Bank Daniels

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28/05/2025

How Fidelity Bank Tudun Wada Branch, Kaduna Celebrate Children's Day

Take control of the situation if a key bre@ks inside a padlock and use a brush to carefully rem0ve the br0ken p1ece.If a...
28/05/2025

Take control of the situation if a key bre@ks inside a padlock and use a brush to carefully rem0ve the br0ken p1ece.

If a key bre@ks inside a padlock, empower yourself to take acti0n and use a brush to rem0ve the br0ken p1ece.

Brush

Lighter

This is all about creativity 👏

1. If you can hold your breath for 10 - 30 seconds, your heart and lungs are functioning efficiently.  2. If you can jog...
26/05/2025

1. If you can hold your breath for 10 - 30 seconds, your heart and lungs are functioning efficiently.
2. If you can jog continuously for 15 minutes, you have excellent stamina and endurance.
3. If you can perform 20 push-ups without stopping, your upper body strength is commendable.
4. If you can walk briskly for 30 minutes daily, your cardiovascular health is in good shape.
5. If you can climb four flights of stairs without resting, your leg muscles and lungs are strong.
6. If you can touch your toes without bending your knees, your flexibility is impressive.
7. If you can balance on one foot for 30 seconds, your balance and core strength are solid.
8. If you can perform a 60-second plank, your core stability is excellent.
9. If you can squat 20 times without fatigue, your lower body strength is notable.
10. If you can perform 15 burpees in a row, your overall fitness level is high.
11. If you can swim 500 meters without stopping, your endurance and lung capacity are outstanding.
12. If you can cycle for an hour at a moderate pace, your cardiovascular endurance is strong.
13. If you can perform 10 pull-ups, your upper body strength is exceptional.

14. If you can hold a wall sit for 90 seconds, your leg endurance is impressive.
15. If you can perform 50 jumping jacks without rest, your aerobic fitness is commendable.
16. If you can run a mile in under 8 minutes, your speed and endurance are excellent.
17. If you can perform 30 sit-ups in a minute, your abdominal strength is solid.
18. If you can hike for two hours without excessive fatigue, your stamina is admirable.
19. If you can perform 15 lunges on each leg without wobbling, your balance and strength are good.
20. If you can jump rope for 5 minutes continuously, your coordination and endurance are notable.
21. If you can perform 20 mountain climbers without rest, your core and cardiovascular fitness are strong.
22. If you can hold a yoga pose for a minute, your flexibility and balance are excellent.
23. If you can perform 10 tricep dips without strain, your upper body strength is commendable.
24. If you can perform 15 leg raises without discomfort, your lower abdominal strength is solid.
25. If you can perform 20 calf raises without fatigue, your lower leg strength is good.
26. If you can perform 10 chin-ups, your upper body strength is exceptional.

27. If you can perform 30 seconds of high knees without slowing down, your cardiovascular fitness is impressive.
28. If you can perform 15 seconds of squat jumps continuously, your explosive strength is notable.
29. If you can perform 20 seconds of side planks on each side, your core stability is solid.
30. If you can perform 10 box jumps without hesitation, your lower body power is excellent.

These indicators serve as benchmarks to assess various aspects of your physical fitness, including strength, endurance, flexibility, and balance. Regularly challenging yourself with these exercises can help you identify areas for improvement and track your progress over time. Remember, consistency is key. Incorporating a variety of exercises into your routine not only enhances overall fitness but also keeps workouts engaging. Celebrate your achievements, no matter how small, and stay motivated on your journey to better health
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26/05/2025

Pray for everyone to win around you, if not so, even you and your win will suffer, either due to jealousy, evil eyes or sharing your win too.

Brief History of Dr. Gwamna AwanDr. Gwamna Awan was a distinguished traditional ruler, revered community leader, and one...
24/05/2025

Brief History of Dr. Gwamna Awan

Dr. Gwamna Awan was a distinguished traditional ruler, revered community leader, and one of the most educated and visionary monarchs of his time in Northern Nigeria. He was the Agwam Kagoro, the paramount ruler of the Kagoro (Agworok) people in present day Kaura Local Government Area of Kaduna State.

Born in the early 20th century, Gwamna Awan broke significant ground as one of the first indigenous Northerners to attain formal western education at an advanced level. He trained and qualified as a medical doctor, becoming one of the earliest African doctors in Northern Nigeria during the colonial period.

His blend of traditional knowledge and western education made him an exceptional leader. In 1945, he was installed as the Agwam Kagoro, making history as the first traditional ruler in Northern Nigeria with a university education and a professional background in medicine. His reign brought a new level of modernization and development to the Kagoro Chiefdom.

Dr. Gwamna Awan used his influence to promote education, public health, and inter-communal harmony. He maintained strong ties with both colonial and post-independence governments, ensuring that Kagoro was well-represented in regional and national discussions. His commitment to the wellbeing of his people earned him widespread respect beyond his domain.

