Khay Inox 304 CS5

Khay Inox 304 CS5 The BigDream Communication is the record label arm of Bigdream Integrated.

19/04/2025

🍁 đ—đšÌ‰ đ€đĄđš đŸđŸŽđ€ / 𝟏 𝐊𝐡𝐚đČ ÄđźÌ›ÌŁđ§đ  đ“đĄđźÌ›ÌŁđœ đđĄđšÌ‚Ì‰đŠ đ‚đšÌ đđšÌ†Ìđ© đˆđ§đšđ± 𝟑𝟎𝟒
👉 5 Khay inox + 5 náșŻp + quĂ  táș·ng giá + phĂ­ ship
👉 7 Khay inox + 7 náșŻp + quĂ  táș·ng giĂĄ miễn ship
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Đựng thức ăn thá»±c pháș©m, báșŁo quáșŁn thức ăn trong tá»§ láșĄnh, nướng bĂĄnh trong lĂČ, ướp thá»±c pháș©m, ướp thức ăn
👉Cháș„t liệu inox 304 chống rỉ, máșĄ điện
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ÄÆ°á»Łc kiểm tra hĂ ng trước khi thanh toĂĄn
Inb.ox ngay để nháș­n ưu đãi!!!

01/10/2024

I just completed the manuscript of my new psychological thriller titled “Beyond the Sunshine.” Below is the front matter of the book. I need advice on what to add and subtract before the book finally goes to print.

DEDICATION
In many African societies, the reality of abusive marriages remains overlooked, still shrouded in silence and denial. Traditional structures continue to uphold the belief that men hold dominance over their households, treating their wives as possessions rather than partners. Women are expected to be seen but not heard, forced to endure the torment of their marriages rather than risk the stigma of being labeled a divorcee.
Even with organizations fighting to protect women’s rights, shielding them from violent husbands, the battle is far from won. Too many wives are still trapped, suffering silently—some even losing their lives to men who, in their cowardice, tear down their spirits to build up their fragile egos.
This book is dedicated to every woman who refuses to endure the nightmare of an abusive marriage. You challenge the labels society imposes. Your resilience, your survival, speaks louder than any stigma. You are the embodiment of true strength, and your courage is a force that cannot be silenced.

FOREWORD
By Jibola Jeremiah Oluti
“Beyond The Sunshine” is more than a work of fiction—it is a powerful and timely story inspired by the quiet suffering and eventual uprising of countless individuals who endure cycles of abuse behind closed doors. While the novel is a thrilling blend of suspense, supernatural intrigue, and crime drama, at its heart, it explores the darkness that can linger in domestic relationships and the resilience that can emerge when one decides that enough is enough.
This story is partly about a lady introduced to me by an intimate friend who is aware I am passionate about writing stories that dwell on women going through abusive marriages. The lady who inspired this story lived under the oppressive control of an abusive husband for many years. Her harrowing experience reminded me of the silent battles many face daily, feeling powerless, trapped, and unsure of how to reclaim their strength. Like the protagonist of this novel, the lady eventually reached a breaking point where she decided to reclaim her power—though not through supernatural abilities, but through the incredible courage it took to stand up and say “no more.”
In Beyond The Sunshine, the character of Anita represents the intersection of personal survival and a larger, mythical battle. Abused and underestimated, she is not simply a victim—she is a force waiting to awaken. Anita’s journey, while fictional and embedded in a rich tapestry of mystical and fantastical elements, reflects a more profound truth about the endurance of the human spirit. In many ways, the magic and power she unleashes symbolize the hidden potential within us, the power to confront and rise above the forces that seek to diminish us.
However, this novel also asks essential questions about purpose and identity. Anita’s story is not just about personal revenge or liberation from her abuser—it delves into the struggle of reconciling who we are with the roles we are expected to play. Her dual mission, to free her imprisoned lover and confront the crime syndicate terrorizing her city, reflects the complexity of human purpose. Sometimes, we lose sight of our original goals as new challenges arise. This intricate blend of personal and collective responsibility adds layers to the narrative, making it more than a conventional thriller.
Through a tapestry of rich characters like Michael Salvage, the abusive husband whose own dark associations and corrupt alliances expand the story into a broader, dangerous world, and Skiddo Hammer, the crime boss who personifies the lawlessness of Lagos Island, Beyond The Sunshine takes readers on a journey that questions where true power lies—in magic, in vengeance, or in the resolve of an individual to break free from the chains that bind them.
I believe this novel will resonate with those who enjoy psychological thrillers, stories of supernatural intrigue, and anyone who understands the courage required to stand up to oppression. It invites readers to question the lines between victim and hero, fate and choice, and the ordinary and the extraordinary.
As you turn the pages of this novel, I encourage you to reflect on the power within yourself, just as Anita eventually does. Her journey, though fantastical in its elements, represents an authentic truth: that, ultimately, no matter how long we remain in the shadows, there is always a moment when the sun breaks through, and we see beyond the darkness into the light of a new day.

