[31] To the Jews who had believed him, Jesus said, “If you hold to my teaching, you are really my disciples. [32] Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” [33] They answered him, “We are Abraham’s descendants and have never been slaves of anyone. How can you say that we shall be set free?".

The people didn't understand that life is more spiritual than the physical. They asked Jesus "we have never been slave to anyone how you say we shall be set free?" There are many things we are enslave to ignorantly; it might be different kind of addiction, but Jesus can set you free make yourself his disciple today. Have a blissful week ahead good morning.

The Florist Who Delivered to the Wrong Grave

Amara had worked the county's only flower shop for four years, delivering fresh arrangements to the cemetery every Tuesday for a standing order under the name "R. Castellan" always the same instructions, always the same modest grave marker near the cemetery's eastern edge, always paid in cash left in an envelope at the shop each month.

She'd never met the customer. Until the week the envelope contained something different — a note, tucked beneath the usual payment, asking her to deliver instead to a grave three rows over, one she'd never visited before.

The headstone read: Genevieve Castellan, Beloved Wife, 1961–1994.

Curious, and slightly unsettled by the abrupt change after four years of routine, Amara mentioned it to the cemetery's groundskeeper the following week.

"Castellan," he said thoughtfully. "There's actually two graves under that name here. Genevieve, and her husband Roland, buried three rows apart, oddly enough, given they were married."

"Why would they be buried separately?" Amara asked.

The groundskeeper's expression grew careful. "Family dispute, from what I understand. Roland died only two years after Genevieve, but by then his second wife had already claimed the plot beside her own family. Rather sad business, if the old stories are accurate."

Amara felt an unexpected pang of sympathy, glancing toward both graves decades of quiet separation between two people who'd apparently once been genuinely devoted to each other, based on the sheer consistency of the flower deliveries alone.

The following week, another note arrived with the payment: Thank you for switching the delivery. I finally worked up the courage to have both graves properly moved together. The new headstone will be ready within the month. R.C.

Amara frowned at the initials, checking her records. The original standing order had been placed under R. Castellan for four consistent years yet Roland Castellan had died in 1996, according to the groundskeeper's account, nearly three decades earlier.

She sat with the note for a long moment, an uncomfortable chill settling through her chest.

Whoever had been ordering these flowers for four years wasn't Roland at all.

to be continued... 🌸⚰️

Part 4 (Final): The Cellist Who Played for an Empty Seat

Nearly two years after their first meeting, Marguerite stood backstage before another Thursday evening performance, watching Iris settle into her now-customary seat not 14C specifically anymore, simply wherever felt right each week, genuine presence replacing symbolic absence entirely.

Tonight, though, felt different. Marguerite had been planning something for weeks, nervous energy building steadily as the performance approached.

She'd arranged with the conductor for a brief pause midway through the program unusual, though the orchestra had graciously agreed once she'd explained her reasoning.

As the second movement concluded, Marguerite set down her cello and walked to the stage's edge, addressing the audience directly for the first time in her career.

"I'd like to take a brief moment," she said, voice steady despite considerable nervousness, "to speak directly to someone in tonight's audience."

She found Iris's face among the crowd, watching confusion shift slowly into dawning, emotional understanding.

"Two years ago," Marguerite continued, "I noticed an empty seat, reserved faithfully every week for someone who could never actually attend. That observation led me to someone whose courage, compassion, and capacity for genuine healing has moved me more profoundly than I properly know how to express through music alone."

She retrieved a small box from her cello case, walking down from the stage directly toward Iris's seat, the entire audience watching in hushed, curious silence.

"Iris," she said, kneeling beside her seat, "you taught me that even the deepest grief can eventually make room for genuine, unexpected joy, if we're brave enough to properly embrace it. I love you completely, and I'd like to spend considerably more Thursdays with you than we've already shared, for as long as you'll have me. Will you marry me?"

Iris's hands flew to her mouth, tears spilling freely as the entire concert hall watched, breathless with anticipation.

"Yes," she said, voice breaking with overwhelming joy. "Completely, genuinely, without a single moment of hesitation."