He ruled for several decades, becoming a symbol of progressive traditional leadership. Dr. Awan passed away in 2000s, leaving behind a legacy of visionary service, peacebuilding, and the successful integration of tradition with modern governance.
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Young Kaduna Woman Goes Viral For Making High-Quality Men's Shoes In a remarkable break from traditional career paths, a...
23/05/2025

Young Kaduna Woman Goes Viral For Making High-Quality Men's Shoes

In a remarkable break from traditional career paths, a young woman from Kaduna State is gaining national attention for her skill and dedication in an industry largely dominated by men. Mercy Peter Nkom, a proud member of the Atyap ethnic group, has gone viral for her exceptional craftsmanship in producing high-quality men’s shoes.

Defying societal expectations, Mercy has carved a niche for herself in shoemaking, showcasing both creativity and resilience.

Her designs, marked by their precision and aesthetic appeal, are earning praise not only for their quality but also for the empowering story behind them.

Social media users across Nigeria have lauded Mercy’s determination to succeed in a non-traditional field, highlighting her as a role model for young women seeking to forge their own paths.

More than just a viral sensation, Mercy represents a growing wave of female entrepreneurs reshaping perceptions and redefining success through hard work, integrity, and passion.

KADUNA POLITICAL AFFAIRS

A man took some loan, bought a house, it was about to be seized, just because he could not repay the loan and interest a...
23/05/2025

A man took some loan, bought a house, it was about to be seized, just because he could not repay the loan and interest as agreed.

He posted his situation on Facebook looking for help, but all he could get was zero comments.

So he sent 250 messages to his contact list requesting a loan of #2,000,000.

Unfortunately only 10 people responded. 6 out of 10 said they could not help him. And only 1 out of 4 who promised to help and gave him some money.

The other 3 gave excuse and never took his calls.

In the end, he was ejected.
He did not have a place to sleep. He walked in the dark looking for options and unfortunately, A thief stole his empty purse with his ID.

The thief was badly hit by a car in high speed as he fled and died without his body being identified.

Only the bag containing the identity card served as a marker.

The next day the news spread quickly around that he (the Man) had died.

2,500 people posted on his Facebook wall how they knew him and how kind he was.

A committee was formed by his"faithful" friends who raised #7,500.000 to feed people at his funeral.

His work colleagues organized themselves and brought #11.5m for the coffin, the tents and the chairs.

He had to be buried in a coffin worth #3,500.000 but as they hastily bouht it there was a man who sold it to them for #2.000,000 saying it was his contribution.

The family met again, it was a rare opportunity for the family to meet again.

Then there was a sitting. For the funeral, the family contributed #4,000,000.

Everyone wanted to volunteer to show that they were participating.

They printed t-shirts and polos for more than #850,000.

Now imagine the scene when he decided to show himself up on the day of his burial...

While everyone run helter skelter thinking they'd seen a ghost, the man felt embittered, seeing how both family and friends that abandoned him at his darkest hours, extravagantly spent all they had, on mere carcass...

So is life today, A sad reality but part of our daily lives.

It will surprise you to learn that bulk of all those who talk about how much they love the deceased on burial days, are those who never showed him care and love, when he was alive.

Yet, they'll talk from Lagos to abuja, how much they loved him.

When a family member is in dire financial need, nobody will help...but the moment he's dead, money will come from all hidings...🤔

Help your brother/sister when he/she needs you.

Do not wait for their death to show them your love. It will not help them.

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20/05/2025

WTF happened in October 1582?

20/05/2025

“I Heard My Husband Telling His Friends That I Smell So Bad After Giving Birth to Our Child The Secret I Was Never Meant to Hear

There are moments in life when your soul fractures—not with a loud crash, but with a silent shattering that only you can hear. I still remember the afternoon the pieces of my heart scattered like broken calabash on the floor, the very day I overheard my husband, the man who once knelt under the mango tree to ask me to be his wife, laughing with his friends as he said words that pierced deeper than a blade ever could.

But let me take you back a little. Before the scent of shame. Before the betrayal. Before motherhood became a battleground.

My name is Ijeoma. I am the daughter of Mama Njideka and Papa Anayo, born and raised in the thick heart of Abia State, Nigeria. Our compound was one where chickens scratched the red earth beside sleeping goats, where the smell of fried ogbono and smoke from firewood cooking mingled in the air, and where neighbors became family without asking.

Growing up, I was known as the girl with the brightest smile. A smile that could disarm even the sternest elders. I worked in our village health clinic before I moved to the city to study midwifery. That’s where I met Chuka—tall, broad-shouldered, and confident like a lion but with eyes that melted when he looked at me. Or so I thought.

Our love blossomed fast. Within a year, we were married. I moved into his family house in Owerri, where his mother, Mama Chuka, lived upstairs with two of his cousins. I tried to be the perfect daughter-in-law—respectful, hardworking, silent when insulted, and ever-smiling when pain knocked.

The day I found out I was pregnant was one of the happiest in my life. Chuka had come home with yam and suya, and I made bitterleaf soup with the strength of a lioness. We danced that evening, our bare feet thudding the tiled floor of our sitting room as music from our little radio filled the air. That night, he whispered, "You will be the best mother."

And I tried. Oh, how I tried.

