
It’s that we stop questioning them.

The danger is not cruelty.
The danger is familiarity.

Because once something is normalized, it no longer alarms—it settles. And by the time people realize what it has taken, they are already negotiating with loss, counting days, and calling it life.
MyChoyce
Counting days. Choosing life. @

Go to comment section ♂️

23/01/2026

The choice is yours.
I was at the airport when a taxi driver approached me.
The first thing I noticed inside the taxi was a sentence on a card:
“Duck or Eagle? You decide.”
The second thing I noticed was the taxi itself—clean and shiny.
The driver was well dressed: a crisp white shirt, pressed trousers, and a tie.
He stepped out, opened the door for me, and said:
“I’m John, your chauffeur.
While I load your luggage, please read my mission statement.”
On the card was written:
John’s Mission
To take my customers to their destination quickly, safely, and economically, while offering a friendly environment.
I was impressed.
Inside, the cab was spotless.
John asked,
“Would you like coffee?”
Playing along, I replied,
“No, I prefer juice.”
He smiled.
“No problem. I have regular juice, diet juice, and water.”
Then he added:
“If you’d like to read, I have today’s newspaper and magazines.”
As if that wasn’t enough, he showed me the radio stations, asked about the air-conditioning temperature, explained the best route, and asked whether I preferred conversation or quiet.
I finally asked him,
“Do you always treat customers this way?”
He replied:
“No. Not always. Only for the last two years.
Before that, I complained like most taxi drivers.
One day, I listened to a doctor who spoke on personal development. He said:
If you wake up expecting a bad day, you’ll have one.
He said, Don’t be a DUCK. Be an EAGLE.
Ducks make noise and complain. Eagles rise above the crowd.”
John continued:
“I realized I was always complaining. So I changed my attitude.
I looked around—dirty taxis, unfriendly drivers, unhappy customers—and decided to be different.
In my first year as an eagle, I doubled my income.
This year, I’ve quadrupled it.
I no longer wait at taxi stands. My clients book me directly. If I’m unavailable, I refer them to another ‘eagle’ driver.”
John wasn’t just a taxi driver.
He delivered limousine service in a regular taxi.
And the lesson?
It doesn’t matter if you’re a teacher, civil servant, technician, caregiver, executive, entrepreneur, or taxi driver.
How do you show up?
Are you making noise and excuses like a duck?
Or rising above like an eagle?
Remember: THE DECISION IS YOURS.
✨ 2026 will be nothing new if we don’t adopt new attitudes.
🥂 May you rise above the 1,001 excuses around you and become the better version of yourself you’ve always desired.
🥂🦅

16/01/2026

“I refuse to end up in care.”
Madam C.C. Ofoma says it plainly, without bitterness or fear. The words land like a warning and a promise at the same time.
Her day begins in a small, bright kitchen long before the sun shows up. Her hands are worn but steady as she switches off the gas. At one hundred years old, she pours her tea without spilling a drop. Her back is almost straight, her movements careful and deliberate—no rushing, no panic. Behind her, she pulls out a notebook covered in tiny blue flowers, its pages thick with years of quiet thoughts.
Another day begins on her own terms.
Madam C.C. Ofoma talks about old age as if it were a kind of labour—work that must be managed wisely. She is not in denial about her years. She simply refuses to hand over the steering wheel of her life.
Her habits are not about chasing youth. They are about protecting something far more fragile: her independence. There is no mystical secret behind her long life, no miracle cure—only a chain of understandable choices, repeated daily. She thinks in terms of staying able, not staying young.
Walking to the market keeps her legs working. Making her own breakfast keeps her hands nimble. Reading her Bible and writing out loud keep her mind alert. As long as she can do something for herself, she will.
These are the daily habits that keep her out of the care system.
She says it is painfully simple. She walks every single day, even if it’s just to the end of the street and back. Slow and steady wins the race. Her food pattern is consistent: oats with fruit in the morning, vegetables at lunch and dinner, fish instead of red meat. Very little sugar—only on rare occasions.
On a low wooden table sits a jug of water, always within reach. “Old people don’t drink enough water,” she says frankly. “They get dizzy, they fall, and everyone calls it old age.” She eats biscuits sometimes, but the direction of her life never changes.
The fourth leg of her routine is social life. She calls her grandchildren twice a week. Her son links her to the outside world with news, local gossip, and stories of neighbors. Children from nearby houses knock on her door just to greet her. She has one firm rule: she must speak out loud to at least two people every day.
She prepares for old age the way other people plan holidays—carefully, deliberately. What surprises me most is how intentionally she has organized her home. Everything has its place. Hazards are removed. Light fills the rooms. She treats medical appointments like a project manager treats deadlines—planned, followed up, never ignored.
“I refuse to end up in care,” she repeats. Not as rebellion, but as a long negotiation with reality—one that requires discipline, attention, and just enough money to stay afloat.
Madam C.C. Ofoma does not fight aging. She works with it. And in doing so, she has built a life that still belongs to her.
the reflective centenarian wins, with a gentle smile of contentment gracing her face.

