Week 23 Omnibus: Learn Igbo Through Stories | 5 Complete Episodes

🎧 WEEK 23 OMNIBUS: All 5 Episodes in One Continuous Session

Missed the daily drops this week? This omnibus combines all five complete
   episodes from Week 23 of Igbo Daily Drops—no breaks, no interruptions, just pure immersive storytelling, language instruction, and scholarly documentation of Igbo intangible cultural heritage.
  
The episode titles in Week 23 are:
Episode 111 - Size & the Kite's Tail — Why Small Things Are Good
Episode 112 - Scarcity as Sovereignty — The Weaver Who Priced Her Own Power
Episode 113 - The Girl Called Bangle — A Circle That Never Stopped Closing (EXTENDED)
Episode 114 - Colour as Instruction — The Bowl That Speaks Before You Do
Episode 115 - Stacked Adjectives — The Dusty Hand, The Oily Mouth

🗣️ WHAT YOU'LL LEARN:

15 essential Igbo phrases from talking about tenses, how one is and temperature.

Perfect for diaspora learners reconnecting with their heritage, language 

students, or anyone interested in Igbo culture and intangible cultural 

heritage preservation.

This has been Igbo Daily Drops with Yvonne Mbanefo.

FREE RESOURCES: - Igbo Heritage Family Kit: https://learnigbonow.com -
Main Channel: @learnigbo on YouTube
Kids' Channel: @learnigboforkids on YouTube 


Our Mission: Raise 10,000 more next-generation Igbo speakers by next year. 
Be one of them. Every sentence you learn is a drop. 
And every drop feeds Oké Osimiri Mmụta Igbo — the Ocean of Igbo Knowledge. Subscribe now. Foundation episodes begin today.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:16

If you've had a busy week and didn't quite get around to listening to the Igbo Daily Drops podcast, this is your chance to catch up. Now you get to hear all five episodes from week 23 brought together in one place. Our mission is simple to raise 10,000 next generation Igbo speakers, and every phrase you practice brings us one step closer. So whether you're in the car on a walk or relaxing at home, let's spend a few minutes inside the Igbo world through stories, proverbs, and the sentences we learned this week. Kanye Bido, let us begin. The furnace at Opi breathes before Owakwe doors. Red light climbs the clay walls, painting his forearms copper. He has been awake since the birds called from the Iroquo trees, walking alone in secret. The gong shape cooling in the sand pit is the length of his forearm, bigger than any hand gong Opi has ever sent to a title taking. Smoke thickens, bitter and mineral, catching at the back of his truth. He can already hear the drums, already see Ozon Naji's face when the sound rolls across the compound like thunder walking. Anibo has not yet said the word that would let him build his own furnace. Answer to no one but the metal If this gong is big enough, Opi will start asking for him by name, and the word will no longer matter. Uwako presses his palm against the still warm metal and feels it a seam, thin as a strand of raffle running the whole length of the casting. A crack that small should not be able to end anything. And yet he does not call for Anibo. Sandal scrap stone behind him. Anibo is already standing in the doorway, saying nothing, looking at the crack the way a man looks at the question he already knows the answer to Nde W No I am Ivon Choma Mbanefo, heritage futurist and daughter of the soil. Welcome to Ibo Daily Drops Episode one hundred and eleven week twenty three Day one Monday Today the size of things We are at Opi in the Insuka Hills nearly three thousand years ago, long before form follows function became a Western design principle. Ibu Iron Masters here were already forging by it. Kanyibido, let us begin. Anibo does not ask what happened. He already knows the shape of failure or pushed past its truth. He crouches by the crack and runs one finger along it unhurried, the way a man reads a scar on someone else's body. On the shelf sits the small hand gong he cast the year over was born. Pam sized, unremarkable until you hear it ring. OP Smiths do not smelt their own iron. The bloomers deliver it wrapped in wet leaves. The bloomers gave you good iron, Anibo says. You gave it an ambition it could not carry. A lizard drops from the roof beam and lands unbothered in the ash. Today three sentences they let you name a thing's size and decide out loud whether that size serves you or empties you. Repeat after me.

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Sentence one Obi Hinuku in English it is a big thing Obi Hinuku Abukuhinuk This is what the patron wanted sentence two Abuh bere in English it is a small thing.

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Obiha berry obweh bere This is what Anibu is holding and it has never once failed him.

