I was heading to London on flight 80, which landed with difficulty—I barely scraped together the money to come—but for your enjoyment, readers, I won't let it pass without sharing. There's a home that truly lives up to the name "home," not just any home in the country, no matter where it's located. I spotted a handsome guy melting into a 3-seater seat, tapping away on a sleek iPad, with a new-design computer—also like an iPad—beside him. He was working on it while also handling his phone. From his fingers alone, I could tell that money, vacation, and pleasure had thoroughly infused him—he's the ultimate guy when it comes to combining beauty. That's OMAR MOHD OMAR, about 35 years old, named after his grandfather. His father, Mohd Omar Ibrahim, is a famous educated man, businessman, and politician. Omar is the only child his parents had before their deaths. They are originally from Gombe State, Fulani from Gombe. His father insisted he pursue education before passing away. Now, Mohd Omar only has relatives left in Gombe; he treats them kindly and visits them. He's a kind elder who has held various government jobs and many political positions: state representative once, House of Representatives in Abuja three times, senator once, minister twice. Currently, he's Nigeria's ambassador to Russia. Plus, he has many companies and various business ventures. He's accumulated wealth, properties, and assets—in short, a truly wealthy tycoon living in Abuja, the federal capital. He has two wives: Hajia Amina, the senior wife, who has three children—God didn't bless her with many births. Omar is the first, then Abdullah at 18 years, and the youngest, Suleim at 9 years. His second wife, Hajia Rahina, has all girls—five in total: Sadiya 27 years, Aisha 25 years, Zainab 23 years, Naja 21 years, Sajida 15 years, the youngest. Hajiya Amina is from a Gombe village, so she didn't get much education—her limit is secondary school, and even that was after Mohd Omar Ibrahim married her and made her attend. She doesn't work or go anywhere; she stays home, raising her children and giving them proper upbringing alongside her husband.
Rahina, on the other hand, and her three older children all work in government—they have degrees. Every day, the parents get into the car and off they go to work; when salary comes, it's a competition among them. The father keeps urging them to find husbands since they have degrees, but they refuse, which is why the house is filled with single women. Meanwhile, Amina's side is the most beautiful, especially Omar, which makes them hate him even more.
They don't live in peace at all. Hajiya Rahina doesn't like Hajia Amina or her children because Amina has sons and she doesn't—she thinks they'll inherit everything. Plus, Alhaji Mohd loves Amina and her children more, especially Omar, which makes Rahina insist that her daughters won't marry until they have degrees and government jobs. Her children grew up with that mindset and adopted her character: lies, lack of respect, acting superior. Even among themselves, they don't get along—hypocrisy leads to fights in the open, competition to see who outshines the others. They follow religious teachers their mother introduced them to. As for Hajiya Amina, God bless her, she's a kind woman, a true lady of the house. Worldly things don't bother her; she has patience and faith. She just prays for herself and her children, especially Omar, since they envy him the most. He himself doesn't get involved in anyone's affairs except his own siblings—he sees his half-siblings lack upbringing.
He's the ultimate in beauty, even if he tries to downplay it. Omar is fair-skinned but not pale—you wouldn't call him chocolate because he's fairer than that, almost white. Tall but not lanky, not skinny nor fat—in the middle with a broad, normal chest. His nose is well-shaped and pointed but not too much. His hair is grown out in a lush style, black, smooth, and soft like an Indian's, with thick, beautiful brows. Eyes wide and purely white, beard a bit long, mouth well-proportioned with lips not pink but like light pink. You won't be surprised, readers—when he smiles, almost fainting, how his teeth shine purely white, with a dimple. His skin is smooth, soft, shiny, and flawless. His legs, fingers, hands—all captivating. His thighs and waist are well-formed and attractive, his chest and the rest of his body purely smooth. Wherever you look, Omar's beauty surpasses it. Everyone stares at him, even white people in London admire and protect him for his beauty.
In terms of character, Omar is about 95% perfect. He doesn't drink anything, doesn't even listen to women no matter how they pursue him—he hates girls, they don't approach him. He doesn't interfere in anyone's business, doesn't care about others' problems unless you ask for help, then he'll give it. His issues are a hot temper, quick anger, pride, and lack of cheer—he doesn't laugh, nothing makes him smile. He has compassion if he sees you in trouble, but he doesn't enter anyone's life to offer help unless asked. He hates noise and commotion. He did his degree in London in economics, now he's done his master's. In religion, nothing to say—he's memorized up to 40 parts of the Quran, plus other religious books he's memorized, and he practices his knowledge well, very religious. His father pressured him to marry at 30; he found him a wife from a governor's family, Sahar. She's educated too, studied medicine, works at a big hospital in Abuja, has two private ones.