PREFACE
I am deeply passionate about shedding light on the silent suffering of women trapped in abusive marriages, forced to endure torment because of the stigma attached to single parenthood. This issue weighs heavily on my heart, as I believe society continues to overlook the urgency it deserves.
When news breaks of a popular Nigerian musician’s death, allegedly at the hands of her husband after years of abuse, it becomes clear to me that I can no longer remain silent. I realize how grave the problem has become—so much so that many African men no longer view it as an aberration but as a normal aspect of marriage. Through interviews with men, I discovered a disturbing reality: many don’t see abuse as a serious problem. Some even blame the wives, suggesting that a woman deserves to be beaten if she dares to “talk back” to her husband. It’s shocking—and infuriating—that such a mindset persists.
Just as I believe rapists should face the severest of punishments, I firmly believe that wife-beaters belong in jail, where they can reflect on their actions and reset their twisted perceptions.
Not long after, a friend of mine brought another woman into my life—a woman who has been silently enduring abuse for years for the sake of her children. Her family, bound by tradition and driven by the benefits they reap from her marriage, refuses to support her decision to leave. At this moment, I know I need to act.
Though a work of fiction, this book is my way of confronting this menace head-on and calling society to attention.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
Writing this story feels like living the same hellish life endured by the person who inspired it. When a family friend introduced her to me one June day—coincidentally, my birthday—all she wanted was to share her story in a newspaper. However, I quickly realized her experiences deserved more; they needed to be documented in book form for posterity, even if through the lens of fiction.
Though I choose not to reveal her name out of respect for her privacy, I dedicate this book to her.
I am deeply grateful to my dear friend, Chinenye Ugoala, who first brought her story to my attention. Without her, this story would never have been written. Above all, I extend my heartfelt thanks to my Maker, who grants me the life and strength to bring this story into existence.

INTRODUCTION
It’s her!
The same face that haunted him for weeks, the woman responsible for the hell he’s been living in. The same woman who left eight of their crew in the mortuary and him with a shattered leg, broken arm, and two cracked ribs. It’s impossible to forget the face of the woman who moved like death itself through their ranks, swift and brutal.
But how? How can this woman—a banker, a top-level manager—be the same person who unleashed that kind of destruction? His pulse quickens, disbelief clashing with the growing certainty in his gut. It doesn’t make sense. A bank manager couldn’t have done what she did that day. He remembers it all too well: the blood, the screams, the smell of gunpowder lingering in the air. He shouldn’t be alive. None of them should. But here he is, hobbling through each day with just enough breath in his lungs to remember the nightmare.
The woman who tore apart everything—now in a pristine suit, painted by the media as just another corrupt banker. The image on the TV changes, and the anchor moves on to the next piece of news.
Michael Salvage has been abusing his wife, Anita, for years, oblivious to the fact that she is no ordinary woman. Anita, the cherished daughter of the Queen Mother—the formidable ruler of the Kukuyika marine kingdom—is on a mission in the human world. Though Anita has forgotten her true identity, her mission remains clear: rescue her lover, Sakatula, imprisoned by the malevolent Professor Salvage, the Grand Master of the Ogbohi confraternity, and erase the entire Salvage family from existence.
But then, a moment arrives, ‘Beyond The Sunshine,’ when Michael finally encounters Anita’s dormant powers, and the hunter becomes the hunted. Suddenly, Anita transforms into the new sheriff in town, determined to liberate Lagos Island from the ruthless grip of crime boss Skiddo Hammer and his gang of untouchable killers. As Anita embraces her new mission, the question looms: will she remember her original purpose, or will her newfound quest overshadow her true reason for being in the human world? Only time will tell.

