THE PEOPLE WE OVERLOOK

 

Why do we often ignore the people who care about us most while chasing the approval of those who barely notice us? 

It’s one of life’s quiet misnomers that we sometimes fail to recognize the steady warmth of genuine affection because we are too busy seeking the flicker of distant admiration. We crave attention, not realizing that attention is not the same as love. The ones who care for us deeply often do so quietly. They check in, they wait, they forgive. They are not loud, and perhaps that is why we take them for granted. 

In our desire to be seen by the world, we sometimes stop seeing the ones who already see us clearly. We measure our worth by who claps for us, forgetting those who have stood by us even when there was no applause. We pursue approval from strangers while ignoring the comfort of those who know our flaws and still choose to stay. 

But time has a way of teaching us. Sooner or later, we discover that popularity is fragile, while loyalty is priceless. The people who truly care are not always the most exciting or glamorous, they are the ones who quietly choose us, again and again. 

Today, pause and look around. Who calls you just to ask if you’re okay? Who prays for you without your knowing? Who forgives you faster than you deserve? Those are the people who matter. Treasure them before it’s too late because when the noise fades, it’s their voices that will still call your name.

THE MYSTERY OF CHILD PRODIGIES: GENIUS, GENES OR GLIMPSES OF PAST LIVES?

 

They appear like sudden bursts of spiritual memory! Children who play Beethoven at five, solve calculus at six, or paint like masters long before they can tie their shoelaces. We call them child prodigies, rare souls whose brilliance defies logic and humbles even the most accomplished adults. But what truly explains their astonishing gifts? 

Science has tried. Genetics, psychologists say, can pass down extraordinary aptitudes. A gifted parent or an intellectually rich lineage may increase the odds. Add to that an enabling environment, early exposure to music, mathematics, or art; parents who nurture curiosity; access to quality education, and you have the perfect recipe for a prodigy. But even science concedes that sometimes, these explanations fall short.

Take Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, who composed symphonies at the age of five; or Pablo Picasso, whose first painting came at eight, already bearing traces of genius; or Akiane Kramarik, the American girl who began painting ethereal, otherworldly portraits at four, claiming her inspiration came from visions of heaven. Consider also Ruth Lawrence, who entered Oxford University at twelve to study mathematics, and William James Sidis, whose IQ reportedly exceeded Einstein’s and who entered Harvard at eleven. 

What drives such extraordinary acceleration of human capacity? Science may struggle to find a complete answer because these children seem to arrive not learning but remembering.

From a spiritual perspective, especially one that accepts reincarnation, the phenomenon of prodigies may be viewed as the continuity of experience across lifetimes. These children, it is said, are not learning something new but rediscovering what their souls once mastered. Their abilities, like deeply etched memories, survive the veil of birth and awaken early in a new incarnation.

This idea resonates with stories from across cultures and religions. In Eastern traditions, reincarnation is seen as the soul’s journey through multiple lives, each carrying impressions (samskaras) from the last. These impressions can manifest as instincts, fears, or in rare cases extraordinary talents. Even in Western thought, philosophers like Plato and poets like Wordsworth hinted that “our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting” and that something of our former selves lingers within us. 

Perhaps that’s why, when a child sits at a piano and plays with the emotional depth of an old master, we feel something more than admiration. We feel wonder as though witnessing the re-emergence of a timeless genius, momentarily freed from the amnesia of rebirth. 

Science and spirituality may forever debate this mystery, yet both perspectives lead us to the same awe: the human mind, or perhaps the human spirit is far more profound than we can fully explain. 

Maybe child prodigies aren’t just gifted, maybe they’re remembering.

SHOULD ANY ONE PERSON HAVE THE POWER OF MERCY? A Defence, a Critique, and a Blueprint for Reform

When a single human being holds the power to wipe away guilt, reduce punishment, or undo the finality of justice, something both magnificent and unsettling occurs. This moment, when law bows before mercy exposes the tension between the laws’s cold logic and humanity’s deep need for compassion. It is this tension that lies at the heart of the debate over the Prerogative of Mercy.