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Sentence three Ihoberedim in English small things are good Iberedim Ihoberedim Ihoberedim and Iboth says it like a man closing a door gently.

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These three sentences are in your free speaking workbook this week. Download it at learn Ibonaun dot com If you're driving right now, just listen. The workbook will be waiting. And Ibo lifts the small gong from its shelf and puts it directly into Uwake's hands. Strike it, he says. The note holds Round Ho, travelling out past the forge walls into the cooling evening air, exactly as far as a gong needs to travel, and not one span further. For the first time all day, Uwakwe isn't listening for Ozon Naji's face. He's listening to the gong. Obui Hobere, he says quietly, testing the words for himself, not performing them for anyone. Small and for the first time all day enough. What Owaku just heard is what the elders have always said of craftsmen who lose their way Uzu Namariabini Lebanyanodu Namariabugeni Lebanyodo The blacksmith who does not know how to make a gong should look at the tail of the kite. Not big exact and that is why it flies. I have stood at a couple of forges in Iboland where smiths still say size is a decision, not an accident. Archaeologist Edwin Ocarfor's nineteen ninety two doctoral research at Sheffield found that OP smelters and blacksmiths were separate trades, each answerable for exactly what they delivered. Japanese swordsmiths hold the same law. A blade forged only as large as its purpose demands. What Opi practiced as trade law, twentieth century architects would later name a principle form follows function. Precision isn't the small choice, it's the whole craft. If you want to practice these sentences with other families, with your children, the Ibovili speaking gym will soon be open. Before this day ends, say Ihobered ma aloud as you choose the smaller exact option over the bigger showy one. Not practice a declaration. Every sentence you learn is a drop and every drop feeds Oko Simirim Mutibo, the ocean of Ibonnowledge. Grab your free speaking workbook at learn Ibonaun.com This has been your Ibo Daily Drop. Abum one Ivon Choma Mbanefo. I am your sister Ivon Choma Mbanefo Kahugi Dikebwe May your body be like the kite knowing exactly the size it's meant to be and never reaching past it. Kanyh until we meet again tomorrow. The compound in Aquete smells of cam wood and river mud. Dada Makwata sits between four looms, moving from one to the next before the tread cools. Sweat sits along her collarbone. On the third loom, a waft float pattern takes shape, threads unraveled from imported Indian madras, threads that should not exist in her hands, but do. A canoe scrapes the river bank. An aja trader climbs up, breathless. The British have opened a trading post upriver, cutting the Ajaw Kenumen out of the route that has carried her cloth to their market for a century. She does not stop weaving. The same disruption threatening her patrons has flooded her compound with more foreign thread than she has ever held. Ruin and opportunity one canoe. Her hands do not slow. Somewhere beneath the rhythm of four looms, a decision is already being made. Welcome to Ibodeli Drops Episode one hundred and twelve week twenty three Day two Tuesday Today The Weaver who turned scarcity into sovereignty in the eighteen nineties, Aquete Weaver Dada Makata made her cloth so scarce that a jokin sang about its price. Kanyibido Let us begin. Aquete sits on the Emo River, where a loom is inheritance, not hobby. Only some women were ever trusted with four looms at once. This cloth borrows with from Indian madras, colour from camwood, patience from her mother's narrow panels. A child counts the looms aloud, gets it wrong, and an elder corrects her without looking. Today three sentences these let you speak like someone who knows exactly what her hands, her prize and her name are worth. Repeat after me. Sentence one Acamaror In English my hands know the work.

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Acamaror. Acamaror Acamaror.

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On the third loom Dada Makata could say this without pride. It is simply true. Sentence two Odiocono in English it is expensive or it costs a great deal.

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Odio corno odiocono audiocono.

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The Ijo Kenu men will say this about her cloth before the year is out. Sometimes you might actually hear Ogalarono from the around the Enugu and Umbra Axis. Ogala it means the same thing. Ogalarono it is expensive. Odiocono it is expensive. Sentence three Ndiozo gachoya. In English, others will want it.

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Ndiozo gachoya. Ndiozo gachoya. Ndiozo gachoya. That is the whole of our strategy in four words.