Sahar is beautiful, no doubt—chocolate-skinned but turned fair from body cream, always bathing before work. She sees no one with respect, thinking she's rolling in naira. Four flashy cars, all the house staff fear her because of her arrogance. No manners, insults people. At work, she even high-fives men—"give me five Saleem"—you'd think they're killed.
Men praise her beauty and perfumes endlessly—"truly you've met, your husband is lucky"—she engages in vulgar talk with male colleagues. Some proper female staff advised her, but she insulted them.
Sahar's jealousy doesn't stop there—even her husband Omar, she doesn't respect him at all. He doesn't know what marriage is, doesn't know pleasure, doesn't know love, never experienced it—his father forced him into it.
Sahar isn't bothered by religion; just money and government job, bad friends, goes out five times a day, never home—when questioned, she says it's work.
She refuses to have kids, says she's not ready, doesn't want to ruin her body. Omar, tired of her bad character, went to London to rest—she doesn't care. He scolded and advised her, she won't listen. She doesn't let him near unless it's her need or to get money from him. He doesn't love her, no feelings—he does it out of duty, which makes him wonder if he's healthy since he never feels desire for his wife. Women anywhere, he doesn't look, so he can't identify his issue.
But his best friend Sultan says it's because he doesn't love his wife—when he meets his real love, it'll burst out, then he'll confirm he's fine. Omar thinks it's a lie, refuses to believe it. He went to many hospitals in Europe—they say he's perfectly healthy. That's a bit about the most handsome and sexy OMAR.
Follow me, readers—now we're starting yours every day.
Asmahbaffa.
[27/03, 17:48] Hassan Atk: â“‚â“‚â“‚
THE GOVERNMENT EMPLOYEE
â“‚â“‚â“‚
2
By
Asmahbaffa
Return to Nigeria and the Street Encounter
Nigeria, back to Abuja, the city where you feel the naira. On the outskirts, I left the homes of the less privileged, those who barely make it doing small trades, renting on the edge of Abuja before entering the main city. Right by the roadside, I spotted a girl selling apples and boiled eggs. She was following the road, handing them through car windows—apple and egg—going from car to car in the roundabout, lifting them up for drivers to buy.
I looked at her closely—she's a girl about 15 years old, sweating from the hot sun. She's wearing a long red dress that goes a bit past her knees, the dress is fitted, faded, showing from her hijab and black scarf. But looking at the girl, her face and the dress aren't dirty—you can tell her home is clean.
The girl caught my eye—I couldn't take my eyes off because of her intense beauty and well-formed features. She's a striking girl with full charm; looking at her, you'd think she's mixed with Arab blood, no need to be told. Clearly, in the future, she'll be a famous beauty. Every car that passes stares at her; some even stop and say they love her.
Her slim, delicate legs—I was looking and nodding in admiration. Upward, I encountered her slim hips with rounded firmness. Then I thought, well, she's still a young girl— in the future, she'll be even more eye-catching. Moving on, I saw the center of attention, her boobs—they're not big yet, small, just developing— in the future, uhmmm... Looking at her neck, I saw some small black spots, about five, called God's ink. Her neck is smooth with a bit of bone visible.
Description of the Young Seller and Her Family
Her face drew my eyes: the mouth I spotted is light pink, very beautiful lips, small pure white teeth. Her nose is beautiful, long with a point but not too much, with a black spot on the nose that enhances her face. Eyes medium-sized, not big nor small, purely white like milk.
Her hair is grown out to her forehead, a bit wavy, black silk. She doesn't have a big forehead, lol. Her hair is tied in a ponytail down past the middle of her back.
My eyes didn't stop there, readers—I looked at her small, beautiful ears. She's fair-skinned; the sun and hardship made her a bit darker. She just sells on the road, doesn't listen to anyone. Some buy because of her beauty, some to notice her and get a chance to ruin her life—which is why she ignores them. So, she comes to sell and sells.
I saw another little girl, not more than 9 years old, resembling the apple and egg seller but you'd call her light chocolate—not purely fair. She grabbed the hand of the seller, saying "Aunty IKLAS, come, Ummi says selling is enough, we're hungry, cook for us."
Iklas held her little sister's hand, smiling, "Ok Suhaila, I'm coming home now. How was school?" "Normal, Aunty, but they said I didn't pay for the books we were told to buy. Friday they'll close."
"Sorry baby, there's money—I'll give you tomorrow, never mind." She picked up her basket since the eggs were finished, apples left in two bags. They went home, she and her sister. I followed them discreetly. They didn't walk far from the road; they entered a house that could rank 3rd in dilapidation among the neighborhood homes—they're among the least privileged.