Across the world, most constitutional systems grant the head of state or government this extraordinary authority, the power to pardon, commute, or remit sentences. Though often exercised on the advice of a council or board, in practice the discretion is vast and deeply personal. This then raises a profound question: Should any one person truly have this power?

Essentially, the prerogative of mercy exposes a philosophical fault line. On one side stands the rule of law, demanding that justice be impartial, predictable, and rooted in established process. On the other side stands human compassion, which recognises that no legal system is perfect, that every system occasionally errs, grows too rigid, or fails to reflect the complexity of human lives. Mercy exists as a safety valve, a corrective for error, and a gesture of reconciliation. But when mercy appears arbitrary or politically motivated, it corrodes public confidence in justice itself.

The dilemma is therefore not merely legal; it is moral and political. Should societies continue with systems where mercy depends on the conscience or whims of a single leader, or should they evolve toward structures that institutionalise compassion while upholding transparency and accountability?

Those who defend the existing model point to its flexibility. In moments of urgency, when an innocent person suffers unjustly, or when humanitarian grounds demand swift relief, the ability to act decisively can save lives. Mercy, in this sense, adds a necessary human touch to an otherwise mechanical justice system, acknowledging repentance, ill health, or extraordinary circumstances. In deeply divided societies, well-timed acts of clemency can even aid national healing and reconciliation.

Yet there is a darker side. Concentrating such power in one person invites abuse. It risks favoritism, political manipulation, and the perception that justice is negotiable. When mercy is granted without transparency, it begins to look less like compassion and more like patronage. Moreover, victims and communities often have no voice in decisions that affect their sense of justice and closure. In a democracy, a single individual erasing judicial outcomes without explanation feels not merciful but monarchical.

The answer lies not in abolishing mercy but in reforming it. Mercy should not be personal; it should be institutional. What is needed is a transparent and participatory system of collective clemency guided by clear principles. Every nation can benefit from establishing an Independent Clemency Commission composed of retired judges, civil society representatives, victims’ advocates, and rehabilitation experts. This body would review applications, consult victims, and publish reasoned recommendations. The head of state may retain final approval but should be required to record and publish the reasons for any departure from the Commission’s advice.

Clear criteria should guide such processes: time served, evidence of rehabilitation, humanitarian grounds, or wrongful conviction. Victims or their families should have the right to contribute their perspectives, ensuring that mercy does not silence justice. For sensitive cases, particularly those involving public trust or official misconduct, parliamentary or judicial oversight could provide an added layer of accountability. Transparency is not an enemy of mercy; it is its only safeguard.

Equally vital is the distinction between pardon and exoneration. A pardon forgives guilt; exoneration declares that guilt was undeserved from the start. In societies seeking reconciliation, symbolic acts of acknowledgment and restorative justice may serve truth more deeply than belated gestures of forgiveness.

Would these reforms erase the aura of absolute authority that surrounds clemency? Not entirely. The power to forgive will always carry moral weight. But by embedding it within a transparent, principled institution, mercy ceases to be the privilege of rulers and becomes the right of a just society to temper law with humanity, without sacrificing fairness.

So, should any one person have the power of mercy? Perhaps not, at least not as a personal or unchecked prerogative. Nevertheless, every just society must retain the capacity to soften justice with grace. The moral task before us is to make mercy accountable; to transform it from a gesture of favour into a function of justice. When mercy ceases to be arbitrary and becomes principled, the state honours both compassion and the rule of law.

CAN DESTINY BE CHANGED? YES - AND HERE’S HOW.

 

                                      

Some people believe destiny is fixed, that our lives are already written and we are merely acting out a script.

That belief is comforting when things go wrong… but dangerous when it stops us from taking responsibility.

In truth, what many call destiny is really fate, the personal consequences of our past thoughts, words, and actions.

Fate is a harvest.

And every harvest depends on seeds.

If we sow envy, bitterness, dishonesty or hatred, should we expect joy in return? Impossible.

If we plant kindness, gratitude, integrity and goodwill, is peace not the natural outcome? Certainly.

