The last penny I ever collected from my parents was half a decade ago when my dad (without being asked) gave me half a million to pay my first rent in Bariga.

That& #39;s why I can& #39;t take the criticism of Twitter rich kids serious. Move out of daddy& #39;s house before talking to me.

Seriously. Don& #39;t even bother reading my tweets or engaging with me. We are not the same and I can& #39;t relate with you. Without daddy& #39;s money today, can you feed yourself? Who paid for the clothes on your back?

Ogbeni shift when I& #39;m talking. Go and clean your room.

With all your social signaling here, what access do you have? What have you achieved? What money do you make? Does your name have an internet footprint? What is your legacy on the planet? Viral tweets?

I mean, please. Go and play with lego. I& #39;m not your size.

Can& #39;t imagine feeling entitled to have an opinion about someone who is achieving something with his life while you& #39;re touching 30 and the only achievement you have in life is the vagina you came out of.

Three decades on earth and "my daddy has money" is still your anthem.

Sad.

Comprehension is a difficult thing. So let me link something I wrote last year for those who have the mental discipline to actually read a thread, as against read a de-contextualised quote tweet and rush to drop a comment. https://medium.com/clane-collective/i-declare-you-winner-of-the-sufferlympics-and-i-award-you-no-medals-7049d796fec3">https://medium.com/clane-col...