Johncharis music

22/09/2025

"Don’t Look Down on Anybody – The Story of a Nobody Who Became a Savior"

[Opening – Calm, Reflective Tone]
Let me tell you a story—not about kings, not about billionaires, not about celebrities—but about someone who was born with nothing. Nothing but a name... and even that name came with a stain.
He was the son of a drunkard.
A boy people pointed at with pity—or worse, with disgust.
They said, "Nothing good can come out of that house."
They said, "That boy will be just like his father—lost, broken, forgotten."
But life has a strange way of humbling the proud and lifting the low.
Because that "nobody"—that son of a drinking man—would grow up to become the savior of his community.
[Pause – Let that sink in]
[Middle – Build the Energy]
Yes, he stumbled. Yes, he struggled.
He wore second-hand shoes, walked to school with an empty stomach, and learned how to fight—not just with fists, but with faith.
He learned how to rise—not above people, but above pain.
He learned how to forgive—not just his father, but the world that mocked him.
And one day, when the storms came… when his community needed a voice, a leader, a light in the dark—he stepped forward.
Not the politician.
Not the millionaire.
Not the preacher.
But that boy.
That boy who was once nothing.
He organized.
He protected.
He built schools, shelters, safe spaces.
He gave hope where there was none.
[Shift in Tone – Moral of the Story]
So I stand before you today with a simple message:
Don’t look down on anybody.
Not the orphan.
Not the street kid.
Not the one who smells like struggle.
Not the one who’s silent in the back of the class.
Because the stone you reject today might be the cornerstone of your future.
Because the same child you mock today might be the one to save your life tomorrow.
[Closing – Strong and Inspirational]
Never forget:
A seed does not look like a tree.
A caterpillar does not look like a butterfly.
And the son of a drunkard does not look like a savior... until he becomes one.
So open your eyes.
Open your heart.
And never, ever look down on anybody.

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22/09/2025

"Who I Finally Became by Drinking"
Thank you for giving me the space to share something deeply personal. This isn’t an easy story to tell, but it’s an important one. Because it’s the truth. And truth — even when it’s hard — is where healing begins.
I used to think I drank to relax. To have fun. To escape stress, dull the pain, silence the noise. I told myself it was normal. I believed I was in control.
But little by little, drink by drink, that illusion shattered.
Drinking didn’t just change my habits. It changed me. Slowly, I became someone I didn’t recognize. Someone I never intended to be.
I became unreliable. I started breaking promises — to friends, to family, to myself.
I became numb. The highs weren’t that high anymore, and the lows just kept getting lower.
I became angry. At the world, at circumstances, at people who loved me. And mostly… at myself.
I became dishonest — hiding bottles, hiding feelings, hiding truth.
And then one day, I looked in the mirror… and I didn’t see a person. I saw a shell.
That is who I finally became by drinking: a version of myself that was disconnected from everything that made life meaningful — connection, purpose, love, clarity, peace.
But here’s the twist: that’s not where my story ends.
Because that version of me — the one who had lost control — had to die, so that someone new could be born.
When I finally faced my truth, when I reached out for help, when I chose to heal — that’s when I started becoming someone else.
Not perfect. Not fixed overnight. But real. Present. Honest. Alive.
So maybe the real title of this speech should be:
"Who I Finally Became When I Stopped Drinking."
Because I’m still becoming. Every single day.
And maybe you are too.

