Landlord at Last
Some people are quick to boost the morale of others facing heart-rending trials or nerve-wracking ones. Often, the balm which rushes to their lips is about Time and its comforting ability to make remarkable new improvements on previous oppressive ones. They are sure time and tide had its own ways of making harsh challenges gradually cease to exist.
“Remember, you mustn’t say that your sky won’t again flash you a toothy smile,” “I hope you’re not contemplating the nasty idea of fastening some taut rope on some high ceiling and soon climbing some chair you’ll later give the good-bye kick!” “Forever, Suicide is fed by arrogance from Satan and Satan’s heaviest punishments it attracts!”
To be candid, I believe this body of counselors and incline to their word-differentiated but similar parcels of ‘cheer-up messages.’ The story you are about to read is founded upon a reasoning same as theirs.
Of a truth, I have a cousin who is presently a laughing owner of four massive buildings in Western Nigeria and a much-talked about five-star hotel in The East. Sweetly, the sweetly furnished 300-bed-room-hotel has kept turning in millions of naira for him alongside his processing industries for food crops, granaries and groceries. The current picture of things with him was something else of the a-bit-brutal a-bit-shattering a decade ago. Then, Mr. Anya Donald, thirty-three and sickly had been literally cornered by Bad Omen complete with suffocating hands for his neck - and indeed willing and scheming to tighten them around it like a noose. I imagine that I have hit the vital point for the reader, whom this innocent story has the plans to transform his thoughts, should they perchance be The Defeatist’s.
Things did not use to be like that with six-footer Anya Donald! Even at the very close of 2011 AD. his was a daily life of unsure meals leading to occasional poor feeding, also poor dressing, little social outlook, little appearances at fanfare and poorer accommodation…
And, why would Mr. Anya Donald for that matter, have ever toyed with the flattering idea of surfacing at social gatherings attended not by the city rodents of their Aba Metropolis but by her shakers and movers? He had not a single garment of elegance. No robe of Mr. Anya Donald’s which could make normal eyes turn into envious ones nor had he for his threadbare clothes more than a languid gaunt body from obvious malnutrition. It could not have been unthinkable that Mr. Anya Donald was sometimes finding time to materialize at the welcoming pubs for The Sorrowing Poor in the city. It had to be that the more throat-scalding but affordable local gin for grabs in these cheap seedy pubs that bestowed Anya Donald his blood-shot eyes and puffy cheeks of 2011 and 2012 AD. The local gin did well through radical changes of Donald’s still-young looks to a haggard one to keep signaling his mute visits to pubs operating within their neighborhood.
Not overlooked either for occasional torture was Donald by his landlord, who seemed to have been feeding solely from his tenants’ prompt payment of rents. Donald’s two-room apartment kept dragging him into a battlefield with him and receipts of swipes for serious breaches of their landlord-tenant-agreement, capped with threats of a quit notice. Clearly, by orientation, Donald’s fifty-year-old-landlord was an impatient waiter for debit settlement by his tenants. Even times there were he would unobtrusively invade their rooms - Mr. Gallant! - Just to find out what Jupiter had been holding particular tenants from getting his money across to him. In those times, Donald was the inescapably remembered for his rendered lodging services to him; also for his irritable shouts at tenants daring late night returns from God-knows-where for bold attention-seeking knocks on his closed front gate. Mr. Anya Donald, sometimes, was a defaulter on this, each time he made it back rather late from his mind-easing drinks at some pub.
In all for Donald was a landlord who could never allow a tenant of stubbornness to display the faintest forms of it on his premises. Then pushed to the wall, Mr. Anya Donald found himself, on one occasion beseeching the Lord God to compassionately let his landlord bite the dust! However, mainly, Donald’s landlord’s action ended up igniting in him a potent and later wildfire desire to end up acquiring some plot, raising a building in it and answering A Landlord.
At his work environment, things were not anymore favorable for Anya Donald, as he had to contend with a glorified dead-end job.
Three years of secretarial appointment and discharge of duties thereof and his last earnings were only by some paltry thousands changed from what it was. Neither was he placed on more than twenty-six thousand naira monthly, when he subsequently wormed his way into a private flourishing supermarket in which he had a well furnished office of his. As development, all these became a just reason for Donald to continually brood over his fate and to easily berate members of his family of five, sometimes, in public, asking God challenging question with his face positioned skywards.