This unbreakable principle is known as the Law of Sowing and Reaping, the Law of Reciprocal Action.

It is the Creator’s way of ensuring perfect justice, making every human being the architect of his own fate.

But there is also destiny in a higher sense; not merely what affects us personally, but what radiates from us into the world itself. Through our inner choices, we can contribute to either progress or decline. With every thought, wish, and act of volition, we either poison our surroundings or uplift them toward the Light. Thus, man does not merely shape his personal fate; he participates in steering the collective course of the world upward or downward.

So whether in the personal sense (fate) or the broader sense (destiny), one truth remains constant:

Change is possible.

And it begins with:

• True repentance - sincere recognition of past wrongs

• A firm decision to change - refusal to sow further negative seeds

• Conscious planting of good seeds - in thought, word, and deed

A person who consistently walks this path begins to attract protection — a spiritual covering that lessens the weight of former consequences. Some effects may still return, but with reduced impact, depending on the depth of inner transformation.

The Power and the Risk

Just as a wrongdoer can rise through goodness, a noble man can fall through willful wrongdoing.

Nothing is static. Both fate and destiny respond instantly to the direction of our will.

Concluding Word

We are not victims of fate.

Nor are we mere passengers in destiny.

We are farmers in God’s field, planting not only for ourselves but for the world.

Let us plant wisely.

Our future and the future of many others depends on it.

WHEN OPPORTUNITY MEETS DESIRE: A CALL TO HUMILITY

 

There is a subtle danger in the human heart: the belief that we are stronger, wiser, or more disciplined than others simply because we have not yet faced their kind of temptation. Many walk with an air of quiet pride, mistaking lack of opportunity for moral superiority. Yet, humility begins where this illusion ends.

 

True humility is not self-belittlement; it is the awareness that under different circumstances, we might have done the very things we condemn in others. The only difference between strength and failure, between standing tall and falling hard, is often that invisible intersection where desire meets access. That moment when longing finds opportunity is the true test of character. And unless we have stood in that storm ourselves, we should be careful not to boast of our calm.

 

The mind itself is a master of self-deception. It can rationalise anything. One day we may vehemently reject an idea; a few weeks later, under different emotions or influences, we may find ourselves defending the same thing we once detested. It is only when grace opens our eyes again that we look back in wonder, asking, “What just happened to me?” That moment of realisation births wisdom and compassion. For we begin to understand that others, too, are fighting their own invisible wars.

 

This is why I find no joy in the public sport of digging up old videos or statements to mock how someone’s opinions have changed over the years. Growth demands evolution. To hold someone hostage to who they were ten or twenty years ago is to deny the very essence of being human. We are all being reshaped by experience, by pain, by revelation, by time.

 

If you have never stumbled in a certain area, give thanks, not judgment. If you have overcome a weakness that once enslaved you, wear gratitude, not pride. It was not by your strength alone, but by grace, that merciful force that lifts, restores, and forgives. For without grace and the law of forgiveness, none of us would stand.

 

So, let us walk humbly. Let us resist the temptation to measure others by their worst moments while measuring ourselves by our best intentions. And when we see someone fall, may our first instinct not be to point fingers, but to whisper a prayer of mercy for them and for ourselves. Because humility is not thinking less of ourselves; it is remembering how easily we, too, could have been the ones in need of grace.

WHEN LEGACY MEETS REALITY: THE CLASH BETWEEN TRADITION AND CHANGE

  

 

There is a quiet tragedy that often unfolds in families when the dreams of one generation fail to find roots in the next. The video of a father in visible agony after realising that his only son, heir to his life’s labour, had no interest in the landed properties he so carefully preserved in Nigeria captures this age-old tension between legacy and change. It is not merely a family dispute; it is a mirror of evolving social values, migration, and the transformation of what inheritance truly means. 

For many parents, especially in traditional societies, wealth is not only measured in cash or comfort but in continuity, passing land, houses, and family names from one generation to another. Such assets often carry sentimental and symbolic value. They represent toil, foresight, and a deep desire for permanence in a world of uncertainty. To the father in this story, bequeathing his properties was an act of love and responsibility, an anchor meant to tie his lineage to their ancestral soil. 

