@apexmotorsllc: 2018 Volvo XC90 inscription 1 owner, clean title, 84k miles Come check her out! 2417 Airport rd Hot Springs AR 501-521-4479 #usedcars #forsale #volvo #fyp #hotsprings

Apex

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Saturday 29 August 2026 15:24:54 GMT

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Comments

Bc&aCoke 🧘🏾‍♀️♉️ :

Omg, I've wanted this vehicle for YEARS and I'm in HS 😭... You're about to make me go dig up $17k fr I want it SO bad 😭

2026-10-26 17:12:48

2

Real Talk & Reviews by Koronda :

Is this still available ??

2026-09-24 16:42:16

1

TaeTae💕✨ :

How much for a down payment ?

2026-09-07 21:05:58

2

Apex :

🚨SOLD🚨

2026-09-22 17:58:53

0

Positive :

I'm interested!

2026-08-30 03:59:25

1

Wendy Medina2023 :

Can you help with bad bad credit and a repo

2026-09-24 23:05:29

0

Gabriela Gomez Perez :

On a roll!!

2026-08-29 18:58:50

2

Madou Keita :

ok💪💪💪👍🌷🇲🇱

2026-09-27 22:08:24

0

Tanveer Suhail :

🥰🥰🥰

2026-08-29 15:46:21

1

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#positano #positano #positano

#positano #positano #positano

The U.S. general fertility rate fell to a record 53.2 births per 1,000 women aged 15–44, according to the CDC’s latest final figures. About 3.61 million babies were born nationwide, a slight decrease from the previous year. The decline was concentrated among younger women: birth rates fell 6% for ages 20–24 and 4% for ages 25–29. Rates rose among women in their 30s and early 40s, while the teenage birth rate dropped 7% to another record low. Source: CDC. #Intels

The U.S. general fertility rate fell to a record 53.2 births per 1,000 women aged 15–44, according to the CDC’s latest final figures. About 3.61 million babies were born nationwide, a slight decrease from the previous year. The decline was concentrated among younger women: birth rates fell 6% for ages 20–24 and 4% for ages 25–29. Rates rose among women in their 30s and early 40s, while the teenage birth rate dropped 7% to another record low. Source: CDC. #Intels

You Found Heaven in The Dark 🥀

You Found Heaven in The Dark 🥀

كـلها تتغيـر ياقلبي💔.#مايا_ماجد

كـلها تتغيـر ياقلبي💔.#مايا_ماجد

If the first half of the TV Eye documentary captured the breakdown of order, the second half mapped the slow-motion collapse of Uganda’s economy — and the uneasy birth of its next political chapter. The camera opened on ghost streets once bustling with Indian-owned shops, now shuttered and hollowed. Seven years earlier, Idi Amin had expelled Uganda’s Asian business community in a wave of economic nationalism. Their absence in 1979 was a loud silence — their shops either looted or padlocked, their enterprises stripped and handed to untrained cronies. What remained was an empty shell of the commercial sector. No goods. No trade. No plan. In this vacuum rose the black market — known in Uganda as Magendo. The reporter followed the informal economy from the city’s alleyways to its rural fringes, capturing the improvised chaos of survival. At dusty open-air markets along Kampala’s outskirts, barefoot traders hawked soap, sugar, and secondhand clothes with no receipts and no regulation. In one telling moment, a child sold fuel in repurposed glass bottles to passing cars. This was commerce, Amin-style — underground, unstable, and criminalized. Magendo wasn’t just a symptom; it was a system, birthed by years of economic collapse, corruption, and international isolation. Smuggling routes, once marginal, now defined the nation’s economy. With this background, the documentary returned to the seat of power. At State House, President Godfrey Binaisa — the third leader in barely a year — sat down with the reporter. His tone was deliberate, his words clipped. He blamed Amin for the disaster, and by extension, sought distance from it. He portrayed his government as transitional, his presidency as reluctant stewardship. But outside those gates, Binaisa’s Uganda was already fraying. In Jinja, once the industrial capital of East Africa, factories sat dormant and rusting. Steelworks and textile plants that had once powered a thriving economy now echoed only with silence and ruin. The town looked amputated — proud chimneys standing over skeletal warehouses, townspeople scavenging for work and food. Liberation had come, but prosperity had not. In the most surreal turn of the documentary, the reporter was granted access to Luzira Maximum Security Prison, where Bob Astles, Amin’s British-born advisor, sat in an orange jumpsuit. He spoke calmly, even philosophically, about Uganda’s future — ignoring the pain of the past he’d helped engineer. Once dubbed “The White Rasputin,” Astles had survived both Amin’s inner circle and his fall. Now, behind bars, he seemed more deluded than dangerous, deflecting blame while painting himself as a misunderstood visionary. But the next interview grounded the film back in reality: Sam Njuba, chairman of the Uganda Law Society, described how he'd recently been arrested — not under Amin, but under the post-Amin regime. His story hinted at deeper currents of repression resurfacing, even as the world celebrated Uganda’s ‘liberation.’ The cracks widened. In front of Parliament, Paul Ssemogerere, a key opposition figure, questioned the legitimacy of Binaisa’s government itself. He explained how Binaisa had been “elected” not by the people, but by elite consensus within the ruling UNLF. Democracy, it seemed, had been postponed — again. And then, in a moment of quiet foresight, the documentary turned its lens toward a rising but restless figure: Yoweri Museveni. Recently demoted from Defense Minister just weeks before filming, Museveni’s political ambitions simmered beneath the surface. His name was still spoken cautiously, his next move unknown. But history would remember this moment — a man pushed to the margins, preparing for war, as Uganda’s shaky republic tottered into yet another crisis. #kampala_tiktokers #kampala_uganda🇺🇬🇺🇬🤝 #ugandanstiktok #knowafrica #tanzania #amin #binaisa #ughistory #uganda #museveni #1979