Wonderfully, matters got resolved in less than two years after Donald’s often bitter face-off with his Stephen landlord, his sense of fulfillment knowing no bounds. What had turned up meant an end to Donald’s endless agitations over his circumstances, a new period of laughing and crying at the same time and soon pausing to glance at the empty space trance-like as though watching an unfolding New Tomorrow of guaranteed plenty on some invisible screen. Mr. Anya Donald had riskily sunk more than half of his monthly earning from his supermarket job in a lottery meant to drop mouth-watering millions on the palms of the successful player. And successful Donald had emerged after a crazy but lion- hearted release of N15,000.00 for five draws in an English Premier League of 2011.
And it just turned out Mr. Donald’s time to stash A Coolly Hot Fifty Million Naira into his once miserable Bank Account.
You should guess: Anya Donald first made haste to become A Landlord on paper and in reality and soon actually began to invest in many moderate ventures that later sprouted business empires and him made A Business Mogul.
Some people are quick to boost the morale of others facing heart-rending trials or nerve-wracking ones. Often, the balm which rushes to their lips is about Time and its comforting ability to make remarkable new improvements on previous oppressive ones. They are sure time and tide had its own ways of making harsh challenges gradually cease to exist.
“Remember, you mustn’t say that your sky won’t again flash you a toothy smile,” “I hope you’re not contemplating the nasty idea of fastening some taut rope on some high ceiling and soon climbing some chair you’ll later give the good-bye kick!” “Forever, Suicide is fed by arrogance from Satan and Satan’s heaviest punishments it attracts!”
To be candid, I believe this body of counselors and incline to their word-differentiated but similar parcels of ‘cheer-up messages.’ The story you are about to read is founded upon a reasoning same as theirs.
Of a truth, I have a cousin who is presently a laughing owner of four massive buildings in Western Nigeria and a much-talked about five-star hotel in The East. Sweetly, the sweetly furnished 300-bed-room-hotel has kept turning in millions of naira for him alongside his processing industries for food crops, granaries and groceries. The current picture of things with him was something else of the a-bit-brutal a-bit-shattering a decade ago. Then, Mr. Anya Donald, thirty-three and sickly had been literally cornered by Bad Omen complete with suffocating hands for his neck - and indeed willing and scheming to tighten them around it like a noose. I imagine that I have hit the vital point for the reader, whom this innocent story has the plans to transform his thoughts, should they perchance be The Defeatist’s.
Things did not use to be like that with six-footer Anya Donald! Even at the very close of 2011 AD. his was a daily life of unsure meals leading to occasional poor feeding, also poor dressing, little social outlook, little appearances at fanfare and poorer accommodation…
And, why would Mr. Anya Donald for that matter, have ever toyed with the flattering idea of surfacing at social gatherings attended not by the city rodents of their Aba Metropolis but by her shakers and movers? He had not a single garment of elegance. No robe of Mr. Anya Donald’s which could make normal eyes turn into envious ones nor had he for his threadbare clothes more than a languid gaunt body from obvious malnutrition. It could not have been unthinkable that Mr. Anya Donald was sometimes finding time to materialize at the welcoming pubs for The Sorrowing Poor in the city. It had to be that the more throat-scalding but affordable local gin for grabs in these cheap seedy pubs that bestowed Anya Donald his blood-shot eyes and puffy cheeks of 2011 and 2012 AD. The local gin did well through radical changes of Donald’s still-young looks to a haggard one to keep signaling his mute visits to pubs operating within their neighborhood.
Not overlooked either for occasional torture was Donald by his landlord, who seemed to have been feeding solely from his tenants’ prompt payment of rents. Donald’s two-room apartment kept dragging him into a battlefield with him and receipts of swipes for serious breaches of their landlord-tenant-agreement, capped with threats of a quit notice. Clearly, by orientation, Donald’s fifty-year-old-landlord was an impatient waiter for debit settlement by his tenants. Even times there were he would unobtrusively invade their rooms - Mr. Gallant! - Just to find out what Jupiter had been holding particular tenants from getting his money across to him. In those times, Donald was the inescapably remembered for his rendered lodging services to him; also for his irritable shouts at tenants daring late night returns from God-knows-where for bold attention-seeking knocks on his closed front gate. Mr. Anya Donald, sometimes, was a defaulter on this, each time he made it back rather late from his mind-easing drinks at some pub.
