Being a Nigerian, Yoruba, Muslim girl makes my life different from every other teenage girl's life except for those who share the same attributes with me; those who are Yorubas, Nigerians and are Muslims. I'm dark, and I love my melanin skin so much. It suits me perfectly. Yes, I am beautiful. I learnt to appreciate my beauty when I grew up amidst those who admired me. They admired my large, round eyes and my well tinted eyelids. Just as you've thought, everything about me is admirable, maybe that's why I'm called Awoke ( My traditional Yoruba name_ someone we see to pamper). Living in Nigeria, I had to go through the 6-3-3-4 system, which means 1 year pre-primary, 6 years primary, 3 years junior secondary, 3 years senior secondary and 4 years tertiary education. Tertiary education covers universities, polytechnics and educational colleges. Though, the four years wasn't static all through. It depended on the course one studied. I had to leave a little, in search for the best. My choices were revolving around me, and the time was ticking along with it. That was what I, Aliyah Yunus, had to go through, and I was halfway there already. I was really anxious. I wanted to know the outcome as I held my phone closely to my face, waiting to receive an SMS from 55019. It was the 2021 JAMB (Joint Admission Matriculation Board) examination I wanted to register for. I had been trying my luck for the past three weeks. Most of my classmates already got their ten-digits profile code and they were already taken by the school to the JAMB office to get them registered for that year's examination. “Dear Yunus Aliyah,…….” I received the message I've been longing for. I read it line by line, as my hands trembled in excitement. I screamed, causing my brothers, Mubarak and Ikhlas to rush in. I smiled at them and said, “They've sent it!” They laughed, walking out of the room. I followed them and went to inform Mom. She was happy too. I knew I could have waited till he got home, but I called Dad on phone immediately and told him too. I couldn't see his face though, but I could imagined the smile on his face when he said, “Congratulations, Baby girl!” They were all happy for me. It worths it actually, because I remembered that after what Mom said to me that Sunday, I decided to focus on studying and let my worries fade. But when I tried it on Monday, and it failed again. I couldn't even hold back my tears. Then on Tuesday, the school registrar, advised the rest of us to get a new SIM card with our NIN {National Identity Card}, then use it for the registration. I decided to skip school on Wednesday. I went with for the SIM card. I took a long time before I could all get it done. I was told to wait for some hours before trying to make use of the SIM card for the registration. So on Friday, after I returned from school, I quickly took my phone and tried it. I fixed my eyes to the screen of the phone, staring intently at it when the message came in. I was happy that night. “Aunty Aliyah!” My little brother, Tasleem, called out, breaking me out of my reverie. He is the last born of the family and he is so cute. I turned to him and said, “ It's Sister Aliyah, not Aunty. Okay?” He looked at me for a while as if he was studying something on my body before he finally replied with a nod. Most Nigerian children do mix the title “aunty” and “sister” together. And I find it somewhat annoying. He wanted me to help him with his school assignments, which I gladly did. It was in the afternoon on Saturday, we just finished taking our lunch when my siblings decided to watch a movie, Columbiana on MN-movies, DSTV. I decided to read my physics. When it comes to physics, there's always that lackadaisical look on my face. So I always tried my best in studying it more than other subjects. I couldn't afford to fail it. I'd sit for it in the upcoming JAMB exam. It was also one of the five main courses in my Ordinary level (O'level) exams that would be accessed for my admission into University. “Static electricity” I murmured to myself as I opened my textbook. After two hours of studying, I went to the living room. I grabbed the remote and sat on the sofa. I excitedly switched to watching on of my favorite shows, “Botched”. My brothers hate it so much because they found the plastic surgeries done on the show disgusting. Though I do not fancy being a plastic surgeon, studying medicine has been my utmost goal. To study that gracious course called MEDICINE AND SURGERY in any of the Nigerian universities, especially in schools like Obafemi Awolowo University (OAU) in Ile-Ife, University of Ibadan (UI) in Ibadan, University of Ilorin in Ilorin (UNILORIN) or other federal and state universities, one has to work really hard. I had it in mind that I would go to OAU with Aisha and Jamal, who wanted to study Pharmacy and Computer engineering respectively. I already knew the implication, which was to study really hard to pass my exams.