https://a.co/d/doBxcen
03/09/2024

https://a.co/d/doBxcen

In the sinister assemblies of hell, a council of fallen angels, led by Lucifer, devises a plan to corrupt humanity by distorting the message of Christianity. Their strategy involves sending Demondenim, a demon with power aspirations, to earth in human guise as Prophet Elijah. Tasked with spreadin...

26/07/2024

IBTC Pension Managers: Custodian or Scammer? The Controversy Over N250,000,000.00 Belonging to Conoil Pensioners.

In the year 2000, following the sale of 60% of National Oil & Chemical Marketing Company Limited (NOLCHEM) shares to Conpetro under the Obasanjo administration, the company's name was changed from NOLCHEM PLC to CONOIL PLC.

Consequent to this transition from NOLCHEM to CONOIL PLC, CONOIL made adequate arrangements for the Pension Fund and paid benefits to existing pensioners and workers who chose to leave CONOIL then.

The lump sum payment and commutation of the Pension provision of the Trust Deed were amended in the Supplementary Trust Deed executed between CONOIL and the Trustee of the Pension Fund. This amendment is a great mistake by the Trustee, as they later learned to their chagrin.

On January 1st, 1952, a NON-CONTRIBUTORY Pension Fund was set up by Shell Company of West Africa Limited (later known as Shell Company of Nigeria Limited), funded solely by Shell Company of Nigeria Limited and supplemented by investment dividends and interest income to take care of its pensioners.

Since this Fund is non-contributory, a retiree pension automatically stops when the retiree ceases to exist, i.e., upon death.

In 1975, Shell Company of Nigeria Limited was changed to National Oil and Chemical Marketing Company Plc (NOLCHEM), consequent upon the indigenization decree of the Muritala/Obasanjo regime.
NOLCHEM entered into a trust deed on August 4th, 1976, and NOLCHEM Provident Trust Limited used it to establish a pension fund. The Pension Fund was created and registered as the Trust Scheme to benefit staff/employees and artisans of NOLCHEM, formerly Shell Company of Nigeria Limited.

The scheme was running smoothly until the events in paragraphs 1 & 2.

Sometime in 2009, a dispute arose between the Trustee of the Trust Deed and CONOIL to comply with the pension harmonization policies of the Federal Government of Nigeria or in the alternative, pay the EXISTING Pensioners off by liquidating the Pension Trust Fund. CONOIL opted to outrightly buy out the Fund so that EXISTING pensioners would be fully paid off.

The Trustee of the Fund estimated the net worth of the Fund based on the last audit as of September 30th, 2009, to be N3,705,732,653 ( Three Billion, Seven Hundred and Five Million, Seven Hundred and Thirty-Two Thousand, Six Hundred and Fifty-Three Naira.

CONOIL claimed that after actuarial valuation, the value of the Pension Fund is N1.62 Billion. The dispute was referred to Lagos High Court Multi-Door Court House to enable the Trustee and CONOIL to arrive at an amicable, practical, and workable solution.
CONOIL, upon negotiations, agreed to pay the Pensioners the sum of N1, 063, 964, 699.50 (One Billion, Sixty three Million, Nine Hundred and Sixty-Four Thousand, Six Hundred and Ninety-Nine Naira, Fifty Kobo).