In all for Donald was a landlord who could never allow a tenant of stubbornness to display the faintest forms of it on his premises. Then pushed to the wall, Mr. Anya Donald found himself, on one occasion beseeching the Lord God to compassionately let his landlord bite the dust! However, mainly, Donald’s landlord’s action ended up igniting in him a potent and later wildfire desire to end up acquiring some plot, raising a building in it and answering A Landlord.
At his work environment, things were not anymore favorable for Anya Donald, as he had to contend with a glorified dead-end job.
Three years of secretarial appointment and discharge of duties thereof and his last earnings were only by some paltry thousands changed from what it was. Neither was he placed on more than twenty-six thousand naira monthly, when he subsequently wormed his way into a private flourishing supermarket in which he had a well furnished office of his. As development, all these became a just reason for Donald to continually brood over his fate and to easily berate members of his family of five, sometimes, in public, asking God challenging question with his face positioned skywards.
Wonderfully, matters got resolved in less than two years after Donald’s often bitter face-off with his Stephen landlord, his sense of fulfillment knowing no bounds. What had turned up meant an end to Donald’s endless agitations over his circumstances, a new period of laughing and crying at the same time and soon pausing to glance at the empty space trance-like as though watching an unfolding New Tomorrow of guaranteed plenty on some invisible screen. Mr. Anya Donald had riskily sunk more than half of his monthly earning from his supermarket job in a lottery meant to drop mouth-watering millions on the palms of the successful player. And successful Donald had emerged after a crazy but lion- hearted release of N15,000.00 for five draws in an English Premier League of 2011.
And it just turned out Mr. Donald’s time to stash A Coolly Hot Fifty Million Naira into his once miserable Bank Account.
You should guess: Anya Donald first made haste to become A Landlord on paper and in reality and soon actually began to invest in many moderate ventures that later sprouted business empires and him made A Business Mogul.
Some people are quick to boost the morale of others facing heart-rending trials or nerve-wracking ones. Often, the balm which rushes to their lips is about Time and its comforting ability to make remarkable new improvements on previous oppressive ones. They are sure time and tide had its own ways of making harsh challenges gradually cease to exist.
“Remember, you mustn’t say that your sky won’t again flash you a toothy smile,” “I hope you’re not contemplating the nasty idea of fastening some taut rope on some high ceiling and soon climbing some chair you’ll later give the good-bye kick!” “Forever, Suicide is fed by arrogance from Satan and Satan’s heaviest punishments it attracts!”
To be candid, I believe this body of counselors and incline to their word-differentiated but similar parcels of ‘cheer-up messages.’ The story you are about to read is founded upon a reasoning same as theirs.
Of a truth, I have a cousin who is presently a laughing owner of four massive buildings in Western Nigeria and a much-talked about five-star hotel in The East. Sweetly, the sweetly furnished 300-bed-room-hotel has kept turning in millions of naira for him alongside his processing industries for food crops, granaries and groceries. The current picture of things with him was something else of the a-bit-brutal a-bit-shattering a decade ago. Then, Mr. Anya Donald, thirty-three and sickly had been literally cornered by Bad Omen complete with suffocating hands for his neck - and indeed willing and scheming to tighten them around it like a noose. I imagine that I have hit the vital point for the reader, whom this innocent story has the plans to transform his thoughts, should they perchance be The Defeatist’s.
Things did not use to be like that with six-footer Anya Donald! Even at the very close of 2011 AD. his was a daily life of unsure meals leading to occasional poor feeding, also poor dressing, little social outlook, little appearances at fanfare and poorer accommodation…
And, why would Mr. Anya Donald for that matter, have ever toyed with the flattering idea of surfacing at social gatherings attended not by the city rodents of their Aba Metropolis but by her shakers and movers? He had not a single garment of elegance. No robe of Mr. Anya Donald’s which could make normal eyes turn into envious ones nor had he for his threadbare clothes more than a languid gaunt body from obvious malnutrition. It could not have been unthinkable that Mr. Anya Donald was sometimes finding time to materialize at the welcoming pubs for The Sorrowing Poor in the city. It had to be that the more throat-scalding but affordable local gin for grabs in these cheap seedy pubs that bestowed Anya Donald his blood-shot eyes and puffy cheeks of 2011 and 2012 AD. The local gin did well through radical changes of Donald’s still-young looks to a haggard one to keep signaling his mute visits to pubs operating within their neighborhood.