But to the son, the world has shifted. His sense of identity and belonging may no longer be tied to a physical place. As a medical professional abroad, his values are framed by mobility, global exposure, and a different definition of security, perhaps in financial instruments, education, or health insurance, not land in a distant country he seldom visits. His “zero connection” to Nigeria is not necessarily ingratitude; it is the natural outcome of globalisation, urban drift, and changing life aspirations. 

This tension reveals a profound generational dilemma. The father’s fixation on legacy, though noble, assumes a continuity that modernity often disrupts. Meanwhile, the son’s detachment, though practical, risks eroding the emotional and cultural bonds that give identity its depth. Between them lies a silent question: should legacy be enforced, or should it evolve? 

The father, faced with the son’s adamant stand, has a few options. He could, first, accept the inevitability of change and redirect his legacy from material inheritance to values-based inheritance, perhaps funding a foundation, scholarship, or community project in the family name. This way, what he leaves behind still bears the imprint of his vision but does not burden an unwilling heir. 

Second, he might choose to lease or sell some of the properties, converting them into an endowment that benefits future generations more directly, perhaps through education or investment portfolios. The essence of legacy lies not in the immovability of land but in the continuity of purpose. 

Third, he could maintain a portion of the property as a family retreat or ancestral site, not as an obligation but as a voluntary bridge between past and present, something the next generation might one day rediscover, even if belatedly.

 Ultimately, this story underscores that tradition must learn to negotiate with change. Fixation on the past may breed bitterness; abandonment of roots may breed emptiness. The wise path lies somewhere in between, where love, not land, becomes the lasting inheritance, and where the idea of legacy is redefined not by geography but by meaning. 

In the end, the father may not win his son’s attachment, but he can still win peace, by realising that every generation must plant in its own soil, even if that soil lies thousands of miles away.

UFOS, ALIENS, AND THE FINE LINE BETWEEN WONDER AND PROOF

  

 

For as long as humans have gazed at the stars, we have wondered whether we are alone. The night sky invites both awe and unease, an infinite silence that seems too vast for just one species. In recent years, talk of UFOs (now politely renamed “UAPs,” or Unidentified Aerial Phenomena) has returned with fresh urgency. Governments have released once-classified footage, pilots have reported strange encounters, and a few scientists have suggested that what we see might not be entirely of this world.

But between wonder and proof lies a wide and necessary gulf. The late astronomer Carl Sagan cautioned that “extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence.” His point remains timeless: belief must not outrun verification. That caution is often drowned out by the noise of viral videos and conspiracy enthusiasts, but it is what separates science from superstition.

Neil deGrasse Tyson, the modern torchbearer of scientific curiosity, puts it more humorously: “Everyone has an HD camera in their pocket, yet every UFO photo is still blurry.” His jest masks a serious truth that mystery alone does not equal evidence. Curiosity must be matched by clarity.

Still, voices like Harvard astrophysicist Avi Loeb remind us not to dismiss the unknown too quickly. Loeb has suggested that the interstellar object ‘Oumuamua’ whose strange motion and shape defy conventional explanation, could be artificial, perhaps even a fragment of alien technology. To be clear, he does not claim it is alien-made, only that science should remain open to that possibility if the evidence warrants it. His view invites both skepticism and serious inquiry, reminding us that progress often comes not from rigid intellectual certainty, but from disciplined curiosity.

Even military agencies now admit that some sightings remain unexplained. Not proof of aliens, but proof that we do not yet understand everything. And perhaps that is the beauty of it.

The question of extraterrestrial life will not be settled by excitement or cynicism alone, but by patient evidence and open minds. Between the thrill of possibility and the discipline of proof lies humanity’s finest quality: the courage to wonder and to wait for the truth.

DO SOCIAL CONNECTIONS ALWAYS MEAN SOCIAL GATHERINGS?