The Pension Fund comprised of fixed deposit and Domiciliary Accounts, Stocks/Shares in various companies, which were to be liquidated and the proceeds paid into the account of a Pension Custodian to be appointed by the Pensioners as full and final settlement to be held and distributed to EXISTING Pensioners as final settlement of EXISTING Pensioners through a list to be supplied by the Pensioners.

The Pensioners appointed Stambic IBTC Pension Managers as Pension Fund Administrators who shall, in turn, nominate a Pension Fund Custodian to take custody of the Pension Fund in the agreed sum of N1,063,964,699.50 to be distributed to EXISTING Pensioners as a lump sum payment under the Supplementary Trust Deed. The liquidated stock portfolio of the Pension Fund shall be paid to Stanbic IBTC Pension Managers.

Since the Pension Trustee only had the membership list of Pensioners who retired before CONOIL took over NOLCHEM in the year 2000 (many staff retired voluntarily as a result of CONOIL taking over), they had to rely on a comprehensive list of Pensioner provided by CONOIL. Unfortunately, the list contained the names of members who had died.

The non-contributory Pension Fund differs from the Contributory Fund introduced by Obasanjo in 2009; the deceased members automatically cease receiving pension upon death, and nothing is paid into their estate.

The Pensioners executive deleted the names of members they were aware were dead. Still, the final list sent to IBTC Pension Managers inadvertently contained members who were no longer alive and should not have been on the list. After all existing pensioners had been paid, the Pensioner's executive demanded that the residual be remitted to the Pensioner's account to be distributed by EXISTING pensioners. IBTC refused, quoting the Pension Reform Act as their guide. They insist the remaining money should be paid into the estates of the pensioners whose names were on the list containing the remaining cash. This contradicts the TRUST DEED provision of August 4th, 1976, by NOLCHEM (a copy of which was given to IBTC).

All efforts to make IBTC recant from this position by providing the NOLCHEM NON-CONTRIBUTORY PENSION DEED could not sway them. They have been holding on to the balance in the account, which presently stood at over N250,000,000.00 as of January 2024 since 2012.

This position is strange in the relationship between a customer and a bank. It is unknown that the bank will dictate to customers what they should do with their money! They still reiterated this strange position in the current reply to our lawyer, who demanded the balance in the account and that the balance be paid into the Pensioner's account.

Several questions arise from this situation:
1. What is the role of IBTC in determining how pensioners distribute their funds, given that the pensioners appointed them?
2. Why has IBTC retained the funds for over ten years, and why has no one come forward to claim any part of the money?
3. Why does IBTC insist that the remaining funds be paid into the estates of deceased pensioners despite proof that the NOLCHEM Pensioners' scheme is not subject to the 2004 Pension Reform Act?

These questions underscore the need for clarity and resolution
regarding the management and distribution of the Pension Fund.

16/07/2024

Bigdream is about to create something unique! Can you sing professionally? Can you sing in the Yoruba language or in English? Contact me on 08086801834 ASAP. WhatsApp only.

20/06/2024

Within the rich tapestry of days, a golden thread intricately weaves,
Spanning seventy years of moments, a tapestry of memories it conceives.
On the break of this milestone, voices in unison, joyously cheer,
Gratitude to dear friends, for every word, profoundly sincere.

Your messages bloom like blossoms in an enchanted, verdant glade,
Bringing warmth, joy aplenty, in kindness's rare shade.
From every corner you came, in a heartfelt digital embrace,
With each note a cherished gift, each smile, a trace of grace.

In the twilight of years, where soft echoes gently sway,
Your love shines as my beacon, illuminating each day.
A heart brimming with gratitude, for the camaraderie so fine,
For the presence of friendship, a blessing divine.

To all who ventured with expressions sweet, lifting spirits high,
Illuminating my birthday with the wealth of your thoughtful sigh.
May our connections deepen, as the endless seasons flow,
In the evolving garden of our existence, where love and friendship tirelessly grow.

I thank you all for all your birthday wishes.