Not overlooked either for occasional torture was Donald by his landlord, who seemed to have been feeding solely from his tenants’ prompt payment of rents. Donald’s two-room apartment kept dragging him into a battlefield with him and receipts of swipes for serious breaches of their landlord-tenant-agreement, capped with threats of a quit notice. Clearly, by orientation, Donald’s fifty-year-old-landlord was an impatient waiter for debit settlement by his tenants. Even times there were he would unobtrusively invade their rooms - Mr. Gallant! - Just to find out what Jupiter had been holding particular tenants from getting his money across to him. In those times, Donald was the inescapably remembered for his rendered lodging services to him; also for his irritable shouts at tenants daring late night returns from God-knows-where for bold attention-seeking knocks on his closed front gate. Mr. Anya Donald, sometimes, was a defaulter on this, each time he made it back rather late from his mind-easing drinks at some pub.
In all for Donald was a landlord who could never allow a tenant of stubbornness to display the faintest forms of it on his premises. Then pushed to the wall, Mr. Anya Donald found himself, on one occasion beseeching the Lord God to compassionately let his landlord bite the dust! However, mainly, Donald’s landlord’s action ended up igniting in him a potent and later wildfire desire to end up acquiring some plot, raising a building in it and answering A Landlord.
At his work environment, things were not anymore favorable for Anya Donald, as he had to contend with a glorified dead-end job.
Three years of secretarial appointment and discharge of duties thereof and his last earnings were only by some paltry thousands changed from what it was. Neither was he placed on more than twenty-six thousand naira monthly, when he subsequently wormed his way into a private flourishing supermarket in which he had a well furnished office of his. As development, all these became a just reason for Donald to continually brood over his fate and to easily berate members of his family of five, sometimes, in public, asking God challenging question with his face positioned skywards.
Wonderfully, matters got resolved in less than two years after Donald’s often bitter face-off with his Stephen landlord, his sense of fulfillment knowing no bounds. What had turned up meant an end to Donald’s endless agitations over his circumstances, a new period of laughing and crying at the same time and soon pausing to glance at the empty space trance-like as though watching an unfolding New Tomorrow of guaranteed plenty on some invisible screen. Mr. Anya Donald had riskily sunk more than half of his monthly earning from his supermarket job in a lottery meant to drop mouth-watering millions on the palms of the successful player. And successful Donald had emerged after a crazy but lion- hearted release of N15,000.00 for five draws in an English Premier League of 2011.
And it just turned out Mr. Donald’s time to stash A Coolly Hot Fifty Million Naira into his once miserable Bank Account.
You should guess: Anya Donald first made haste to become A Landlord on paper and in reality and soon actually began to invest in many moderate ventures that later sprouted business empires and him made A Business Mogul.
Some people are quick to boost the morale of others facing heart-rending trials or nerve-wracking ones. Often, the balm which rushes to their lips is about Time and its comforting ability to make remarkable new improvements on previous oppressive ones. They are sure time and tide had its own ways of making harsh challenges gradually cease to exist.
“Remember, you mustn’t say that your sky won’t again flash you a toothy smile,” “I hope you’re not contemplating the nasty idea of fastening some taut rope on some high ceiling and soon climbing some chair you’ll later give the good-bye kick!” “Forever, Suicide is fed by arrogance from Satan and Satan’s heaviest punishments it attracts!”
To be candid, I believe this body of counselors and incline to their word-differentiated but similar parcels of ‘cheer-up messages.’ The story you are about to read is founded upon a reasoning same as theirs.
Of a truth, I have a cousin who is presently a laughing owner of four massive buildings in Western Nigeria and a much-talked about five-star hotel in The East. Sweetly, the sweetly furnished 300-bed-room-hotel has kept turning in millions of naira for him alongside his processing industries for food crops, granaries and groceries. The current picture of things with him was something else of the a-bit-brutal a-bit-shattering a decade ago. Then, Mr. Anya Donald, thirty-three and sickly had been literally cornered by Bad Omen complete with suffocating hands for his neck - and indeed willing and scheming to tighten them around it like a noose. I imagine that I have hit the vital point for the reader, whom this innocent story has the plans to transform his thoughts, should they perchance be The Defeatist’s.