Pregnancy was not easy for me. My legs swelled. My back ached. My sense of smell turned against me. I vomited endlessly in the mornings. My skin darkened around my neck and armpits. I barely recognized myself in the mirror.

But I endured. Because that’s what we were taught as African women—to endure. To take pain and fold it neatly like our mothers folded wrappers. To tie it around our waists and keep moving.

Then came the delivery. A long, harrowing labor that lasted almost two days. I screamed into the cotton sheets of the hospital bed. My mother was there, reciting prayers in Igbo while I cried for the ancestors to come take the pain away. But I delivered safely. A baby girl. My star. My Ada.

She was my mirror. My proof that God still remembered me.

But the days after birth…those were the true test of womanhood.

I bled heavily. My brÂŁ leaked uncontrollably. I sweated at night as if I was being steamed like moi moi. My hair fell out in clumps. And yes, I smelt. My body had changed. Hormones made my sweat sour, my breath metallic. No matter how many times I bathed with Dettol and salt, the smell clung to me like old shame.

Still, I believed that Chuka understood. I believed that this was just a phase. That his love would cover me even when I could not cover my own shame.

But the truth is, I was wrong.

It happened on a Wednesday. The sun was hot that day—so hot that the walls of the house radiated heat like a furnace. I had just finished bathing the baby and was sitting in our small parlor, fanning myself with an old calendar, when I heard laughter coming from the backyard.

Chuka’s friends had come to visit. I knew that laugh—his friend Ebuka’s booming voice that always echoed before it arrived. The men were standing under the mango tree, sharing bottles of Hero and roasted groundnuts.

Then I heard it. My husband’s voice. Clearer than I had ever heard it before.

“My guy, I swear, since that woman born, e be like say dead goat dey stay for house,” he said, and they all erupted in laughter.

My breath caught.

He continued, “I no dey even fit sleep near her again. I dey use excuse say pikin dey cry, make I shift go other room. The smell no be here, I swear.”

The men laughed again, one clapping the other on the back.

I froze.

Every word etched itself into my bones. Every giggle from his friends was a nail driven into my chest. I sat there, numb, my baby asleep on my lap, unaware that her father had just thrown her mother under the bus of shame.

I didn’t cry. Not immediately. My tears betrayed me only at night, as I sat on the toilet seat, holding my pad soaked in blood, trying to understand what I had done to deserve such mockery.

I wanted to ask him. To scream. But my voice failed me.

Instead, I began to shrink.

I stopped going outside. I avoided mirrors. I bathed in silence, scrubbing until my skin turned red. I soaked wrappers in perfume and sprayed deodorant until my chest burned.

Yet, nothing changed. Not his attitude. Not his insults wrapped in silence.

African culture teaches us that a woman must not disgrace her husband. That the home must be kept intact by the woman, even if it’s burning down around her.

So I endured.

But inside, I was dying.

His mother began to notice the tension. Instead of support, she blamed me.

“You must be doing something wrong. A man doesn’t just change. Maybe you are not keeping yourself well,” she said, shaking her head, her wrapper tied tightly across her chest like armor.

My confidence evaporated. My baby began to cry more at night. And I, too, cried with her.

People say the postpartum period is a sacred time. That a woman should be surrounded with love, praise, care, and rest.

But I was surrounded with judgment, silence, and rejection.

There were nights I rocked my child in the dark, whispering stories of strength to her. I told her about Queen Amina of Zaria, about Yaa Asantewaa, about Nwanyeruwa who stood against colonial oppression. I told her these stories not for her sake—but to remind myself of the blood that runs through my veins.

Still, the pain persisted.

Weeks turned into months. And one morning, as I tried to join Chuka at the table, he shifted his chair and said, “Go and brush again. You dey smell.”

He didn’t even look at me.

I nodded, stood up, and walked away.

But that was the day something broke, and something else awakened.

I picked up my phone and called my aunt, a woman who lived in Aba and ran a fabric business. I told her everything. She listened. And she said, “Ijeoma, come home. Bring your baby. Let us take care of you.”

That night, I packed one small Ghana-Must-Go bag, wrapped my baby in a shawl, and left. No note. No explanation.

Only silence.

I arrived in Aba the next day, broken but breathing.

My aunt’s house was small but warm. She bathed me in herbs, massaged my back, made soups that nourished my bones, and reminded me that I was not disgusting—I was divine. That the changes in my body were signs of sacrifice, of strength.

That I had carried life. And survived.

Slowly, I began to heal.

Emotionally, physically, spiritually.

I joined a local mothers' group. Women from different walks of life—traders, teachers, tailors—all with stories etched in their eyes. We shared tears, laughter, and balm.

I found a new purpose. I started volunteering at the local maternity clinic. Helping women who had no one to support them. Teaching them that motherhood is not shameful. That sweat and stretch marks are medals of honor.

And one day, as I helped a young girl deliver her baby in a small, candle-lit ward, she looked at me and said, “Ijeoma, you smell like hope.”

And I smiled.

Because in that moment, I knew—I had turned pain into power.”

16/05/2025

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