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22/09/2025

"The Light in the Forest"
In the heart of an ancient forest, where the trees whispered secrets and the winds carried stories older than time, a blind man lived alone in a small wooden cabin. His name was Eli. He had lost his sight many years ago, but he had learned to listen—truly listen—to the world around him. The rustle of leaves, the snap of a twig, the rhythm of a bird’s wings: these were his eyes now.
One evening, as twilight spilled like ink across the forest floor, Eli heard something unusual. It was soft—like sobbing. Hesitant. Frightened.
He tilted his head toward the sound. "Who's there?" he called gently.
There was silence. Then a sniffle.
Eli took his walking stick and moved toward the sound with the grace of someone who knew every root and rock by heart. Under a weeping cedar tree, he found a boy—no older than nine—clutching his knees, his face streaked with tears and dirt.
The boy flinched as Eli approached, but the old man knelt slowly beside him.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Eli said quietly. "You sound lost."
The boy nodded, eyes wide. "I... I can't find my way back. I don't know where I am."
"You're in the forest," Eli said with a small smile. "But you're not alone anymore."
Eli took the boy’s hand and led him back to the cabin. He gave him food, a warm blanket, and a place to rest by the fire.
Over the next few days, the boy—whose name was Sam—told Eli everything. He had wandered away from a hiking trail with his family and gotten separated. He had been walking for what felt like days, tired and scared. They waited together for someone to come. But no one did.
Weeks passed. Search teams never came that far into the forest. And slowly, something unexpected happened—Sam stopped waiting.
He began to learn from Eli. How to tell the time of day by the birdsong. How to cook by scent and texture. How to feel the path beneath his feet. Eli taught him not just how to survive, but how to see the world without needing eyes.
And Sam, in turn, gave Eli something he hadn't felt in years: family.
One morning, sitting on the porch with a carved wooden cup of tea in his hands, Eli asked, "Do you miss your old home?"
Sam thought for a long moment. Then he shook his head.
"This is my home now," he said softly.
From that day on, Eli introduced Sam to anyone who passed through the woods (though they were few) as his son. They tended the garden, fixed the roof when the storms came, and told each other stories by firelight.
The blind man had once lived in darkness.
But now, because of a lost boy, he lived in light.

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22/09/2025

The Man Across the River

For thirty years, the man on the other side of the river needed nothing from anyone.
His name was Elias, though few remembered it. They just called him the man across the river. His small cabin stood nestled beneath a canopy of pine and fog, its chimney whispering smoke only when the wind was kind. He built it himself—stone by stone, log by log. No one helped him. No one was asked to.
At first, people in the village had watched him from the opposite bank, puzzled and curious. He had arrived without a word, rowing across in a rickety boat, with only a dog and a sack. Then the seasons turned. And he stayed.
He trapped his own food. He grew potatoes, onions, and wild herbs in a neat patch behind his home. He caught rainwater in wooden barrels and bathed in the river’s cold current. In winter, smoke curled from his chimney; in summer, sunlight glinted off the tin of his roof.
Villagers would sometimes call out to him.
“Need anything, Elias?”
He’d just shake his head with a quiet smile, then return to his work.
Years passed. Children grew up watching the man across the river and asked their parents about him.
“Why does he live like that?”
“Because he wants to,” the parents said.
He lived through storms, blizzards, floods, and even a wildfire that came close one dry summer. The villagers had gathered at the river’s edge, worried he might finally ask for help.
He didn’t.
One day, a boy from the village swam across, curious. He returned with stories.
“There’s a rocking chair he carved himself. And shelves full of books! He even taught himself to play the violin.”
“Did he say why he stays over there?” someone asked.
The boy shook his head. “Just said, Peace doesn’t need company.”
On the thirtieth year of his solitude, smoke stopped rising from the chimney. The river ran silent for days.
One morning, the villagers crossed over.
They found the cabin tidy. The dog was gone, old and long passed. The violin sat beside the rocking chair. On the table was a single page, written in careful hand:
> "I did not live without people.
I lived without need.
And in that, I found everything."

They buried Elias beneath a pine tree that still stands tall by the river’s bend. The cabin remains untouched—some say out of respect, others say out of awe.

And sometimes, when the wind carries just right, the river sings a quiet tune

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22/09/2025

"No permanent comfort in life"
–you can never be comfortable with another man's space. True Comfort begging when u start your own.

Let me speak plainly, from the heart, and without decoration:
A man born of a woman can never find 100% comfort in this life.
Not on this earth. Not in this body. Not in this system.
Because life itself is a battlefield of change, pain, growth, and uncertainty.

You can chase comfort, yes. But let me tell you this — the more you chase perfect comfort, the more discomfort you’ll invite. The more you demand ease in all things, the harder life will push back. Why? Because perfect comfort is not only unrealistic — it is unnatural.

Every time you say, "I want more peace," life will ask you, "How much chaos can you handle first?"
Every time you pray for more success, life will test your patience, your endurance, your self-control.
And every time you crave rest, life may give you restlessness — not to punish you, but to prepare you.

So here is what I urge you to do:

Learn to adjust.
Adjust, not because you're weak — but because you are wise.
Adjust, not because you're giving up — but because you're learning the rhythm of life.
Manage yourself. Manage your emotions. Manage your expectations. Because if you don’t, life surely will.

