@entahsiapadia98: Kita ni asyik nak kesian dekat perempuan je kan? 🥹 Apa salahnya kadang-kadang kita kesian dekat lelaki juga. Lelaki pun ada hati, ada perasaan, ada masa dia penat dan terluka. Tak semua benda lelaki kena telan seorang diri. 🤍#Lirik #fyp #4upage #masukberanda

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Region: MY
Sunday 06 September 2026 00:43:40 GMT
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usedilz_
+60 016 :
aku ni bukan nak kata apa eh , walaupun tkde duit nak kuar dgn dye aku tetap cari duit tu biar dapat kuar dgn dia aku jual barang moto semua , aku tak bagitahu dia yang aku tkde duit , tapi itula dia kata aku tkde effort haha kecewa doh
2026-09-06 10:29:10
113
azuddinzakaria
Azuddin :
betul tuu..kita dah buat segalanya untuk dia tapi tak penah dihargai..sangguh habis keja malam tak tidur nak chat orang lain dengan kita macam2 alasan penat la ngntok la semua ada..
2026-09-06 07:14:58
31
dabidabidu_
Yihaa's :
ayat abg ni tersentuh plk, k la saya pujuk dia balik😪
2026-09-06 08:32:12
18
farisszainal
R𝔦ss :
man down
2026-09-06 16:02:17
0
_chocolatteeee
￴ ￴ ￴ ￴ ￴ ￴ ￴ ￴ ￴￴ ￴ ￴ :
macam mana pulak dengan perempuan yang selalu ada untuk dia , biasanya juga yang paling dia lupa untuk hargai
2026-09-06 10:20:59
13
arepppp_0
arepdhoo :
makin kita usahakan untuk dia,makin dia jauh dan berubah,
2026-09-06 12:53:46
24
emptyyyhere
emptyyyhere :
entahla kita sama sama ada silap tapi untuk masa ni biarlah saya alihkan segala pengharapan abadi pada Ilahi. Biar saya betulkan diri kekurangan dan kesilapan yang pernah ada selama pernah berpeluang dengan awak sebelumni. Kadang bukan kita taknak tunjuk lagi usaha tapi kita belajar sedar diri dan tahu dekat mana kedudukan kita masih belum layak untuk memiliki. Andai nanti antara saya atau ada yang lebih tulus dari saya maka terimalah dia ya. kalau dulu impian saya untuk kita nak bila keluarga kecil dengan awak tapi sekarang mungkin saya perlu belajar lebih lagi makna tulus dan ikhlas dalam sebuah perasaan. Terima kasih ng saya. Awak banyak menjadi asbab mengubah dan menyedarkan insan yang masih banyak perlu diperbaiki ni. Saya serah pada Illahi. Saya letak semuanya yang saya tak mampu usahakan dalam doa ya. Izinkan saya terus jaga dan simpan nama awak dalam jiwa sampai masa dunia saya kata tamat. Sayang awak sentiasa, jaga diri wanita terbaik. ❤️✨
2026-09-06 14:58:41
2
azrul_578
𝓐𝓡𝓤𝓛🍁 :
aku x nak pon duit dia test market ke ape aku cuma nk perhatian dan masa itu je ckup dan temani hari ii ku sehingga tiba hari kemenangan itu☺️
2026-09-06 14:04:15
2
aetulismail
aetulismail :
maaf awak sebab tak pernah hargai sebetulnya dulu , sekarang saya dah menyesal , tapi semua nya dah terlambat kan ?😊
2026-09-06 12:20:15
2
softtone__
🦋 :
andai dia nampak posting and comment ni, saya as perempuan saya mintak maaf sangat,sebab tak mampu untuk membalas kasih sayang dari awak, awak seorang lelaki yang hebat
2026-09-06 10:43:40
3
syazz1512
GG yeng :
smpaii skrng msih ingt kat dia ... sedih cokk 🥺🥺
2026-09-06 12:07:50
1
suzenahmedsaleh
THIARNA BEAUTY SUZEN SALEH :
Ok la bng hati2 blik nnti elok2, hrgai klu dia hargai ngerti🤣😅
2026-09-06 11:41:41
1
_____yayaaa4
_____yayaaa4 :
mcm mna plk terbalik bang,laki yg buat ppm mcm tu tklarat mkn hati dh🙂
2026-09-06 11:14:36
1
fiikzz9
️ :
2026-09-06 13:58:29
1
entahlahnak.0
usernotfound :
paling terguris kan , dia takde perasaan dia layan macam dia duduk atas motor bawak grab 12 jam bang 😂
2026-09-06 09:33:03
2
linneea26
ᰔᩚ :
kalau dah curang macam mana pula ? kena hargai ? kena ingat semua kebaikkan dia ke ?
