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(ركن البدو) ناصر بن دهيم

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Saturday 31 October 2026 15:49:25 GMT

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سـلطان الـدوسـري :

ماتخذ إلا الحيل والقعدين اللي ماتلقح

2026-10-31 16:54:25

6

ابو نايف القحطاني :

لانها اكبر من ابلكم 😂 لو تحط رحول وضحا مع المجاهيم ما تشوفها البل

2026-10-31 20:55:11

1

نايف🇰🇼 :

وهي اطيبها

2026-10-31 17:44:31

0

الكايد😎 :

حايل ولا ماعسفتها 😂

2026-10-31 20:22:07

0

اللهم صل على محمد :

البيت في الوضح والدليل ( اليا زعلتو ياهل الوضح ترضون / ناخذ من خيار ابلكم ونعسفها ) المجاهيم جبر للبيت 🤓🤓

2026-10-31 18:43:03

1

2° :

لالالالالالالالالا

2026-10-31 21:52:46

0

ناصر السبيعي :

حسبي الله ونعم الوكيل عليه الي عسفعا

2026-10-31 18:59:16

0

راع البلهاء 🏆🔥. :

يابن دهيم لا تزعل اهل المجاهيم علينا [دموع الفرح][إيماءة موافق]

2026-10-31 18:33:02

0

العتيبي :

2026-10-31 17:22:21

0

Mohammed 848 :

المجاهيم ابل اهل الجزيره ولا يقدرها إلا اهلها

2026-10-31 17:01:16

3

أبو تميم :

بن همدان عاسف وضحاء كفووووو😂😂😂

2026-10-31 16:50:54

1

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My name is Tolu. I am 28 years old, and I live in Kubwa. Eleven months ago, my elder sister, Funke, d!ed while giving birth to her third child at the National Hospital. Before she d!ed, she held my hand and begged me with tears in her eyes. “Tolu, please marry Bayo. Take care of my children. Don’t allow another woman to come into my house and maltreat them. Promise me you will look after my babies.” I broke down in tears, but I eventually agreed. Funke’s husband, Bayo, is 38 years old. He is handsome, works with NNPC, owns a three-bedroom flat in Kubwa, and has a car. As far as everyone knew, he had no serious family problems. After my sister’s burial, everybody encouraged me to marry him. “Tolu, your sister wanted this. You already know the children, and they know you. You are the best person to take care of them,” our relatives kept telling me. Three months after the burial, Bayo and I had a small traditional introduction. I left my single room in Dutse and moved into my late sister’s house in Kubwa to raise her children. The children were: * Tomiwa, an 8-year-old boy. * Bolu, a 6-year-old girl. * Baby Fola, who was only 11 months old. Fola was the baby Funke lost her life giving birth to. At first, everything seemed fine. The children called me Mummy Tolu, and Bayo treated me with respect. He never tried to touch me at night. Whenever I asked about our relationship, he would say, “Let’s take our time. We need to give the children time to adjust.” I thought I had made the right decision. But by the second month, strange things started happening. One night, around 2 a.m., Bolu woke up screaming. I rushed into her bedroom and found her trembling under her blanket. “Bolu, what happened? Why are you screaming?” I asked as I held her. She pointed towards the corner of the room. “Mummy! Mummy is standing there!” I looked in the direction she was pointing, but I saw nothing. “Which mummy?” I asked. “Mummy Funke! She is wearing her red gown. She said you stole her husband and her house. She told me to tell you to leave!” My heart skipped a beat. I held her tightly and tried to calm her down. “Bolu, you were dreaming. Your mummy is in heaven. She cannot hurt you.” But the little girl kept crying. A few days later, Tomiwa also started saying strange things. “Mummy Tolu, I saw Mummy Funke in the kitchen last night. She was crying. She said you were sleeping on her bed.” I became worried and told Bayo everything. He laughed. “Tolu, these children are still grieving. They miss their mother, and their imaginations are running wild. Don’t take everything they say seriously.” I wanted to believe him. But then something happened that made it difficult to ignore their words. One morning, I woke up and found my late sister’s red wrapper hanging on our bedroom door. The same red wrapper she had worn before she d!ed. After Funke’s de@th, we had gathered her clothes and donated them to a church. I was sure that wrapper had been among them. What frightened me most was that the wrapper had bloodstains on it. I immediately called Bayo. “Did you bring this wrapper into the room?” He stared at it and shook his head. “No. I don’t even know how it got here.” We looked at each other in silence. Neither of us could explain what had happened. Then things became even stranger. Baby Fola, who had barely started speaking, began making unusual sounds at night. Sometimes, she would wake up, stare at me for several seconds, and call out a name. “Funke!” Not Mummy Tolu. Not Mummy. Just Funke. My late sister’s name. Every time she did it, the hair on my body stood up. I started wondering whether the children were simply struggling with the loss of their mother or whether something else was happening in that house. But nothing prepared me for what happened last week. I was in the kitchen preparing soup when Bolu walked in. I was wearing my sister’s old apron. She quietly came close, held my hand, and looked directly into my eyes. “Mummy Tolu, Mummy Funke came to see me again.”#foruyou#fanpage #fypシ゚viral #storytime