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These three sentences are in your free speaking workbook this week. Download it at learn ibonao dot com. If you're driving right now, just listen. The workbook will be waiting. Dada Makwata widens the warp past what her mother wove, threading in the tortoise pattern, the age of prize, dyeing the loose ends, Kamwood red. Her hands do not shake. The canoe men return and do not haggle. They compose a song, naming a price only the wealthy dare offer. She has not asked anyone for power. Aka Jike. The hand that holds wealth holds power.

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That is what fall looms and no fear look like. Aka Jiego Pjike Aka Jiego Pj. The hand that holds wealth holds power.

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Authority is never asked for. It is woven thread by thread until it cannot be ignored. Aquate cloth was never just cloth to me. Most of the women folk in my family all had aquatic cloth, and I also have a couple. An auntie's wrapper told you how seriously to take her. Textile historian Lisa Aronson Skidmore College in nineteen ninety four documented how aquete weavers rebuilt their looms against Egypt and colonial disruption. What she prized by scarcity in the eighteen nineties, economists only named brand theory a century later. Scarcity isn't marketing. It's an Ibo instinct wearing a new name. If you want to practice these sentences with other families, with your children, the Ibo Ville speaking gym will soon be open. Before this day ends, say Akamaroro aloud. Before this day ends, say Akamaroru aloud as you finish something made with your own hands. Not practice a declaration The hand that holds wealth holds power. Aka Jeko Jike Today your hands hold both. Every sentence you learn is a drop, and every drop feeds Okosimirimutibo, the ocean of Ibon knowledge. Grab your free speaking workbook at learn Ibonaum.com This has been your Ibo Daily Drop. Abon waneginwai Ivon Choma Mbanefo I am your sister Ivon Choma Mbanefo Kakagi Mara Oria May your hands know their own work and their own worth the way Akwete has always known hers. Kanye Hoichi until we meet again tomorrow Her grandmother, Bridget Ikodier, gave her the name before she was old enough to answer to any other. Her real name was Mary John, but almost nobody called her that yet. Mwalaka Bangle Bracelet because the child followed her everywhere, the way a bangle never leaves her wrist. Today, while her father is posted to teach in Izunite, in a village that is not her own, she is walking home from Holy Rosary Primary School, satchel against her hip, dust warm under her sandals, nine years old. When something in the road ahead stops her feet before her mind, understands why. Women have made themselves into a wall. Wrappers pulled from their own waists held high, edge to edge, no gap for a stranger's eye. Mbalaka and her friends edge closer. Close enough to hear. Inside the circle, a woman none of them know is deep in a labor that arrived too fast for any house to hold it. Two older women, hands sure, are already working. Nobody is panicking. Nobody is alone. She understands the war. Day Who No I am Ivan Choma Mbanefo, heritage futurist and daughter of the soil. Welcome to Ibo Daily Drops Episode one hundred thirteen week twenty three Day three Wednesday Today a special devotional marking one year since my mother, Lola Mary John Molly Tabo, joined her ancestors. Mary John Tabo was Bango Balaka before she was a nurse, a bride or Onako twice over. And the name outlived her, spoken now over the daughter carrying her archive forward. Kanybido, let us begin. Her father, Nicholas Amadi Machupodako, is a teacher, then a headmaster, and a translator besides, moving between missionaries, colonial officers, and a language they never troubled themselves to learn well. It is not the family's first encounter with that machinery. His own father, warrant chief Luke Wachukudako, had been colonial power made local years before. The son chooses translation over decree. Her mother, Cordelia Ahurole Wachukudako, is a trader and a woman's leader in her own right. Together they keep a house that is never only theirs. Eleven children of their own, and as was the custom then, scores more besides, children sent in from the village to be shaped up under a headmaster's discipline and a trader's eye, whether stubborn, slow to learn, or simply promising and in need of room to grow. In that house, God, Chi and Omenala are not at war. The rosary and the proverb share a shelf. Umbalaka grows up watching two people hold an open door without ever losing what was inside it. It is perhaps why less than a decade later, a teenager, still Mbalaka at home. She helps found the literate association Ijalogung in Umbise, a room where villagers gather to read, to write, to keep words from disappearing. It is there someone first calls her Molly Jo, a name she keeps for life. In her compound, in her family, Anumbise itself, she stays simply Miri Dameri to anyone younger, the honorific one as naturally as her own name. She is building an archive before her daughter, her first child is born. Today three sentences What they make possible the words for witnessing, for gathering, and for protecting the three verbs of Mbalaka's whole life. Sentence one Afugomia in English I have found it or I have seen it.