The audience erupted into spontaneous applause as Marguerite slipped the ring onto Iris's trembling finger, both women laughing and crying simultaneously amid the unexpected, beautiful public celebration.

"I think," Iris said later that evening, resting warmly against Marguerite as they celebrated privately after the performance's conclusion, "Julian would be genuinely happy for us. I believe he'd recognize exactly what we've built together not a replacement for what we shared, but something entirely new, equally precious in its own right."

Marguerite smiled, pulling her closer with complete, genuine contentment. "I think you're right. Sometimes the most beautiful stories emerge precisely from properly honoring what came before, while courageously choosing to build something new and genuine alongside it."

They married the following spring, exchanging vows in the very concert hall where their unlikely, beautiful connection had first begun seat 14C, now simply an ordinary seat among many, no longer weighted with permanent grief, but instead representing the beginning of a genuine, unexpected love story neither had anticipated discovering through such profound, shared healing.

THE END 🎻💍💛✨

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📍 Le chiffre : 5 % à 15 %. C'est la perte de croissance du PIB par habitant que subissent déjà les pays africains à cause du réchauffement climatique.

Investir dans la transition durable (agroforesterie, protection des côtes, énergies propres), c'est avant tout protéger notre croissance et notre souveraineté.

📖 Source : Groupe de la Banque Africaine de Développement (BAD)

Part 3: The Cellist Who Played for an Empty Seat

Iris studied Marguerite thoughtfully across the quiet, emptying concert hall. "I think that's a rather beautiful quality, honestly. Genuine curiosity paired with real compassion. Not everyone possesses both in equal measure."

"Thank you," Marguerite said, feeling unexpected warmth at the sincere compliment. "Though I confess, I've grown genuinely invested in your wellbeing beyond simple initial curiosity. I find myself looking forward to our conversations rather more than professional courtesy typically requires."

Iris smiled softly, something shifting gently in her expression. "I've noticed that too, actually. I confess, these past several weeks have meant considerably more to me than simply processing grief. I've genuinely enjoyed getting to know you, Marguerite."

They continued talking long after the concert hall had properly emptied, comfortable warmth building steadily between them as weeks turned into months. Iris's presence at the symphony evolved naturally no longer reserved specifically for Julian's memory, but genuinely her own choice, her own connection to the music and, increasingly, to Marguerite herself.

"I have to admit something," Iris said one evening, several months into their deepening friendship. "I think what I'm feeling toward you has grown into something considerably more than simple friendship. I understand if that feels complicated, given everything you know about my history with Julian."

Marguerite felt her own heart quicken at the admission. "I've felt the same way, actually. Though I've been hesitant to properly voice it, uncertain whether pursuing something romantic might feel disrespectful toward Julian's memory, or toward your own healing process."

"I don't think it would be disrespectful at all," Iris said gently. "I think Julian, more than anyone, would want me to eventually find genuine happiness again, rather than remaining permanently trapped in grief. You've helped me heal more in these past several months than I managed alone during three entire years of isolated mourning."

Marguerite reached for her hand, warmth and genuine affection evident in her gentle touch. "I'd like to explore this properly, then. Slowly, deliberately, giving both of us the space to discover exactly what's actually developing between us."

"I'd like that very much," Iris said, smiling warmly despite lingering, understandable vulnerability.

Their relationship developed steadily over the following months, built genuinely on mutual respect, shared grief properly processed, and authentic, growing affection. Iris found herself gradually releasing her permanent reservation of seat 14C, choosing instead to sit wherever felt natural during each performance, genuinely present rather than symbolically anchored to the past.

"I think I'm finally ready," Iris said one evening, nearly a year after their initial meeting, "to properly move forward. Not forgetting Julian, never that. But building something new, genuine, and entirely my own, alongside you."

Marguerite smiled, moved deeply by Iris's evident growth and healing. "I'm honored to be part of that journey, Iris. Genuinely."

to be continued... 🎻💫

Part 2: The Cellist Who Played for an Empty Seat

Iris arrived Thursday evening precisely at seven, hands visibly trembling as she approached the concert hall's entrance. Marguerite met her outside, having arranged permission from the box office manager to personally escort her guest to seat 14C.