Build your comfort little by little. One small piece at a time.
A safe home. A peaceful mind. A healthy body. A heart that forgives.
That is comfort — not what you buy, not what you wear, not what you drive.

And as you rise, remember this truth:
You may never have it all, but you can build enough.
Enough peace to sleep at night.
Enough love to keep going.
Enough hope to wake up tomorrow and keep building again.

So stop chasing perfect comfort. It doesn’t exist.
Instead, chase growth. Chase meaning. Chase discipline.

And in that process, you’ll find a deeper kind of comfort — the kind that doesn’t break when life gets hard.

22/09/2025

Title: The Woman No One Noticed
No one could have guessed she was helpless in that house.
For 12months — her remains stayed there, locked away from the world, packed into a small room like frozen fish. Dust blanketed everything like a shroud. Silence lived in the walls.
Neighbors remembered her vaguely. She wore long sleeves even in summer. She walked with a quiet grace, eyes always downcast, carrying groceries as though they weighed more than her bones. No one knew her name. They called her “the quiet lady in 4B.”
She stopped going out one day, but no one asked why. No one knocked. The mail stopped, the lights stayed off. The landlord, used to her pre-paid rent every year, never thought to check in — until the money ran out.
When her final rent payment expired, and the bank account stayed silent, someone was finally sent to the apartment.
They had to break the door.
Inside, the air was heavy — not just with decay, but with time. The furniture was still arranged like she’d left it in the '90s. A calendar on the wall was frozen in 2000. A cracked mug sat on the windowsill, turned white with dust.
They found her in the bedroom, curled up in the corner.
She had died of asthma — alone, unable to breathe, unable to call for help. Her inhaler was empty beside her. Her phone had no signal. In those final moments, the world had turned away, and no one had looked back.
They said her name was Miriam. She had no family, no emergency contacts. Just bills paid years in advance and a body no one noticed disappearing.
For 25 years, she was gone — but the world never paused to ask where she went.

22/09/2025

"The Mad Woman"
The townspeople called her "Mama Silence"—a barefoot woman with tangled hair and a vacant stare who wandered the outskirts of Alaba, whispering to the wind. No one knew her real name, only that she had been mad for over two decades. Children feared her. Adults pitied her. But no one cared enough to ask why she had lost her mind.
No one, except Ada.
Ada was 27, a nurse with kind eyes and a silent ache in her chest that she couldn't explain. She had always felt... different. Her "parents" were loving but secretive. There were no baby pictures. No stories of her birth. Only silence—and that constant whisper from her heart that something wasn’t right.
She had found Mama Silence near the hospital gate one rainy morning, soaked and shivering, clutching an old piece of pink fabric—part of a baby blanket. Moved by something she couldn't explain, Ada took her in. She cleaned her, fed her, and brought her to a shelter, visiting her every day after work. Strangely, the woman calmed only when Ada was near.
Weeks passed. Ada noticed that Mama Silence would stare at her with tearful eyes, whispering things like,
> “My baby had eyes like yours...”
“She was stolen from me... from that hospital.”
The words haunted Ada.
One night, after another of these visits, Ada confronted her father—Daniel, a retired banker who had always avoided questions about her past.
"Why are there no photos of me as a baby?" she asked.
He froze. His wife, her mother—or rather, the woman she had always called mother—entered quietly. But this time, the silence cracked.
“We were never meant to tell you,” her mother whispered. “We were told you had been abandoned. That no one wanted you.”
Ada’s heart pounded.
The truth came days later, not from them, but from an unexpected source—the old hospital security guard, Mr. Emeka, now frail and near death, who stopped Ada outside the hospital gates.
“You look like her,” he said suddenly.
“Like who?” she asked.
He pointed at Mama Silence, who was sitting near the shelter.
“Your mother.”
Her blood ran cold.
Mr. Emeka, with a guilt that had aged him beyond his years, confessed: 27 years ago, he had been paid by a desperate couple who had lost their fifth and final pregnancy. They had bribed him to look the other way during a night shift. A baby was taken from her mother—crying, alive, and healthy.
“I didn’t know what would happen after,” he said, weeping. “I was just a poor man...”
Ada couldn’t breathe.
The pieces snapped into place—the absence of baby photos, the strange pull she felt toward the mad woman, the blanket she never let go of.
DNA tests confirmed it. Mama Silence—real name Nneka—was her biological mother.
When Ada told her, the mad woman cried—really cried—for the first time in years. She held Ada’s face in her hands, whispered, “You came back to me,” and then... smiled.
It would take time. Years, perhaps, to mend what had been broken. But madness is not always permanent. And love, when found, has a way of healing what even time cannot.