If the first half of the TV Eye documentary captured the breakdown of order, the second half mapped the slow-motion collapse of Uganda’s economy — and the uneasy birth of its next political chapter. The camera opened on ghost streets once bustling with Indian-owned shops, now shuttered and hollowed. Seven years earlier, Idi Amin had expelled Uganda’s Asian business community in a wave of economic nationalism. Their absence in 1979 was a loud silence — their shops either looted or padlocked, their enterprises stripped and handed to untrained cronies. What remained was an empty shell of the commercial sector. No goods. No trade. No plan. In this vacuum rose the black market — known in Uganda as Magendo. The reporter followed the informal economy from the city’s alleyways to its rural fringes, capturing the improvised chaos of survival. At dusty open-air markets along Kampala’s outskirts, barefoot traders hawked soap, sugar, and secondhand clothes with no receipts and no regulation. In one telling moment, a child sold fuel in repurposed glass bottles to passing cars. This was commerce, Amin-style — underground, unstable, and criminalized. Magendo wasn’t just a symptom; it was a system, birthed by years of economic collapse, corruption, and international isolation. Smuggling routes, once marginal, now defined the nation’s economy. With this background, the documentary returned to the seat of power. At State House, President Godfrey Binaisa — the third leader in barely a year — sat down with the reporter. His tone was deliberate, his words clipped. He blamed Amin for the disaster, and by extension, sought distance from it. He portrayed his government as transitional, his presidency as reluctant stewardship. But outside those gates, Binaisa’s Uganda was already fraying. In Jinja, once the industrial capital of East Africa, factories sat dormant and rusting. Steelworks and textile plants that had once powered a thriving economy now echoed only with silence and ruin. The town looked amputated — proud chimneys standing over skeletal warehouses, townspeople scavenging for work and food. Liberation had come, but prosperity had not. In the most surreal turn of the documentary, the reporter was granted access to Luzira Maximum Security Prison, where Bob Astles, Amin’s British-born advisor, sat in an orange jumpsuit. He spoke calmly, even philosophically, about Uganda’s future — ignoring the pain of the past he’d helped engineer. Once dubbed “The White Rasputin,” Astles had survived both Amin’s inner circle and his fall. Now, behind bars, he seemed more deluded than dangerous, deflecting blame while painting himself as a misunderstood visionary. But the next interview grounded the film back in reality: Sam Njuba, chairman of the Uganda Law Society, described how he'd recently been arrested — not under Amin, but under the post-Amin regime. His story hinted at deeper currents of repression resurfacing, even as the world celebrated Uganda’s ‘liberation.’ The cracks widened. In front of Parliament, Paul Ssemogerere, a key opposition figure, questioned the legitimacy of Binaisa’s government itself. He explained how Binaisa had been “elected” not by the people, but by elite consensus within the ruling UNLF. Democracy, it seemed, had been postponed — again. And then, in a moment of quiet foresight, the documentary turned its lens toward a rising but restless figure: Yoweri Museveni. Recently demoted from Defense Minister just weeks before filming, Museveni’s political ambitions simmered beneath the surface. His name was still spoken cautiously, his next move unknown. But history would remember this moment — a man pushed to the margins, preparing for war, as Uganda’s shaky republic tottered into yet another crisis. #kampala_tiktokers #kampala_uganda🇺🇬🇺🇬🤝 #ugandanstiktok #knowafrica #tanzania #amin #binaisa #ughistory #uganda #museveni #1979

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