"I don't know if I can actually do this," Iris admitted, pausing at the entrance. "Three years, and I've never once managed to walk through these doors again."

"You don't have to do it alone," Marguerite said gently. "I'll be right there on stage the entire time. If you need to leave at any point, simply catch my eye, and I'll understand completely."

Iris nodded, gathering visible courage before finally stepping inside. Marguerite guided her carefully to the third row, watching Iris's expression shift through complicated waves of grief and cautious, painful nostalgia as she finally settled into seat 14C for the first time in three years.

The performance began shortly after, Marguerite watching Iris's reaction carefully throughout, relieved to see genuine, if tearful, engagement rather than overwhelming distress. By the concert's conclusion, Iris remained seated long after other patrons had departed, visibly moved by the entire, cathartic experience.

"Thank you," she said, finding Marguerite backstage afterward. "I haven't felt that close to him in years. Sitting there, hearing the music we both loved so deeply it felt like properly honoring him, rather than simply avoiding the pain entirely."

"I'm glad," Marguerite said sincerely. "Would you like to return next week? I understand if tonight was simply a single, difficult step."

Iris considered the question seriously. "I think I would, actually. Though perhaps not entirely alone this time, if you're willing to continue checking on me afterward."

"I'd like that," Marguerite said warmly.

Over the following weeks, Iris returned regularly, her presence in seat 14C becoming a quiet, meaningful ritual rather than the isolated, grief-driven reservation it had once represented. Marguerite found herself looking forward to their post-concert conversations, genuine friendship blossoming steadily between them.

"I've been thinking," Iris said one evening, several weeks into their growing friendship, "about actually letting go of the reservation eventually. Not because I've forgotten Julian, but because I think he'd want me to properly move forward, rather than remaining permanently frozen in grief."

"What would that look like?" Marguerite asked gently.

Iris considered the question thoughtfully. "Perhaps simply attending as myself, rather than specifically reserving his memory through an empty seat. Honoring him through genuine presence, rather than symbolic absence."

Marguerite smiled warmly. "I think that sounds like a beautiful, healthy way to properly honor his memory."

Iris studied her carefully, something new and unexpected crossing her thoughtful expression. "Can I ask you something rather personal? Why did you actually approach me in the first place? Most people would have simply minded their own business."

Marguerite considered the question honestly. "I suppose I've always been rather curious about quiet, unspoken stories. And I confess, watching that empty seat every week, I found myself genuinely wondering about the person behind it, hoping desperately they weren't simply suffering entirely alone."

to be continued... 🎻💛

The Cellist Who Played for an Empty Seat

Every Thursday evening for two years, Marguerite had noticed the same empty seat in the third row seat 14C, always reserved, always paid for, always empty. She was second chair cellist at the Ashford Symphony, close enough to the audience to notice such things, and something about that persistent, deliberate emptiness had started to unsettle her.

She finally asked the box office manager about it after a performance.

"That seat's been reserved under the same name for two years," he said, checking his records. "A Mr. Julian Thorne. Pays in advance, every single week, never once attends. We've stopped asking questions. Some people are simply eccentric."

Marguerite couldn't shake her curiosity. She looked up the name and found an obituary Julian Thorne had died three years ago, in a car accident, survived by his fiancée, a woman named Iris Calloway.

The reservations had started exactly one year after his *****.

She tracked down Iris's address through the concert hall's mailing list Julian had apparently added his fiancée as an emergency contact years earlier, and the record had simply never been updated. Marguerite told herself she was only being a good neighbor, checking in, nothing more.

Iris answered the door pale and startled by the unexpected visit. "Can I help you?"

"I'm sorry to intrude," Marguerite said carefully. "I play cello with the Ashford Symphony. I noticed a seat's been reserved for two years under Julian Thorne's name, and I found his obituary. I wanted to make sure everything was alright."

Iris's expression crumpled slightly. "You noticed."