21/09/2025

THE BLOODY UPRISING IN IBIBIO VILLAGE
It was a Saturday morning unlike any other.
The sky over Ibibio Village was heavy with silence — the kind of silence that precedes disaster. Ibibio, a land known far and wide not for its wealth, nor for its kindness, but for a dark tradition: dog meat feasts. For generations, the people of Ibibio butchered dogs without remorse, gathering in circles to laugh and drink palm wine over their roasted flesh. They believed it gave them strength, luck, and virility.
But that morning, the winds carried more than just the scent of firewood and blood. There was whispering in the air — voices unheard by men but understood by every hound, stray, and pup for miles.
The dogs had had enough.
From the forests, gutters, hills, and riverbanks, they came. Not in tens or hundreds — but in millions. Teeth bared. Eyes burning like coal. Barking not in fear, but in rage.
Before the sun reached its peak, Ibibio was drowning in blood.
The people tried to fight back — with cutlasses, fire, and even charms — but it was useless. The dogs were not ordinary anymore. Something darker moved through them, something ancient. Old men were dragged from their huts. Women wailed as their children vanished under packs of fur and fangs. Warriors were pulled down in their pride, their strength nothing against the fury of beasts.
And then… the gods fled.
Yes. The gods of Ibibio — those carved idols the villagers once fed with blood and kola nuts — were seen running, abandoning their shrines, diving into the sacred bush and vanishing without a trace. It was as though even they feared what had been unleashed.
By the time the gunmen arrived from neighboring lands, it was too late. The village was a graveyard. Bodies everywhere. Silence returned — not the peaceful kind, but a haunted stillness. No barking. No crying. Just flies.
Some say it was justice. Others say it was a curse born of forgotten sins. But the elders, the few that survived by hiding in the trees, whispered one thing and one thing only:
> "This is not ordinary. There's a spirit behind it. Something has awoken."
To this day, no one enters Ibibio. The trees have grown thick around it. The paths are swallowed by vines. And every full moon, far off in the distance, villagers from neighboring lands claim they still hear it —
The howling.

