Emmy-J

Emmy-J Emmy-J is an abuja born artist, singer dancer and a music producer.....also a good song writer, like

I Visited Dr. Uma Ukpai — Rev'd Isaac Omolehin I visited a very good friend of mine, Rev'd Doc. Uma Ukpai, some of you m...
14/10/2025

I Visited Dr. Uma Ukpai — Rev'd Isaac Omolehin

I visited a very good friend of mine, Rev'd Doc. Uma Ukpai, some of you must have heard about him. While we were discussing, he told me a story of a certain village in Ebonyi State.

The white missionaries that were sent there many years ago, were driven away by the villagers. The last missionary that came to evangelise to them, they drove him and he refused to go. Then they said to him ‘‘Okay, we'll k!ll you”. When they took him to k!ll him, he agreed to leave the village but they refused to let him go. He pleaded and begged them to let him travel to a nearby village but they insisted on k!lling him. They took him outside the village, took sticks to break his skull, the missionary lifted up his hand and said this exact words to them 👉🏼 “I have used the name of Jesus to beg you to allow me leave but you've refused, if you people k!ll me, nobody in this village will rise above the level of a labourer, there's nothing you'll do to go above the level of a labourer”

And for many years in that village, if you like, study all you could, read all you wished, when you graduate, you'll go to either Abuja or Lagos and use your certificate and expertise as a gateman. Those people from that village struggled for years without seeing the results of their labours.

They came to this my evangelist friend, Dr. Uma Ukpai and told him exactly what happened between their forefathers and the missionary and Dr. Uma went there.

Uma Ukpai went there and gathered all of them at their village Square, their king stood up and said “This is what we inherited — we're paying a debt we did not owe, our fathers put us in this”

Dr. Uma prayed, removed his shoes and knelt down and prayed. He asked God to overlook and have mercy upon them. He pleaded the blood of Jesus over the village and left.

He told me that it wasn't long before they invited him to that village for thanksgiving and celebration. The veil covering them was broken and good things started happening. That village produced the Governor of that State, 5 commissioners also came from that village and so many wonderful news. It was as if they were getting arrears of their benefits.

The Bible says that the years that the locust and caterpillars have eaten, God will restore and I pray for you, may God in His mercy restore those years back to you in double fold in the name of Jesus!

Cpd

The Last Message from MamaThe first time Chijioke stepped off the night bus from Enugu and smelt the choking fumes of La...
24/09/2025

The Last Message from Mama
The first time Chijioke stepped off the night bus from Enugu and smelt the choking fumes of Lagos, he swore he would never go back to the village empty-handed. He hugged his small Ghana-Must-Go bag and whispered a promise into the air:
“Mama, I will make you proud. I will not return until I can change your life.”
Mama Ifeoma, a frail widow with tired eyes, had raised him with nothing but her hands, her faith, and her endless proverbs. She had sold akara at the village square just so he could finish secondary school. When he left, she pressed a tiny packet of roasted groundnuts into his palm and said:
“My son, remember: the yam that grows crooked will shame the farmer who planted it.”
But Lagos was not the city of dreams he had imagined. Weeks became months, and months bled into a full year. He worked as a bus conductor for a wicked oga who paid him half of what he earned. He slept on a thin mat in a room with five other boys, each chasing survival.
Some nights, hunger kept him awake. Other nights, temptation did. His friends whispered about “Yahoo Yahoo.” They flashed new phones and gold chains, living fast and loud.
“Chijioke, you dey dull yourself. One laptop, small brain… you fit hammer in two weeks,” they teased.
He always shook his head. He could almost hear his mother’s voice whenever he was tempted: “A dog that follows a thief to the market will return home with a rope around its neck.”
Still, the pressure ate at him.
Then one hot afternoon, as he was dozing outside the danfo park, a stranger tapped his shoulder. The man was barefoot, his clothes dusty like he had walked miles.
“Are you Chijioke, son of Ifeoma?”
“Yes,” he replied, startled.
The man handed him a folded piece of paper. “Your mother sent this. She said it must reach you.”
Before Chijioke could ask questions, the man had already melted into the crowd.
With trembling hands, he unfolded the letter.
The Letter
My son,
I do not have much time. The world may tempt you, but remember that not all roads lead home. A man who forgets his roots is like a tree without water. Riches without integrity will destroy you and those after you. If your hands are not clean, your wealth will never feed you in peace. Do not bring shame to your name. Remember, my son: the yam that grows crooked will shame the farmer who planted it.
The English was flawless. Too flawless. His mother had never been to school. She barely knew how to write her name. His heart pounded as he stared at the words.
Was this some trick? Who really wrote it? And how did the stranger find him?
For three nights, he couldn’t sleep. The letter burned in his chest like fire. Finally, he decided: he would go home.
When Chijioke reached the village, silence greeted him. Neighbors avoided his eyes. An old woman shook her head and whispered, “Ehya… it is well.”
His heart sank. He ran to the compound. The clay walls looked smaller, weaker. The air smelled of dust and grief. A fresh mound of earth sat behind the hut.
Mama Ifeoma was gone. Buried two weeks earlier.
He collapsed to the ground, clutching the letter. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” he cried.
It was then the village teacher, old Mr. Nnaji, stepped forward. His voice was soft.
“Your mother knew her time was short. She begged me to write her words in English, so they would reach you wherever you were. She said wisdom was her only inheritance for you.”
Chijioke’s tears blurred the ink on the paper. All along, it had been her voice—just carried through another’s hand.
That night, he sat beside her grave under the moonlight. For the first time in Lagos or Enugu, his path felt clear. He whispered:
“Mama, I understand now. Wealth is nothing without integrity. I will live so your yam grows straight.”
And though the night air was still, he could swear he felt a breeze, gentle as a mother’s hand on her son’s cheek.
Lesson for the Reader
In Africa, true inheritance is not land or money—it is the wisdom our elders leave behind. The richest man is poor without integrity, but even the poorest child is wealthy if he carries the words of his mother in his heart.

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I think i am getting better with my story writing day by day….. #
24/09/2025

I think i am getting better with my story writing day by day…..

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