Description
Omar's Introduction and Background
I was heading to London on flight 80, which landed with difficulty—I barely scraped together the money to come—but for your enjoyment, readers, I won't let it pass without sharing. There's a home that truly lives up to the name "home," not just any home in the country, no matter where it's located. I spotted a handsome guy melting into a 3-seater seat, tapping away on a sleek iPad, with a new-design computer—also like an iPad—beside him. He was working on it while also handling his phone. From his fingers alone, I could tell that money, vacation, and pleasure had thoroughly infused him—he's the ultimate guy when it comes to combining beauty. That's OMAR MOHD OMAR, about 35 years old, named after his grandfather. His father, Mohd Omar Ibrahim, is a famous educated man, businessman, and politician. Omar is the only child his parents had before their deaths. They are originally from Gombe State, Fulani from Gombe. His father insisted he pursue education before passing away. Now, Mohd Omar only has relatives left in Gombe; he treats them kindly and visits them. He's a kind elder who has held various government jobs and many political positions: state representative once, House of Representatives in Abuja three times, senator once, minister twice. Currently, he's Nigeria's ambassador to Russia. Plus, he has many companies and various business ventures. He's accumulated wealth, properties, and assets—in short, a truly wealthy tycoon living in Abuja, the federal capital. He has two wives: Hajia Amina, the senior wife, who has three children—God didn't bless her with many births. Omar is the first, then Abdullah at 18 years, and the youngest, Suleim at 9 years. His second wife, Hajia Rahina, has all girls—five in total: Sadiya 27 years, Aisha 25 years, Zainab 23 years, Naja 21 years, Sajida 15 years, the youngest. Hajiya Amina is from a Gombe village, so she didn't get much education—her limit is secondary school, and even that was after Mohd Omar Ibrahim married her and made her attend. She doesn't work or go anywhere; she stays home, raising her children and giving them proper upbringing alongside her husband.
Rahina, on the other hand, and her three older children all work in government—they have degrees. Every day, the parents get into the car and off they go to work; when salary comes, it's a competition among them. The father keeps urging them to find husbands since they have degrees, but they refuse, which is why the house is filled with single women. Meanwhile, Amina's side is the most beautiful, especially Omar, which makes them hate him even more.
They don't live in peace at all. Hajiya Rahina doesn't like Hajia Amina or her children because Amina has sons and she doesn't—she thinks they'll inherit everything. Plus, Alhaji Mohd loves Amina and her children more, especially Omar, which makes Rahina insist that her daughters won't marry until they have degrees and government jobs. Her children grew up with that mindset and adopted her character: lies, lack of respect, acting superior. Even among themselves, they don't get along—hypocrisy leads to fights in the open, competition to see who outshines the others. They follow religious teachers their mother introduced them to. As for Hajiya Amina, God bless her, she's a kind woman, a true lady of the house. Worldly things don't bother her; she has patience and faith. She just prays for herself and her children, especially Omar, since they envy him the most. He himself doesn't get involved in anyone's affairs except his own siblings—he sees his half-siblings lack upbringing.
He's the ultimate in beauty, even if he tries to downplay it. Omar is fair-skinned but not pale—you wouldn't call him chocolate because he's fairer than that, almost white. Tall but not lanky, not skinny nor fat—in the middle with a broad, normal chest. His nose is well-shaped and pointed but not too much. His hair is grown out in a lush style, black, smooth, and soft like an Indian's, with thick, beautiful brows. Eyes wide and purely white, beard a bit long, mouth well-proportioned with lips not pink but like light pink. You won't be surprised, readers—when he smiles, almost fainting, how his teeth shine purely white, with a dimple. His skin is smooth, soft, shiny, and flawless. His legs, fingers, hands—all captivating. His thighs and waist are well-formed and attractive, his chest and the rest of his body purely smooth. Wherever you look, Omar's beauty surpasses it. Everyone stares at him, even white people in London admire and protect him for his beauty.
In terms of character, Omar is about 95% perfect. He doesn't drink anything, doesn't even listen to women no matter how they pursue him—he hates girls, they don't approach him. He doesn't interfere in anyone's business, doesn't care about others' problems unless you ask for help, then he'll give it. His issues are a hot temper, quick anger, pride, and lack of cheer—he doesn't laugh, nothing makes him smile. He has compassion if he sees you in trouble, but he doesn't enter anyone's life to offer help unless asked. He hates noise and commotion. He did his degree in London in economics, now he's done his master's. In religion, nothing to say—he's memorized up to 40 parts of the Quran, plus other religious books he's memorized, and he practices his knowledge well, very religious. His father pressured him to marry at 30; he found him a wife from a governor's family, Sahar. She's educated too, studied medicine, works at a big hospital in Abuja, has two private ones.