21/09/2025

Title: The House of Gratitude
In a quiet village in southern Nigeria lived a family bound not just by blood, but by love, sacrifice, and resilience. Tragedy struck early—both parents passed away in a tragic accident, leaving behind five young children. The oldest, Chinedu, was just twenty-one at the time.
With no relatives willing to take them in, Chinedu made a vow at their parents’ grave: “I will not let my siblings suffer. I will be father and mother to them.” He left the university and began doing every kind of job he could find—carpentry during the day, security work at night, and farming on weekends. His only goal was to give his siblings a better life than he had known.
Years passed. Through his sweat and struggle, his brothers and sisters completed their education. One became a doctor, another a lawyer, and another an engineer. They never lacked support. But Chinedu had postponed everything for himself—even marriage.
When he finally married in his early forties, his life had slowed down. His body bore the scars of years of hard labor. He hadn’t built his own house. He lived in the small, inherited room at the back of their father's old compound.
One day, his youngest brother, Ebuka, who had traveled abroad for work, called him.
“Brother Chinedu,” Ebuka said with joy, “God has started blessing me. I want to start building a house in our father’s compound. Show me a portion of land and I’ll send you money. You’ll supervise the construction.”
Chinedu felt proud. Another fruit of his labor was bearing. They agreed on the land, and soon money began flowing in. The foundation was dug. Blocks were molded. Construction began.
But peace did not last.
One night, Chinedu’s wife laughed as they lay in bed.
“So, your younger brother wants to build a house before you? After all you did for him? You trained them while you remained poor. Now they forget you and build houses before you?”
Her words struck a nerve. For the first time, bitterness crept into Chinedu’s heart.
“They have moved on,” he thought. “I gave them everything… and what do I have?”
That night, a dark thought took root.
As construction continued, Chinedu began mixing too much sand with chemical in the cement. He instructed the workers to cut corners silently. He knew that the house would not last many years because of the chemical. But his heart, once filled with love, was now stained with envy.
Months later, the house was completed—a beautiful duplex, shining with fresh paint, tiled floors, and a rooftop tank. Ebuka flew in from abroad, full of excitement and gratitude. He invited the whole family to a thanksgiving service at the church.
The service was joyful—songs, prayers, testimonies. Then Ebuka stood before the congregation with the microphone.
“I want to thank God for this house,” he began, smiling warmly. “But this house is not mine.”
The church fell silent.
“This house belongs to my elder brother, Chinedu,” he continued, voice shaking. “When our parents died, I was only a child. He gave up his life so we could have ours. He raised us like a father. And now that I have the means, I want him to live in peace and dignity. This is his house. Before anyone else builds, he must have his own.”
Gasps echoed through the church. All eyes turned to Chinedu, who was frozen, mouth slightly open, eyes wide. Tears welled up. He looked at his brother, then at the floor.
A lump rose in his throat. Finally, he stepped forward, trembling.
“I—I have wronged you,” he said, voice barely audible. “I thought you forgot me. I let anger blind me. I... I sabotaged the house. I’m so sorry.”
The hall was stunned. Ebuka rushed forward and embraced him tightly.
“Brother,” he whispered, “We can fix the house. But nothing can replace you. We love you.”
That day, forgiveness healed what bitterness had threatened to destroy. Chinedu was given a second chance—not just with the house, but with his heart.
And so, the house was rebuilt stronger, this time with honest hands and grateful hearts. And it stood, not just as a building, but as a House of Gratitude—a symbol of family, sacrifice, redemption, and love.
Moral Lessons:
Love should never be taken for granted.
Sacrifice done in love is never forgotten.
Bitterness blinds, but gratitude restores.
Forgiveness brings healing where pride would bring destruction.

21/09/2025

Playing along

21/09/2025

“Preserving God's Creation in a Confused Generation”
Today, I speak to you with a burdened heart — not in condemnation of any one person, but out of deep concern for the soul of this generation. We are witnessing a moment in history where truth is being traded for lies, where identity is being questioned at the most basic level, and where God’s divine creation is being tampered with.
[God’s Design Is Not a Mistake]
The Bible tells us in Genesis 1:27, “So God created man in His own image; in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them.”
This is not a mistake. This is not up for debate. God, in His infinite wisdom, created male and female — two distinct, beautiful expressions of His image.
But today, society is playing god. People are adding and removing from what God has made. The lines between male and female are being blurred — not by nature, but by deception. This is not science. This is spiritual warfare.
[Freedom Without Morality Is Dangerous]
Our modern world celebrates freedom — but what kind of freedom leads us into confusion and rebellion against our Creator?
The freedom we’re embracing today is not the freedom Christ died to give us. It’s a counterfeit freedom — one that tells our children they can be anything except who God created them to be.
This is not love. This is abuse of privilege.
[Impact on the Next Generation]
The implications are devastating. Our young people are being taught that truth is relative, that biology is optional, and that identity is something you choose — not something you receive from God.
What will be the faith of the next generation if we do not speak truth? If we do not protect their minds from this confusion?
We are not just talking about social change. We are talking about a spiritual attack on the very core of human identity — on God’s design, God’s order, and God’s image.
[The Spirit of Deception]
Let us be clear: this is not just ideology. This is spiritual deception. The enemy is using confusion to lead our young people astray. He is using smooth words, emotional language, and cultural pressure to turn hearts away from truth.
But the Word of God says in Deuteronomy 4:2, “You shall not add to the word which I command you, nor take from it.”
Yet today, we see people adding and removing from God's creation — mocking God in the process.
[Call to Righteousness]
Church, parents, leaders — it is time to rise. Not in hate, but in truth and love. We must protect our children. We must uphold God’s design. We must speak boldly, even if the world calls it offensive.
We are not here to shame — we are here to shine light. Because where there is truth, there is freedom. Real freedom.
[Closing]
Let us not be silent while the enemy sows confusion.
Let us not stand by while God's creation is questioned and mocked.
Let us return to the truth of His Word — for only truth can set us free.
May God have mercy on this generation, and may He raise up voices of courage and clarity in a world full of noise.

08/11/2023