2026-09-06 14:09:44
1
famiiiiiu
Famiiiii :
2026-09-06 09:25:17
1
yie_nguawur
￴￴￴ :
hany ingin masa dia je tk lebih 😞
2026-09-06 10:21:09
1
kudaku_7
kudakularigagahberani :
aduu jangan sampai di post bang , mana nak letak maruah saya sebagai lelaki
2026-09-06 12:29:13
1
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The rear cargo door opened with a hydraulic hiss.  A ramp extended slowly to the tarmac.  For a long moment, nothing moved.  Then the elders began to sing, voices cracked with age and fatigue, rising in the ancient Luganda funeral hymn that had been sung for Kabakas since long before the British came.  The song floated into the hot air, unbroken and timeless.  The soldiers felt the hair rise on the backs of their necks. The casket appeared in the doorway, draped in the black, red, and white of the Uganda flag.  Eight men of the Uganda army carried it, moving in perfect unison.  As it emerged into the sunlight, the crowd beyond the fence let out a collective exhalation that seemed to press against the airport walls.  The soldiers raised their right hands in a single, synchronised salute.  Idi Amin, raised his hand too. On the tarmac, separated from the soldiers by a small but deliberate space, stood the Nnabagereka. Damali Kisosonkole, widow of the Kabaka, wore black from head to toe, not the shapeless grief of exile, but the formal mourning of a queen.  Her posture was straight despite the heat.  She did not weep.  Today she would show the world that a Nnabagereka does not break.  Beside her, small for his fifteen years but standing very straight, was Prince Ronald Mutebi.  The boy had been a child when his father was forced from the palace, a child when the kingdom fell, a child when the news came from London that the Kabaka was dead.  Now he watched the casket descend, his face blank and unreadable, his jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles stood out like cords beneath his skin. The casket was lowered onto the tarmac, and the Nnabagereka stepped forward.  She approached it slowly, deliberately, and placed both hands upon the flag that covered it.  For a long moment, she simply stood there, her head bowed.  Then she leaned down and pressed her forehead to the fabric.  The crowd beyond the fence began to weep, a low moan that swelled into a great keening that rolled across the airport.  Prince Ronald stepped forward to stand beside his mother, his hand finding hers, the two of them alone in the midst of soldiers and officials.  He was fifteen years old, and he was watching his father come home for the first time in five years. Idi Amin stood apart, his bulk unmistakable among the officers, the black band on his arm already beginning to slip.  He raised his hand in a slow, formal salute, not a military salute, but a gesture of respect, or the performance of it, and held it for a long moment.  Then he turned and walked away without looking back.  The casket was carried not to a hearse, but to a waiting military helicopter, its rotor blades already beginning to turn. The soldiers in starched white uniforms guided the casket aboard.  The door slid shut with a soft, final click. The helicopter rose slowly, its rotors beating against the morning air, and banked toward Namirembe, toward Kasubi, toward the final resting place of a king who had finally come home.  The Nnabagereka and the prince remained standing on the tarmac, watching as the aircraft carried the Kabaka into the sky, smaller and smaller until it was only a speck against the pale horizon.  The soldiers broke formation and stood at ease, their black armbands flapping in the wind.  They had not just escorted a body.  They had witnessed the return of a King. #ughistory #Buganda #Kabaka @Buganda Kingdom @Charles Peter Mayiga
The rear cargo door opened with a hydraulic hiss. A ramp extended slowly to the tarmac. For a long moment, nothing moved. Then the elders began to sing, voices cracked with age and fatigue, rising in the ancient Luganda funeral hymn that had been sung for Kabakas since long before the British came. The song floated into the hot air, unbroken and timeless. The soldiers felt the hair rise on the backs of their necks. The casket appeared in the doorway, draped in the black, red, and white of the Uganda flag. Eight men of the Uganda army carried it, moving in perfect unison. As it emerged into the sunlight, the crowd beyond the fence let out a collective exhalation that seemed to press against the airport walls. The soldiers raised their right hands in a single, synchronised salute. Idi Amin, raised his hand too. On the tarmac, separated from the soldiers by a small but deliberate space, stood the Nnabagereka. Damali Kisosonkole, widow of the Kabaka, wore black from head to toe, not the shapeless grief of exile, but the formal mourning of a queen. Her posture was straight despite the heat. She did not weep. Today she would show the world that a Nnabagereka does not break. Beside her, small for his fifteen years but standing very straight, was Prince Ronald Mutebi. The boy had been a child when his father was forced from the palace, a child when the kingdom fell, a child when the news came from London that the Kabaka was dead. Now he watched the casket descend, his face blank and unreadable, his jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles stood out like cords beneath his skin. The casket was lowered onto the tarmac, and the Nnabagereka stepped forward. She approached it slowly, deliberately, and placed both hands upon the flag that covered it. For a long moment, she simply stood there, her head bowed. Then she leaned down and pressed her forehead to the fabric. The crowd beyond the fence began to weep, a low moan that swelled into a great keening that rolled across the airport. Prince Ronald stepped forward to stand beside his mother, his hand finding hers, the two of them alone in the midst of soldiers and officials. He was fifteen years old, and he was watching his father come home for the first time in five years. Idi Amin stood apart, his bulk unmistakable among the officers, the black band on his arm already beginning to slip. He raised his hand in a slow, formal salute, not a military salute, but a gesture of respect, or the performance of it, and held it for a long moment. Then he turned and walked away without looking back. The casket was carried not to a hearse, but to a waiting military helicopter, its rotor blades already beginning to turn. The soldiers in starched white uniforms guided the casket aboard. The door slid shut with a soft, final click. The helicopter rose slowly, its rotors beating against the morning air, and banked toward Namirembe, toward Kasubi, toward the final resting place of a king who had finally come home. The Nnabagereka and the prince remained standing on the tarmac, watching as the aircraft carried the Kabaka into the sky, smaller and smaller until it was only a speck against the pale horizon. The soldiers broke formation and stood at ease, their black armbands flapping in the wind. They had not just escorted a body. They had witnessed the return of a King. #ughistory #Buganda #Kabaka @Buganda Kingdom @Charles Peter Mayiga

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