Sahar is beautiful, no doubt—chocolate-skinned but turned fair from body cream, always bathing before work. She sees no one with respect, thinking she's rolling in naira. Four flashy cars, all the house staff fear her because of her arrogance. No manners, insults people. At work, she even high-fives men—"give me five Saleem"—you'd think they're killed.
Men praise her beauty and perfumes endlessly—"truly you've met, your husband is lucky"—she engages in vulgar talk with male colleagues. Some proper female staff advised her, but she insulted them.
Sahar's jealousy doesn't stop there—even her husband Omar, she doesn't respect him at all. He doesn't know what marriage is, doesn't know pleasure, doesn't know love, never experienced it—his father forced him into it.
Sahar isn't bothered by religion; just money and government job, bad friends, goes out five times a day, never home—when questioned, she says it's work.
She refuses to have kids, says she's not ready, doesn't want to ruin her body. Omar, tired of her bad character, went to London to rest—she doesn't care. He scolded and advised her, she won't listen. She doesn't let him near unless it's her need or to get money from him. He doesn't love her, no feelings—he does it out of duty, which makes him wonder if he's healthy since he never feels desire for his wife. Women anywhere, he doesn't look, so he can't identify his issue.
But his best friend Sultan says it's because he doesn't love his wife—when he meets his real love, it'll burst out, then he'll confirm he's fine. Omar thinks it's a lie, refuses to believe it. He went to many hospitals in Europe—they say he's perfectly healthy. That's a bit about the most handsome and sexy OMAR.
Follow me, readers—now we're starting yours every day.
Asmahbaffa.
[27/03, 17:48] Hassan Atk: â“‚â“‚â“‚
THE GOVERNMENT EMPLOYEE
â“‚â“‚â“‚
2
By
Asmahbaffa
Return to Nigeria and the Street Encounter
Nigeria, back to Abuja, the city where you feel the naira. On the outskirts, I left the homes of the less privileged, those who barely make it doing small trades, renting on the edge of Abuja before entering the main city. Right by the roadside, I spotted a girl selling apples and boiled eggs. She was following the road, handing them through car windows—apple and egg—going from car to car in the roundabout, lifting them up for drivers to buy.
I looked at her closely—she's a girl about 15 years old, sweating from the hot sun. She's wearing a long red dress that goes a bit past her knees, the dress is fitted, faded, showing from her hijab and black scarf. But looking at the girl, her face and the dress aren't dirty—you can tell her home is clean.
The girl caught my eye—I couldn't take my eyes off because of her intense beauty and well-formed features. She's a striking girl with full charm; looking at her, you'd think she's mixed with Arab blood, no need to be told. Clearly, in the future, she'll be a famous beauty. Every car that passes stares at her; some even stop and say they love her.
Her slim, delicate legs—I was looking and nodding in admiration. Upward, I encountered her slim hips with rounded firmness. Then I thought, well, she's still a young girl— in the future, she'll be even more eye-catching. Moving on, I saw the center of attention, her boobs—they're not big yet, small, just developing— in the future, uhmmm... Looking at her neck, I saw some small black spots, about five, called God's ink. Her neck is smooth with a bit of bone visible.
Description of the Young Seller and Her Family
Her face drew my eyes: the mouth I spotted is light pink, very beautiful lips, small pure white teeth. Her nose is beautiful, long with a point but not too much, with a black spot on the nose that enhances her face. Eyes medium-sized, not big nor small, purely white like milk.
Her hair is grown out to her forehead, a bit wavy, black silk. She doesn't have a big forehead, lol. Her hair is tied in a ponytail down past the middle of her back.
My eyes didn't stop there, readers—I looked at her small, beautiful ears. She's fair-skinned; the sun and hardship made her a bit darker. She just sells on the road, doesn't listen to anyone. Some buy because of her beauty, some to notice her and get a chance to ruin her life—which is why she ignores them. So, she comes to sell and sells.
I saw another little girl, not more than 9 years old, resembling the apple and egg seller but you'd call her light chocolate—not purely fair. She grabbed the hand of the seller, saying "Aunty IKLAS, come, Ummi says selling is enough, we're hungry, cook for us."
Iklas held her little sister's hand, smiling, "Ok Suhaila, I'm coming home now. How was school?" "Normal, Aunty, but they said I didn't pay for the books we were told to buy. Friday they'll close."
"Sorry baby, there's money—I'll give you tomorrow, never mind." She picked up her basket since the eggs were finished, apples left in two bags. They went home, she and her sister. I followed them discreetly. They didn't walk far from the road; they entered a house that could rank 3rd in dilapidation among the neighborhood homes—they're among the least privileged.