SONMA TV WORLD

19/11/2025

Stepping out in white and feeling ready for a celebration! ✨👰🏽‍♀️

On my way to a wedding to witness some beautiful vows.
​How is your weekend treating you all? Let me know below! 👇

18/11/2025

Please normalize going for regular checkups — your health is your real wealth.💛
In this tough economy, staying healthy is one of the smartest things you can do.

18/11/2025

18/11/2025

A little bit of happiness, reflected. 😊 Wishing everyone a beautiful moment filled with smiles!

06/11/2025

Please what is this ooo
Haaaa

06/11/2025

"Dear woman, don't just pray for a supportive man rather build yourself into a woman who brings something to the table too.✨
There’s power in having your own, earning your own, and growing on your own terms.
Independence is not rebellion, it’s preparation.
Be soft, be kind, be loving, but never be dependent.
Make more, do more, and know your worth. 💛
"

21/10/2025

Sometimes, the people who break you… also teach you how strong you truly are.💔

Life doesn’t always hand us comfort, It often hands us lessons wrapped in pain, betrayal, or silence.

But guess what?

You’re still here. Still standing. Still growing. 🌱✨

Take a moment today to celebrate your strength, your survival, and your soft heart that refuses to give up.

You’re just the plot twist they never saw coming.

23/08/2025

THE SEASON CHANGED

By Author Presh

I remember the harmattan morning my father told me we’d be selling our last goat.

Mama had tried to hide it with a smile, but her hands trembled as she stirred the pap. The fire crackled low, and smoke filled our small kitchen hut. I was seventeen, the eldest of five, and I knew what it meant. That goat was supposed to be for my school fees.

“Papa,” I whispered, my voice tight, “what about my WAEC registration?”

He looked away. “You will write it next year. God’s time is best.”

But I didn’t want to wait. I wanted to become something. A nurse, like Madam Ladi in the next village. I wanted to change our story. But life had its weight, and at that time, it pressed down hard on us.

That night, I cried on the mat beside my siblings, praying silently. The hunger didn’t hurt as much as the hopelessness.

Then came the day of the village market. I followed Mama to sell roasted groundnuts. A woman from town, dressed in Ankara and heels too high for our dusty roads, bought a wrap and lingered. She asked me my name, then smiled.

“You speak well. Are you in school?”

I told her everything—no shame, no pride. Just truth.

Weeks passed.

Then one day, a man on a motorbike came with a letter. That same woman? She’d paid for my WAEC and offered me a place to stay in town while I prepared.

Now, years later, as I walk into the hospital ward in my white uniform, I remember that firewood kitchen. The goat. The hunger. The tears.

Tough seasons don’t mean your story has ended. Sometimes, they are just the pages that make the victory sweeter.

23/08/2025

THE BOY THEY COUNTED OUT

By Author Presh

I was thirteen when my father left us.

Mama said he went to find greener pastures in the city. But I knew the truth. He left because he was tired. Tired of poverty, tired of providing for us. And when he left, everything broke.

Our relatives didn’t hide their resentment.
“Your father abandoned you. What do you even think will become of this boy?” Uncle Ifeanyi scoffed one morning when Mama asked for help with my school fees.

I wanted to answer, but Mama’s hand gripped mine. “Silence is dignity,” she whispered.

So I kept quiet. But I made a promise to myself, I would never let that be the end of my story.

I worked in the mornings before school, and helped Mama fry akara in the evenings. At school, I listened more than I spoke, often hungry because I ate little or nothing at home, always determined.

There were nights I read under the moonlight with swollen eyes and an empty stomach. Nights Mama would sneak the last piece of yam into my plate, pretending she wasn’t hungry.

One day, the school announced a state-wide science competition. I almost didn’t register. Who was I, the boy who patched sandals with wire, to compete against children from private schools?

But my teacher, Mr. Bassey, said, “Ugo, you are not your circumstances. Please register and Compete.”

So I did.

I wore an oversized shirt on the day of the competition. My hands shook as I held the mic. But when I started speaking, something shifted.
I didn't remember the murmurs, the laughter, the pity. I just spoke.

Three weeks later, they called my name on the assembly ground. I had won first place in the competition. I was so my happy.

A woman from Abuja had watched the final round. She sponsored my education, from that moment till university.

Now, I write this from my office as an engineer. Mama has her own shop. The same uncle who laughed at me now brings his sons to me for mentorship.

So when people say, “Ugo, you came out of nothing,” I smile.

Because I didn’t come out of nothing.
I came out of faith.
I came out of a mother’s prayers.
I came out of rejection, yes! but into purpose.

DEAREST READERS;
If they’ve counted you out, remember, numbers lie when God is still counting.😁👍

23/08/2025

THE WOMB THEY MOCKED
By Author Presh

They called me "barren."
At first, it was in whispers. Then in murmurs.
Then, one day, my husband’s younger sister said it to my face while I was pounding yam for dinner in the backyard.

"Which other things do you know how to do? You’re here spending our brother's money on anything food, doing nothing with your womb."

I was very surprised by her words, I laughed lightly, trying not to cry, but her words pierced through my chest like thorns.

I had been married for four years. No child. No miscarriage.
Each month I bled, my mother-in-law's eyes narrowed.
"Have you tried appeasing the goddess? Maybe God is punishing you for the abortions and rough play you did when you were younger ” she'd say.

I cried.
I tried.
I fasted.
I prayed until my knees darkened.
I drank all the bitter roots the herbalist gave me.
Still… nothing.

My husband, Chike, stood by me at first.
But as time passed, even his silence became loud.

I stopped attending women’s meetings in church.
I couldn’t bear the constant "God will do it" looks.

One afternoon, I returned from the hospital, clutching a folder of more test results.
My mother-in-law met me at the door.

"You better pack your things and go. My son won't continue to marry his fellow man. Give space let another woman give us a child. You’ve wasted enough years."

I went straight to my room without saying anything to her.

That night, I wept into my wrapper until dawn.
But just before sleep came, I whispered one sentence:
"God, if you still see me… answer me."

Three months later, I fell sick. I thought it was malaria.
The doctor smiled at me after the test.
“You’re eight weeks pregnant, madam.”

I couldn’t believe it. I cried right there in the hospital.
When I told Chike, he held me so tightly I couldn’t breathe.
His mother didn’t speak for days.

Nine months later, I gave birth to not just a child…
But twins. Two beautiful children a boy and a girl with my eyes and Chike’s smile.

Today, the same in-laws that called me barren are now calling me “Nne Umuejima” (mother of children).
They carry my twins like trophies, as if they never cursed the womb they now celebrate.

To every woman reading this:
They may mock your delay, but they cannot stop your miracle.
God doesn’t forget. He’s just taking His time to make it loud.

THEY MOCKED MY WAIT, BUT THEY COULDN’T STOP MY TESTIMONY.