14/01/2026

🦟 THE MIDNIGHT SOLOIST
You’re finally asleep. The lights are off. Your dreams are good.
Then suddenly—
EEEEEEEEEEE!
Not a trumpet. Not your imagination.
It’s the female mosquito, performing her unsolicited midnight solo right next to your ear.
That piercing sound? It’s her wings beating up to 500 times per second. Not to annoy you (though she absolutely does), but to find a mate. Unfortunately for you, your breathing gives her front-row access. She follows the carbon dioxide you exhale, and since your ears are close to your nose and mouth, she ends up hosting a private concert inside your ear canal.
📡 How does she find you in total darkness?
You don’t have invisible antennas—but she does.
Mosquitoes track humans using:
Body heat, which glows to them like an “OPEN FOR BUSINESS” sign
Chemical cues like sweat, lactic acid, and CO₂, detectable from over 100 feet away
They don’t aim for the ear on purpose, but thin skin and surface blood vessels make it a VIP lounge they can’t resist.
🎨 The “Dot Tattoo” Effect
By morning, you wake up looking like a connect-the-dots puzzle.
Each itchy red bump isn’t just a bite—it’s an immune reaction. When a mosquito feeds, she injects saliva containing anticoagulants to keep your blood flowing. Your body hates this. The swelling and itch are signs of a tiny war happening under your skin.
You’re not dramatic. Your immune system is just doing its job.
💊 The Real Problem: Malaria
If mosquitoes only took blood and left, life would be easier.
But sometimes they leave behind Plasmodium parasites—and suddenly, one tiny insect can shut down a fully grown human for days.
From monthly prophylaxis to emergency treatment, many of us live paying the unavoidable “mosquito tax.”
Small bug. Massive impact.

09/01/2026

She is a young African woman with a bright, easy smile—the kind that looks like it belongs to the land itself. Perched confidently on an udara tree, she looks completely at home, as if the tree knows her and welcomes her every time. The green leaves frame her face, and the ripe, golden-orange udara fruits hang proudly around her, like little treasures she has known all her life.
She loves udara so much that it has become part of her daily rhythm. Every morning, before the village fully wakes up, she is already awake. While others are still stretching under their blankets, she quietly slips outside to the backyard of their house. The air is cool, the ground still damp, and the tree stands tall, waiting for her like an old friend.
She knows timing is everything. If you come late, the best fruits are gone. So she climbs early, laughing softly to herself as she reaches for the ripest udara—round, glowing, and perfect. Birds watch her like they know the routine too. By the time others arrive, she is already there, basket nearly full, smiling like someone who has won a small but important victory.
To her, udara is more than fruit. It is childhood memories, village competition, morning joy, and a reminder that Africa always rewards those who rise early. Sitting on the tree, overlooking the village below, she feels rich—not because of what she owns, but because of where she belongs

05/01/2026

One light key 🗝️(🔐 2026)

@ Facebook

10/12/2025

money still dey use me do hide and seek.
How I wan take explain

08/12/2025

A hand gently breaks the water, sending soft ripples across the pond as the fish gather with quiet curiosity. It creates a moment of pure connection — human and nature meeting in stillness.

Birds chirp softly in the background. Leaves whisper in the breeze.
Everything feels still. Everything feels safe.
This is visual therapy — the kind your soul didn’t know it needed.
A space to breathe deeper,
to let tension melt away,
to watch life glide beneath the water like moving poetry.

A calm you can feel.
A softness you can keep.
A moment that stays with you long after the screen fades.

My choyce

30/01/2026

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16/01/2026

14/01/2026

09/01/2026

05/01/2026

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