20/06/2024

Seventy years, a bright tapestry,
Threads of wisdom woven in light.
Every page, a chapter unfurled,
My heart as a writer shared with the world.

Decades of dreams, like stars in the sky,
Stories whispered, never to die.
With every line, my life portrayed,
In every word, a memory made.

Age is but a number, they say,
And seventy shines in a brilliant array.
A milestone rich, a vast journey,
With countless tales from my cherished past.

Here's to the years that crafted my soul,
To the passions that made me whole.
May the next chapters be just as grand,
Guided by my timeless hand.

Happy Birthday, with cheers and delight,
May my days be filled with endless light.
Keep writing, keep dreaming, never slow,
For there are more stories yet to show.

20/06/2024

Happy 70th Birthday Wishes To Me.

Seventy years, a tapestry woven with care
A life rich with stories, moments to share
Each chapter a journey; each line a stride
In the grand book of life where my tales reside.

With wisdom as ink and memories as quill
I've painted my years with extraordinary skill
I've authored my journey across all these years
Through pages of laughter and verses of tears.

Tomorrow, another candle lights up the stage
And my pen at the beginning of another fine page
May it be filled with joy, with love's warm embrace
And the beauty of living etched in every space.

So here's to me, the writer, on my special day
May my words continue to light up the way
Thank you, dear life, for every story shared
And the hearts I've touched and those who cared.

Happy 70th Birthday to me!

11/05/2024

A SHORT STORY: Musings of My Pre-Teen

In our family, the head was more of a symbol than a sovereign. The true measure of a man’s leadership wasn’t the weight of his wallet but the strength of his spirit. Yet, when financial woes struck, roles reversed without ceremony. After all, who would question Madam Head’s provision of meals that filled both belly and soul?

Joseph, my septuagenarian father, once wielded authority like a scepter. His decrees were to be our gospel, yet I knew his dominion ended at the threshold of my mother’s resolve.

Smallpox had marred his once comely visage, leaving a tapestry of scars—a testament to survival amid an epidemic that had ravaged our town, claiming lives as swiftly as flames consume dry grass.

Grandfather Giwa, patriarch of the sprawling Giwa compound, bore the brunt of that dark time, losing five children in one grievous day. His lineage was as vast as his wealth, with fifteen wives and a legion of concubines, his progeny too numerous to count.

As the scourge spread unchecked, families sought refuge in their farmsteads. Desperate to stem the tide, the British District Officer convened a commission. Their findings were as shocking as they were tragic—the worshippers of Sanponna, the malevolent deity of smallpox, were found complicit in the calamity.

These priests, driven by greed, had weaponized the sacred rites of death, turning mourning into a macabre harvest of possessions. They sowed the seeds of the disease under cover of night, ensuring their grim trade flourished.

The government’s response was swift and severe—an edict banning the worship and imprisonment for any who dared continue the clandestine rituals.

Dad was the engine within our home, his optimism fueling our endeavors. Mum, ever the realist, was the oil that ensured his dreams didn’t seize in the cold reality of poor judgment. Her wisdom often steered him clear of Uncle Philip’s ill-fated schemes.

I recall one such venture that threatened to unravel us. Buoyed by a dubious bargain, Father burst into the living room, Uncle Philip in tow, their excitement palpable. “Mama Moses, fortune smiles upon us! I struck a deal with the farmers—cocoa at a steal! Where are you to celebrate this windfall?”

His jubilation faltered, the stool clattering to the floor as he realized the dining room lay deserted. “Where is everybody?” Uncle Philip echoed, his query hanging unanswered in the air.

“Where is everybody, Moses?” Father slurred, the scent of spirits heavy on his breath.
Uncle Philip’s arrival always heralded chaos, like a storm cloud darkening our doorstep. He slumped into Dad’s cherished armchair with a thud that echoed through the room, without a care for the sacredness of the seat. Dad, a man of peculiar habits, had his own set of untouchable belongings—his chair, his plate, his cup—each a silent testament to his once unchallenged authority.