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Afugomia Afugomia Afugomia.

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Years later, in a train station in London, this is the sentence that leapt out of her before she remembered which language she was standing in. Sentence two Kanibu Okirikiri in English. Let us form a circle.

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Kaniba Okirikiri. Kaniba Okirikiri. Kaniba Okirikiri.

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This is what the market women did with their own rappers before Mbalaka had a word for it. Sentence three Anige Chekwagi in English we will protect you.

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Anige Chekwagi.

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This is the sentence her whole life was an answer to. These three sentences are in your free speaking workbook this week. Download it at learn Ibonao dot com. Decades pass inside one sentence nineteen sixty seven. The Biafran war reaches Saint Luke's Hospital in Uyo, where she is a student nurse, still training. When Uyo falls, the hospital relocates to Abraba, the wounded arriving faster than any staff can hold. Every hand with medical skill called on finish training or not. There she meets a young medical laboratory technician called Richard, swaying on his feet, too proud to say he is starving. She has always been quick to see what a body is trying to hide. She hands him her lunch without waiting to be asked, and by the war's end that lunch has become a marriage. nineteen seventy The War Ends Molly and Richard cross an ocean to England to build the careers the war had interrupted. Her mental health nursing him, his own field in medical lab sciences. One afternoon she leaves her umbrella behind at Stratford Train Station, East London. She goes back for it, flustered, explaining herself carefully to the station officer, in her best English. He tells her where to look for it. As she turns to go, he asks if she saw it, and relief moves faster than translation. Afugumia She catches herself mid breath, laughs and says it again properly. I have found it. Fifty six years, and it is the only time anyone ever hears Ibu slip out of her unplanned. Years later, Nigeria calls them home to work for the University of Nigeria and its teaching hospital, not yet to a house of their own, but into the campus community itself, where she moves from word to lecture hall, psychiatric nursing, midway free, oncology, then academia, training nurses at the School of Nursing UNTH Enugu for nearly two decades, retiring as assistant director of the School of Nursing. A full life inside those campus walls, her faith at St. Mulumba's Catholic Church, Euneck, his own career built alongside hers. Years and years before either of them owns a single brick of their own. Only later do they build a house of their own on land they buy with their own hands at Thinker's Corner Inugu fifty six years married, four children, three grandchildren, and the eldest of eleven siblings besides, the same open door her mother once kept, opened again, one sibling after another, passing through for a season or a decade, always a bed made up and a plate set. A woman of few words, whose words are never wasted, nails always manicured and painted, a house full of Motown records and photo albums, every friend and family gathering catalogued and kept, as though she already knew someone someday would need the record of who was there. In and in that house her own name gets passed on before anyone plans it. When her daughter's daughter dances Egu, the family still calls out the old question Oshiolenga Oshinawambwalaka Where did she come from? From Little Umbalaka's own child. Her faith is the same shape as everything else about her quiet, daily, unannounced, a rosary once mooth across sixty years. twenty twenty five, February. Richard is the first to go. A hospital bed after fifty six years of marriage. Five months later, Molly follows him in July in a hospital bed of her own, the same grace carried all the way to the end. Weeks later, their daughter, Muambalaka herself, lies on the bed at Thinker's Corner that was theirs for nearly thirty years, and into the emptiness something arrives. Not