Things did not use to be like that with six-footer Anya Donald! Even at the very close of 2011 AD. his was a daily life of unsure meals leading to occasional poor feeding, also poor dressing, little social outlook, little appearances at fanfare and poorer accommodation…
And, why would Mr. Anya Donald for that matter, have ever toyed with the flattering idea of surfacing at social gatherings attended not by the city rodents of their Aba Metropolis but by her shakers and movers? He had not a single garment of elegance. No robe of Mr. Anya Donald’s which could make normal eyes turn into envious ones nor had he for his threadbare clothes more than a languid gaunt body from obvious malnutrition. It could not have been unthinkable that Mr. Anya Donald was sometimes finding time to materialize at the welcoming pubs for The Sorrowing Poor in the city. It had to be that the more throat-scalding but affordable local gin for grabs in these cheap seedy pubs that bestowed Anya Donald his blood-shot eyes and puffy cheeks of 2011 and 2012 AD. The local gin did well through radical changes of Donald’s still-young looks to a haggard one to keep signaling his mute visits to pubs operating within their neighborhood.
Not overlooked either for occasional torture was Donald by his landlord, who seemed to have been feeding solely from his tenants’ prompt payment of rents. Donald’s two-room apartment kept dragging him into a battlefield with him and receipts of swipes for serious breaches of their landlord-tenant-agreement, capped with threats of a quit notice. Clearly, by orientation, Donald’s fifty-year-old-landlord was an impatient waiter for debit settlement by his tenants. Even times there were he would unobtrusively invade their rooms - Mr. Gallant! - Just to find out what Jupiter had been holding particular tenants from getting his money across to him. In those times, Donald was the inescapably remembered for his rendered lodging services to him; also for his irritable shouts at tenants daring late night returns from God-knows-where for bold attention-seeking knocks on his closed front gate. Mr. Anya Donald, sometimes, was a defaulter on this, each time he made it back rather late from his mind-easing drinks at some pub.
In all for Donald was a landlord who could never allow a tenant of stubbornness to display the faintest forms of it on his premises. Then pushed to the wall, Mr. Anya Donald found himself, on one occasion beseeching the Lord God to compassionately let his landlord bite the dust! However, mainly, Donald’s landlord’s action ended up igniting in him a potent and later wildfire desire to end up acquiring some plot, raising a building in it and answering A Landlord.
At his work environment, things were not anymore favorable for Anya Donald, as he had to contend with a glorified dead-end job.
Three years of secretarial appointment and discharge of duties thereof and his last earnings were only by some paltry thousands changed from what it was. Neither was he placed on more than twenty-six thousand naira monthly, when he subsequently wormed his way into a private flourishing supermarket in which he had a well furnished office of his. As development, all these became a just reason for Donald to continually brood over his fate and to easily berate members of his family of five, sometimes, in public, asking God challenging question with his face positioned skywards.
Wonderfully, matters got resolved in less than two years after Donald’s often bitter face-off with his Stephen landlord, his sense of fulfillment knowing no bounds. What had turned up meant an end to Donald’s endless agitations over his circumstances, a new period of laughing and crying at the same time and soon pausing to glance at the empty space trance-like as though watching an unfolding New Tomorrow of guaranteed plenty on some invisible screen. Mr. Anya Donald had riskily sunk more than half of his monthly earning from his supermarket job in a lottery meant to drop mouth-watering millions on the palms of the successful player. And successful Donald had emerged after a crazy but lion- hearted release of N15,000.00 for five draws in an English Premier League of 2011.
And it just turned out Mr. Donald’s time to stash A Coolly Hot Fifty Million Naira into his once miserable Bank Account.
You should guess: Anya Donald first made haste to become A Landlord on paper and in reality and soon actually began to invest in many moderate ventures that later sprouted business empires and him made A Business Mogul.
Some people are quick to boost the morale of others facing heart-rending trials or nerve-wracking ones. Often, the balm which rushes to their lips is about Time and its comforting ability to make remarkable new improvements on previous oppressive ones. They are sure time and tide had its own ways of making harsh challenges gradually cease to exist.
“Remember, you mustn’t say that your sky won’t again flash you a toothy smile,” “I hope you’re not contemplating the nasty idea of fastening some taut rope on some high ceiling and soon climbing some chair you’ll later give the good-bye kick!” “Forever, Suicide is fed by arrogance from Satan and Satan’s heaviest punishments it attracts!”
To be candid, I believe this body of counselors and incline to their word-differentiated but similar parcels of ‘cheer-up messages.’ The story you are about to read is founded upon a reasoning same as theirs.