 

 

It is widely accepted that, as people grow older, maintaining social connections plays a vital role in happiness and wellbeing. But what exactly does “social connection” mean, and does it always require active participation in large social gatherings?

 

For many, the image of connection conjures up groups of friends or acquaintances eating, drinking, and chatting for hours. Such activities can indeed bring joy and a sense of belonging. Yet, for others, especially those with more introverted temperaments, these gatherings can feel draining rather than energizing. This raises an important question: can social connection take other forms?

 

The answer is yes. Social connection is not limited to physical presence in group settings. Basically, it is about meaningful bonds, trust, and the assurance that one is not alone in the world. Connection may be nurtured through deep relationships with family and friends, participation in spiritual or faith-based activities, involvement in purposeful work, or even through creative expression that touches and engages others.

 

Personality differences matter. Extroverts may thrive on long hours of group interaction, while introverts often find fulfillment in quieter, more purposeful exchanges. What is essential is not the form, but the function: having supportive relationships, remaining open to contact, and staying engaged in meaningful activities.

 

In this sense, the call to maintain social connections in later life is best understood not as a mandate to join every gathering, but as an invitation to ensure one’s life is not lived in isolation. Whether through a few trusted friendships, shared worship, mentorship, or purposeful creative work, individuals can cultivate connection in ways that align with their own nature.

 

Ultimately, happiness in later years is not about copying the social patterns of others. It is about finding the rhythm of interaction whether frequent or occasional, lively or quiet, that nourishes one’s sense of belonging and joy.

 

 

 

 

 

WHEN BLESSINGS COME DISGUISED

 

 

 

Sometimes life feels like it’s playing tricks on us. Just when everything seems to be moving smoothly, something unexpected happens; a delay, a disappointment, a door slammed shut. Most people call this a setback or reversal of fortune. But look closely, and you’ll notice something profound: there are no real setbacks, only secret instructions.

What seems like a roadblock is often a rerouting. A “No” may simply be life’s way of saying, “Not this direction.” When we react with frustration or self-pity, we miss the message. But with spiritual understanding, everything changes.

Every challenge arrives with purpose. It is either training you, building strength, clarity, or discipline you didn’t know you needed, or helping you quietly settle old imbalances that must be cleared before new blessings can arrive. In both cases, you are being moved forward, not backward, provided you meet the moment with the right inner posture.

That inner posture is what I call good volition: the sincere will to always do only what is good, stay upright, act rightly, and keep moving forward with dignity. This is not passive positivity; it is spiritual force. It attracts help. It dissolves burdens faster than fear or complaint ever could. With the right intention, obstacles stop being walls and start becoming stepping stones. What once felt like misfortune slowly reveals itself as quiet advancement.

So the next time life seems to be working against you, smile even if slightly. It may be working for you in disguise. After all, the strongest catapult must first be pulled backward before it launches forward with force.

If life is pulling you back at present, don’t panic. Steady yourself. Hold your ground. It may not be rejection, it may just be preparation.

You’re probably about to fly.

Stay positive, do good always!

LESSONS, NOT LOADS

 

Fridays often arrive with mixed feelings. Some people breathe relief, others feel weighed down by unfinished tasks, unanswered emails, or goals that still seem far away. The week leaves its marks, and many of us drag those burdens into the weekend without even noticing.

But what if we chose differently? What if, instead of carrying the weight of disappointments, delays, and worries, we carried only the lessons?

Think about it: a traveler who insists on packing stones in their bag will struggle to walk far. Yet when the same traveler picks up only essentials: water, bread, and hope, the journey becomes lighter, freer, and more joyful. Life works the same way.

Every week brings us both challenges and gifts. The gift lies in learning from the challenges without clinging to their heaviness. That’s how we carry light.

So as you step into this weekend, pause for a moment:

What do I need to leave behind? (Maybe guilt, frustration, or comparison.)

What do I want to carry with me? (Maybe gratitude, clarity, or renewed energy.)

The choice is always ours. Let’s walk into tomorrow not bent under burdens, but lifted by light.

Choose clarity. Choose joy.

Love always!