My name is Tolu. I am 28 years old, and I live in Kubwa. Eleven months ago, my elder sister, Funke, d!ed while giving birth to her third child at the National Hospital. Before she d!ed, she held my hand and begged me with tears in her eyes. “Tolu, please marry Bayo. Take care of my children. Don’t allow another woman to come into my house and maltreat them. Promise me you will look after my babies.” I broke down in tears, but I eventually agreed. Funke’s husband, Bayo, is 38 years old. He is handsome, works with NNPC, owns a three-bedroom flat in Kubwa, and has a car. As far as everyone knew, he had no serious family problems. After my sister’s burial, everybody encouraged me to marry him. “Tolu, your sister wanted this. You already know the children, and they know you. You are the best person to take care of them,” our relatives kept telling me. Three months after the burial, Bayo and I had a small traditional introduction. I left my single room in Dutse and moved into my late sister’s house in Kubwa to raise her children. The children were: * Tomiwa, an 8-year-old boy. * Bolu, a 6-year-old girl. * Baby Fola, who was only 11 months old. Fola was the baby Funke lost her life giving birth to. At first, everything seemed fine. The children called me Mummy Tolu, and Bayo treated me with respect. He never tried to touch me at night. Whenever I asked about our relationship, he would say, “Let’s take our time. We need to give the children time to adjust.” I thought I had made the right decision. But by the second month, strange things started happening. One night, around 2 a.m., Bolu woke up screaming. I rushed into her bedroom and found her trembling under her blanket. “Bolu, what happened? Why are you screaming?” I asked as I held her. She pointed towards the corner of the room. “Mummy! Mummy is standing there!” I looked in the direction she was pointing, but I saw nothing. “Which mummy?” I asked. “Mummy Funke! She is wearing her red gown. She said you stole her husband and her house. She told me to tell you to leave!” My heart skipped a beat. I held her tightly and tried to calm her down. “Bolu, you were dreaming. Your mummy is in heaven. She cannot hurt you.” But the little girl kept crying. A few days later, Tomiwa also started saying strange things. “Mummy Tolu, I saw Mummy Funke in the kitchen last night. She was crying. She said you were sleeping on her bed.” I became worried and told Bayo everything. He laughed. “Tolu, these children are still grieving. They miss their mother, and their imaginations are running wild. Don’t take everything they say seriously.” I wanted to believe him. But then something happened that made it difficult to ignore their words. One morning, I woke up and found my late sister’s red wrapper hanging on our bedroom door. The same red wrapper she had worn before she d!ed. After Funke’s de@th, we had gathered her clothes and donated them to a church. I was sure that wrapper had been among them. What frightened me most was that the wrapper had bloodstains on it. I immediately called Bayo. “Did you bring this wrapper into the room?” He stared at it and shook his head. “No. I don’t even know how it got here.” We looked at each other in silence. Neither of us could explain what had happened. Then things became even stranger. Baby Fola, who had barely started speaking, began making unusual sounds at night. Sometimes, she would wake up, stare at me for several seconds, and call out a name. “Funke!” Not Mummy Tolu. Not Mummy. Just Funke. My late sister’s name. Every time she did it, the hair on my body stood up. I started wondering whether the children were simply struggling with the loss of their mother or whether something else was happening in that house. But nothing prepared me for what happened last week. I was in the kitchen preparing soup when Bolu walked in. I was wearing my sister’s old apron. She quietly came close, held my hand, and looked directly into my eyes. “Mummy Tolu, Mummy Funke came to see me again.”#foruyou#fanpage #fypシ゚viral #storytime

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