“Dad, why do you drink when you know you can’t handle it like Uncle Philip?” I dared to ask, my voice a mix of concern and reproach.

Dad’s glare could’ve ignited the air between us. “What right have you to question me?” he barked, his hand hovering over his favorite jug, a weapon he wouldn’t wield. “May Sango strike you down,” he cursed, the words heavy with a potency that seemed to linger in the air.

In our community, a Shaile man’s curse was said to be as harmless as rain off a duck’s back, yet Dad’s words once held enough weight to land him behind bars when a casual curse coincidentally preceded a man’s untimely death.

Mum’s entrance cut through the tension. “Welcome, Joe,” she greeted Dad, using his nickname as a private rebellion against his stern demeanor. Her attention turned to Uncle Philip. “Papa Faith, how’s the family?” Her words were polite, but her eyes held a glint of disdain for the man she deemed a corrupting influence.

The conversation shifted to Dad’s latest venture, a deal brokered by Uncle Philip that reeked of desperation. Mum’s question about the advance payment hung in the air, a prelude to the storm I knew was brewing. Aunty Taiye’s grip on my hand was my cue to exit, the adults’ world too fraught with tension for a child’s presence.

The aftermath was as predictable as it was disastrous. Against Mum’s sage advice, Dad had plunged headfirst into the deal, losing a staggering Two Million Naira. The improperly dried and hastily bagged cocoa beans rotted away in storage, a bitter symbol of Dad’s folly.

His escape to Togo was a reprieve from the shame and Mum’s smoldering anger. Uncle Philip, the architect of our misfortune, vanished into the shadows, his return as uncertain as the recovery of our family’s fortunes.

The headmaster’s office of our town’s only school was a realm of silent dread, a place where laughter went to die. Books, like silent sentinels, lined the walls from floor to ceiling, guarding the secrets of countless scholars. At the heart of this fortress sat Mr. Cane, so named for the twin canes that were ever-present extensions of his hands.

Father, at the tender age of six, stood before this imposing figure, his Aunt Deborah by his side. The teacher who had discovered their innocent game stood rigid, his voice betraying a hint of accusation as he reported their transgression.

Mr. Cane, the headmaster, was a fortress of a man, ensconced behind a desk that seemed more a barricade than a piece of furniture. His pen scratched across the paper, a sound that seemed to slice through the heavy air, filled with the scent of leather-bound books and the faintest hint of to***co.

The teacher’s throat-clearing echoed in the room, a desperate plea for attention that went unheeded. It was only when Mr. Cane’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and sudden, that Dad felt a warmth spread down his legs—the fear manifesting in a way he couldn’t control.

“Sir, I caught these two in the toilet, lying on each other,” the teacher stammered, his voice tinged with an accusation that suggested a crime far beyond the innocence of children’s play.

Mr. Cane’s interest piqued, his gaze finally lifting from his work. The canes upon his desk, usually silent sentinels, now seemed to quiver with anticipation. Dad’s heart raced, the beats drumming in his ears like the distant sound of thunder, a prelude to the storm that was Mr. Cane’s wrath.

“What have you to say for yourselves?” Mr. Cane demanded, his voice a low rumble that seemed to shake the very foundations of the room.

Dad’s mind was a whirlwind of panic and confusion, words failing him as he stood, drenched in fear, before the headmaster’s imposing figure.

“What have you to say for yourself, young man?” Mr. Cane’s voice boomed, filling the room with an authority that demanded obedience.

Father’s mind raced for an excuse, a lie, anything that might appease the headmaster, but words failed him. He stood mute, his eyes darting away from the piercing stare that sought to unravel his soul.

“You two have been bad children,” Mr. Cane declared, though his eyes twinkled with a hint of mirth.

Father nodded, still unsure of the sin they had committed. It was only later, under Grandmother Ibidun’s patient tutelage, that he came to understand the boundaries they had unknowingly crossed.

NB: Chapter Two of Lucifer's Agenda continues tomorrow.

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