a plan, a circle, an archive built the way her mother once built a village room for words, the way a wall of wrappers once closed around a stranger and the road Bangle Walaka She was Bangle before she was anything else. Her daughter carries the name still. Neither of them ever stopped closing the circle. This is what the road already knew and what her whole life confirmed. Okirikiri Keiji Anejiabukose Anayariu Okirikiri kanegi Abu Ukwose Anayariu. The pepper tree is only ever circled, never climbed. What is fragile is never forced. It is protected patiently from every side by people willing to stand close and not press too hard. My mother was documenting what mattered before I was born. A room of village readers in nineteen sixty six, a house lined floor to ceiling with photo albums, letters, documents, everyone she loved catalogued and kept long before anyone called any of it an archive. The literary historian Theodora Akachi Ezibo, writing in African languages and cultures in nineteen ninety, drawing on the historian Ninamba, names the structure beneath what I always thought was only instinct. Ibo women built formal cross village networks of solidarity, organized specifically to protect their own interests in ways Ibo men in the same society never did. She calls it a united body. My own great grandfather, Luke Wachukodaku, was one of the warrant chiefs Ezibo names directly. His son became a headmaster and a translator instead. And on the women's side of that same family, power needed no colonial appointment at all. It is the same logic behind Yoruba market guilds and our Khan Queen Mother's Councils. Women across the continent building formal power exactly where formal power was withheld. What Ibo women coded into wrapper cloth and kinship law, sociologists would later name social capital, a term barely a century old for infrastructure Ibo women had already built. Protection was never sentiment, it was always architecture. If you want to practice these sentences with other families, with your children, the Ibovili speaking gym will soon be open. Before this day ends, say Anige Chekwagi aloud to one person you love, not as practice, as a vow. The pepper tree is still standing. Somebody is still circling it. Every sentence you learn is a drop, and every drop feeds Oko Simiremotibo, the ocean of Ibonge. Grab your free speaking workbook at learn Ibonao.com. This has been your Ibo Daily Drop. Abum one Ivon Troma Mbanefo. I am your sister Ivon Troma Mbanefo. Kachigi Dirikankeya Ne Chwa Mbenile May your Chi be what hers was a circle that never once stopped closing around the people it loved Kanihuichi until we meet again tomorrow. In her children's own words from the day we said goodbye, you have left massive shoes for me to fill. That's what she called her daughter Niki in MBC dialect, little doctor. Mummy, you will never be forgotten. The compound in Nemo is still blue dark when Ebele kneels at the grinding stone. Calm wood crumbling red under her palms. Smoke from the cooking fire hangs low, sharp with pepper and wood smoke. Her grandmother Wamaka stands over her, silent, moving the pestle two inches left without a word. Nzuhi Uhi there Odo last Wamaka says. Before the first guest's foot touches this compound, all five must be ready. Today Chifong, Wamaka's own uncle, takes his title. An Abele, for the first time, will carry a bowl to a guest alone. A motorcycle horn sounds beyond the fence. He is early. Wamaka presses the Enzu bowl into Abele's shaking hands. The gate opens. A stranger in white aboda steps through and every eye in the compound turns to Abele. De W No I am Ivan Choma Mbanefo, heritage futurist and daughter of the soil. Welcome to Ibo Daily Drops Episode one hundred and fourteen, week twenty three, day four, Thursday. Today learning to see by color Nzu Uhi and Odo were once a full language, mostly forgotten noun. Kanyibido, let us begin. The man in white does not smile. He does not need to. She only knows the bowl is heavier than it looks. She lowers it. The man dips two fingers into the white, marks his own forehead, and says nothing the most ordinary thing in the world. Today, three sentences repeat after me. Sentence one Emweremo Chocha In English I have a wide chair.