"I did," Marguerite said gently. "May I ask why you keep reserving it, if you don't mind me being direct?"

Iris hesitated, then stepped back to let her inside. "He proposed to me at that concert hall," she said quietly. "Third row, seat 14C, the night before the accident. I couldn't bear to let anyone else sit there. I suppose some part of me keeps hoping, foolishly, that reserving it properly means he's still somehow present, still somehow with me."

Marguerite felt her chest tighten with unexpected empathy. "I don't think that's foolish at all."

Iris studied her carefully, something shifting in her grief-worn expression. "You're the first person who's ever actually asked. Everyone else simply assumed I'd stopped attending myself, lost interest in music altogether."

"Would you like to come this Thursday?" Marguerite asked, surprising herself with the invitation. "Sit in that seat yourself, I mean. Properly. I could arrange for you to have the best possible view of the performance."

Iris's eyes filled with tears. "I haven't been able to make myself sit there. Not once, in three years."

"Then perhaps," Marguerite said softly, "it's time someone sat beside you when you finally do."

to be continued... 🎻🪑

Nollywood actress and influencer Nimmy Ferrari has passed on.

Actress Oluwakemisola Apesin took to Instagram to confirm the sad news.

She wrote: "Everybody is back home we left only you IDERA Nimmyferrari it is well."

According to unconfirmed reports, Nimmy went for fibroid surgery but developed complications and passed on.

Her sad d£mise comes days before she was expected to celebrate her newly completed house in Sagamu, Ogun State.

Videos shared online show a crowd gathered at the new house as her grave was dug in preparation for her burial in the same house she was set to hold a housewarming ceremony in.

A Nigerian woman living in Spain has confronted a supermarket worker after he allegedly singled her out for a bag search.

In a video shared online, the woman said she had finished shopping and packing her items when a cashier told her that her handbag needed to be searched.

She questioned why her bag was being searched when other customers were leaving without their bags being checked.

According to her, the worker claimed it was supermarket protocol and that he had been instructed to search customers’ bags.

The woman agreed and allowed him to search her handbag, but decided to wait and see whether other customers would also be checked.

She said she later confronted him after watching several customers leave without their bags being searched.

“Why didn’t you search their bags? Why did you search my bag?” she asked.

The woman, who has reportedly been shopping at the supermarket for about two years, said she was a member of its loyalty club and regularly spent money there.

She questioned whether she had been singled out because she is Black or because she was wearing a bonnet.

“I deserve an apology for what happened. This is all shades of wrong,” she said.

Credit: @Marbledaily

Nasiru Marafa, the bursar of the National Open University of Nigeria (NOUN), has been k!lled.

Oladipo Ajayi, NOUN registrar and secretary to council, announced Marafa’s d£ath in a statement on Sunday, September 6.

According to Ajayi, Marafa was shot while returning from Gusau, Zamfara state capital.

“The Vice-Chancellor, on behalf of the Governing Council, Management, Senate, Staff and Students of the National Open University of Nigeria (NOUN), regrets to announce the sudden and untimely passing of the University Bursar, Mallam Nasiru Gusau Marafa, which occurred today, Sunday, 6th September 2026,” the statement reads.

“According to information available to the University, Mallam Nasiru Gusau Marafa was reportedly shot while returning from Gusau.”

Marafa was appointed bursar of the university on September 17, 2022, for a five-year tenure scheduled to end in September 2027.

Ajayi described the deceased as a dedicated and committed staff member of the university, who served the institution meritoriously and occupied various positions of responsibility during his career.

He said Marafa’s demise is a profound loss to the university community, describing him as “a distinguished colleague, dedicated administrator and valued member of the NOUN family.”

The registrar extended the university’s condolences to Marafa’s immediate family, relatives, friends, colleagues and others mourning his de@th.

He also said further information on the burial arrangements would be communicated once details are released by the family.

“May the Almighty Allah forgive his shortcomings, grant him Al-Jannah Firdaus, and grant his family, friends, colleagues and the entire University community the strength to bear this painful loss,” the statement added.