Of a truth, I have a cousin who is presently a laughing owner of four massive buildings in Western Nigeria and a much-talked about five-star hotel in The East. Sweetly, the sweetly furnished 300-bed-room-hotel has kept turning in millions of naira for him alongside his processing industries for food crops, granaries and groceries. The current picture of things with him was something else of the a-bit-brutal a-bit-shattering a decade ago. Then, Mr. Anya Donald, thirty-three and sickly had been literally cornered by Bad Omen complete with suffocating hands for his neck - and indeed willing and scheming to tighten them around it like a noose. I imagine that I have hit the vital point for the reader, whom this innocent story has the plans to transform his thoughts, should they perchance be The Defeatist’s.
Things did not use to be like that with six-footer Anya Donald! Even at the very close of 2011 AD. his was a daily life of unsure meals leading to occasional poor feeding, also poor dressing, little social outlook, little appearances at fanfare and poorer accommodation…
And, why would Mr. Anya Donald for that matter, have ever toyed with the flattering idea of surfacing at social gatherings attended not by the city rodents of their Aba Metropolis but by her shakers and movers? He had not a single garment of elegance. No robe of Mr. Anya Donald’s which could make normal eyes turn into envious ones nor had he for his threadbare clothes more than a languid gaunt body from obvious malnutrition. It could not have been unthinkable that Mr. Anya Donald was sometimes finding time to materialize at the welcoming pubs for The Sorrowing Poor in the city. It had to be that the more throat-scalding but affordable local gin for grabs in these cheap seedy pubs that bestowed Anya Donald his blood-shot eyes and puffy cheeks of 2011 and 2012 AD. The local gin did well through radical changes of Donald’s still-young looks to a haggard one to keep signaling his mute visits to pubs operating within their neighborhood.
Not overlooked either for occasional torture was Donald by his landlord, who seemed to have been feeding solely from his tenants’ prompt payment of rents. Donald’s two-room apartment kept dragging him into a battlefield with him and receipts of swipes for serious breaches of their landlord-tenant-agreement, capped with threats of a quit notice. Clearly, by orientation, Donald’s fifty-year-old-landlord was an impatient waiter for debit settlement by his tenants. Even times there were he would unobtrusively invade their rooms - Mr. Gallant! - Just to find out what Jupiter had been holding particular tenants from getting his money across to him. In those times, Donald was the inescapably remembered for his rendered lodging services to him; also for his irritable shouts at tenants daring late night returns from God-knows-where for bold attention-seeking knocks on his closed front gate. Mr. Anya Donald, sometimes, was a defaulter on this, each time he made it back rather late from his mind-easing drinks at some pub.
In all for Donald was a landlord who could never allow a tenant of stubbornness to display the faintest forms of it on his premises. Then pushed to the wall, Mr. Anya Donald found himself, on one occasion beseeching the Lord God to compassionately let his landlord bite the dust! However, mainly, Donald’s landlord’s action ended up igniting in him a potent and later wildfire desire to end up acquiring some plot, raising a building in it and answering A Landlord.
At his work environment, things were not anymore favorable for Anya Donald, as he had to contend with a glorified dead-end job.
Three years of secretarial appointment and discharge of duties thereof and his last earnings were only by some paltry thousands changed from what it was. Neither was he placed on more than twenty-six thousand naira monthly, when he subsequently wormed his way into a private flourishing supermarket in which he had a well furnished office of his. As development, all these became a just reason for Donald to continually brood over his fate and to easily berate members of his family of five, sometimes, in public, asking God challenging question with his face positioned skywards.
Wonderfully, matters got resolved in less than two years after Donald’s often bitter face-off with his Stephen landlord, his sense of fulfillment knowing no bounds. What had turned up meant an end to Donald’s endless agitations over his circumstances, a new period of laughing and crying at the same time and soon pausing to glance at the empty space trance-like as though watching an unfolding New Tomorrow of guaranteed plenty on some invisible screen. Mr. Anya Donald had riskily sunk more than half of his monthly earning from his supermarket job in a lottery meant to drop mouth-watering millions on the palms of the successful player. And successful Donald had emerged after a crazy but lion- hearted release of N15,000.00 for five draws in an English Premier League of 2011.
And it just turned out Mr. Donald’s time to stash A Coolly Hot Fifty Million Naira into his once miserable Bank Account.
You should guess: Anya Donald first made haste to become A Landlord on paper and in reality and soon actually began to invest in many moderate ventures that later sprouted business empires and him made A Business Mogul.
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