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Emwerem Ochocha Em O Chocha Emwer Chocha.

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Huamaka's own stool named without thinking. Sentence two Acharama Boji in English I want a black bag. Achorama Boji Achorama Boji Achorama Boji A Bellan Sacho has today sentence three Obu Duk in English it is a purple thing obwihod Obiho dud Od is yellow in our grandmother's bowls Ododo purple No one explains the gap These three sentences are in your free speaking workbook this week. Download it at learn ibonao dot com If you're driving, just listen. The workbook will be waiting. Wamaka lifts the fifth bowl. Not yellow, not white, not red. A deep secret plum ground from back Ebele has never seen crushed before. This is not for every guest, Wamaka says. Only for the one taking the title. Abele's hands do not shake. She carries it across the compound, sets it before Chivokonqua, and steps back. He dips his Finger. He dips his finger into the plum and marks his own wrist because he already knows exactly what it means. Abele finally understands why her grandmother never explained the bowls out loud. Onyo Nowa Ohu Dini Meya Onyo Nowa Ohuedini Meya. If you look closely into the crevice or crack, you will see what's inside it. Ibu tradition holds that Unzu is offered first before kola is even broken. The colour speaks before anyone does. Unkuta's twenty eighteen study found fewer than three in ten Ibu people still use Unzu and Odo to communicate. The Inca recorded history in knotted colored cords. No written word needed. Semioticians didn't name this multimodal communication until the nineteen nineties. A color was never a description. It was a science. If you want to practice these sentences with other families, with your children, the Ibovile speaking gym is about to open. Before this day ends, say obwinho dodo aloud as you point to something purple in your home. Look closely. The crevice always holds something worth naming. Every sentence you learn is a drop, and every drop feeds Okosimi Mutibu, the ocean of Ibonnowledge. Grab your free speaking workbook at learn Ibonao dot com. This has been your Ibodedi Drop. Abon one neging wine Ivon Choma Mbanefo. I am your sister Ivon Choma Mbanefo. Kanyagidinko Kanke Bele. May your eyes stay sharp as Ebele's. See what's inside every crevice or crack you meet. Kanychi until we meet again tomorrow. Cement dust sits grey across his knuckles. Under it, older the black oil stand eleven years at Unkonewi never fully lifted. The rooms behind him are swept, waiting. Headlights swing off the Edo is a Mewi Road. The untrained black dog throws itself at the gate, barking like the world is ending. Obo Nupula Horo, he tests under his breath. It is a big new house. His children are climbing out of a Lagos taxi. And Ikenna, never afraid of a customer, a debt, a bad engine, cannot make his legs walk to the gate. Welcome to Ibo Daily Drops Episode one hundred and fifteen week twenty three day five Friday. Today a house becomes real once someone else sees it. Stacked adjectives are inventory of what a man survived to earn. Kanyibido Let us begin. The dog will not stop. Ikena's hand finds the latch before his mind agrees. Anyway Rober Nkita Diyoji, he tells the dark, laughing. We have a small black dog. Useless as a guard, perfect as a warning. In a Newi, a finished compound announces itself before you see it. Nobody here builds a house facing the road by accident. Today, three sentences repeat after me. Sentence one Obunuku Lohro. In English, it is a big new house. Obunuku Lohro.

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Obunuko Lo Horo. Obunuko Lo Horo.

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The gate swings open under his hand. Sentence two Anyware. In English we have a small black dog. Anywerobita dioji. Anywareobarenkita dioji. Anyweroberenkita dioji. The dog sits finally still. Sentence three. Eririmo sicapa dioko natoto. In English, I ate hot delicious rice.

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Erimo sicapa dioko natoto. Erimosicapa dioko natoto.

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His daughter can smell it cooking. These three sentences are in your free speaking workbook this week. Download it at learnibonao.com. If you're driving right now, just listen. The workbook will be waiting. The taxi doors open at once. Three children spill out. The last filming for their mother in Lagos. Ikena doesn't move. His daughter reaches him first, presses her palm to the same wall, his hand never left, and just looks at him, then the house, then him again. The dog circles their ankles, forgetting its job. Inside the rice is still hot. Papa, your hands are still dirty, his daughter says. He looks down. Cement. Old oil both. The dusty hand brings the oily mouth. Eleven years of dust a feast. In a name I've watched men measure a life against one test. Is there a house standing with your hunt? Is there a house standing with your name inside it? Historian Dimitri Van Den Bessela University of Ber Dimitri Van Bessela University of Liverpool Journal of African History two thousand five confirms it A house at home was the mandatory mark of adulthood adulthood wealth without one and no respect. The Akan of Ghana proved worth the same way in cocoa farms. A house isn't shelter, it's a receipt in brick. If you want to practice these sentences with other families, with your children, the Ibovile speaking gym is about to open. Before this day ends, say obunupo Longoro aloud as you look at whatever you built this year. Not practice declaration. Your dusty hands were always headed for the feast. Every sentence you learn is a drop, and every drop feeds Oko Simirum Mutibo, the ocean of Ibo Knowledge. Grab your free speaking workbook at learn Ibonao dot com. This has been your Ibo Deli Drop Abum one Ivon Choma Mbanefo. I am your sister Ivon Choma Mbanefo. Korakagi Namepotajugefo. May the work of your hands keep producing what finally satisfies you. Kanyh Chi until we meet again tomorrow. And that brings us to the end of this week's Ibodeli Drops Omnibus. If a sentence or proverb stayed with you today, take a moment to say it again out loud. Every phrase you practice keeps the language alive. Remember, every sentence you learn is a drop, and every drop feeds Uko Simiri Motibo, the ocean of Ibu knowledge. If you'd like to practice these lessons further, download the workbook at learn ibonao.com. Until tomorrow's drop, Abon wanegin wany Ivonne Choma Mbanefo. I am your sister, Yvonne Choma Mbanefo. Kachigidogi Ofuma. May your chi guide you well.