It was a warm Saturday morning in late July 1996. I was 9; almost 10. The birds were chirping in excitement, the morning dew, fresh and still, dripping from the tree leaves. I had been prepped hard for this day. Daily memory “drills”, 6 hours of schoolwork and 2 hours of home tutorials 3 times a week, learning new words and watching for current affairs updates from the local TV news. Like an athlete, I was primed, ripped and ready for this day. No stone was left unturned. My teachers rated me so highly, my parents never expected any less. I had progressed quickly through the 1st chain link of the famous 6-3-3-4 National educational system, with a “double promotion” in Class 4. Time was a blur. I kept outdoing myself, excelling in my grades and beating the competition. The National Common Entrance examination that year had been a great success, I was the best in my examination center, though one of the youngest candidates. I scored 503/600, if I re-collect. I was sure to get admitted into both Federal high schools selected. However, I wanted a lot more. Parents/Guardians were told to drop off their kids/wards at the school gate, so I parted from my mum with last minute pep-talks, prayers and "pocket money" (the favorite part). With the accreditation and registration processes completed, I was allotted a classroom and seat number. The exams started right on time. The first part – Mathematics & Quantitative Reasoning - was a landslide victory – I crunch numbers in my sleep. I needed the Part B of the exam to go just as well – English Language, Current Affairs & Verbal Reasoning. I knew the pass mark needed to secure a place at the International School, University of Lagos, one of the most prestigious high schools in Nigeria. The Part B section started after the lunch break. It was all going well till I hit a roadblock. There was an essay question, which read, "write an essay, about 150 words on 'Nigeria of my Dreams' ". I read the question again. I read it a third time. “This must be a mistake”, I thought. It didn't sound right to me. I looked around the hall, with my naive, pearly eyes. No other candidate seemed bothered. The room roared on in the ambience of a properly invigilated exam. I felt I was in trouble. How was I supposed to react? Where do I start? Do I have to fall sleep to come up with this dream? Don't we all only dream at night while we sleep? What if the heavens refuse to give me this dream within the required time frame? How do I select a specific dream, dream that dream, wake up and write about it? Would I wake up on time? I just had about 2 hours to write this exam section. I gazed at this problem statement, flipped, twitched and steered. Finally, my guardian angel whispered in my ears. “Leave this section, write the other sections and come back here”. I scrambled through the other exam sections, filled and shaded answers as the clock ticked away. Just as I finished and moved to get back to the essay question, I heard those 2 magic words, “Pens Up”. I felt it was all over. I had let myself and many people down. What would I tell my parents? How do I explain that we were asked to dream and write about it, and I couldn't do either? How could this be happening to me? “My teachers must have left this out; they did not teach me”. That was my conclusion, with my tail firmly tucked between my legs, as I walked towards the school main gate. I squinted from a distance to see if my mother was there waiting. I knew she would ask how I fared and would try to assess my body language. I had learnt not to lie to her pretty early, I wasn't taking a chance this time. I only managed to get a few in till I flew out of her nest to build mine. I happily told her that Part A went well. She knew my capabilities, no surprises here, smiles all round. Then to the bad news, Part B. I told her what happened. She listened intently, laughed and told me what was expected by the examiners. The scales instantly fell off my eyes. How was I supposed to know? I wish they framed it clearer. Could I possibly go back and fill this section? Of course, only in my dreams. I was consoled with an ice cream cone and we drove back home. My father laughed and sympathized with me but was confident I would make the pass list. The next few weeks were a nervous wait, a heavy weight. The hours and days gently strolled by. I could not bear the thoughts of failing an entrance examination into a prestigious school. My mother had left her senior teaching position at a State Secondary school and took a few steps down the career ladder to accept a teaching role at this school, just to ensure that my father only paid discounted school fees for my siblings and I. How could I let her down? How could I let us down? Finally, the news broke. I passed the exams, went on to pass the interviews and was admitted into ISL, UNILAG. I was overjoyed and relieved that I had kept my own side of the bargain. My younger siblings also made the cut in their times.

The last week of May and the entire month of June was a very dark period for me. As I was working from home and trying to keep safe in these precarious times, social media had become my go-to for some relief (as well as the consumption of news as I see fit for my mental health). However, when I opened my Twitter app on this fateful day in May, I realised that I could no longer find succour on social media. A young woman had been raped and murdered. Again. As someone who is extremely invested in the protection and progress of the girl child, this news shattered me for weeks. I couldn't go on social media for fear of what I would see and the pain and tiredness I could feel from the tweets and posts from other women. Another thing that made me lose all interest in social media at this point was the "hot take" dropped by men about the heinous act of rape and how women somehow contribute to it. Being someone that already volunteers as a content creator to one of the most responsive rape centres in the country - Mirabel Centre - I quickly got to work expressing my frustrations the only way I new how, by writing. Below is what I had to say; On Saturday, May 30th 2020, the Mirabel Centre's Twitter account was tagged on a tweet about finding justice for a young lady named Uwa, who had been viciously raped and physically assaulted in a church in Benin. We immediately reached out to this young man via his DM on Twitter and provided contact details of lawyers and NGOs in Edo state that could help. Unfortunately, barely 3 hours after the conversation, the poster informed us that Uwa had passed and requested that we do all we could to get justice for her. With heavy hearts and a black cloud over our heads, we got to work and quickly put out a tweet announcing the tragic event and calling for justice from all and sundry. As the news spread to demand #JusticeforUwa, voices began to rise and statements were made to express that #WeAreTired. However, there were people (read men) who thought that a fight against the injustices that women constantly face somehow meant that men's rights were being neglected. Here is the thing; we all know “men also get raped”. Another thing we know is that no one makes jokes about these stories when they are shared more than men themselves. Infact, saying that the rights of men are not fought for is a big slap in the face of the many women who have been at the forefront of fighting battles that directly impact men's lives. We've called out police brutality, the offences of SARS, we've stood with men who were at one time or the other sexually assaulted and are now ready (and brave enough) to share their stories. The Mirabel Centre recently published a post about male-on-male abuse and we have also been known to take on cases of sexual assault against boys and men. So the issue here is that you're not really concerned about the support men supposedly do not receive when they share their stories. The real issue is that you are trying to derail the conversation currently being had and we will not stand for that. And to those of you who ask inane questions in order to shame and discredit victims, we can categorically tell you - drawing on the number of cases we have dealt with at the Mirabel Centre since existence - that it really doesn't matter where she was, what she was wearing, why she was there, what she said, what she did, how she walked/eat/slept/breathed, who she is, whether she fought or not, screamed or otherwise, MEN RAPE BECAUSE THEY WANT TO. In a bid to help, we also see people talking about self-defense and how it can help women avoid getting raped. This is shortsighted because it exposes the underbelly of the issue, which is that our society sees the crime of rape as something the woman should take responsibility for. This goes to prove just how deeply rape is ingrained in our society that it is subtly permissible to an extent - that being as long as the larger society does not raise awareness against it. So, we'll leave you with this - rather than teach girls how not to get raped, teach your boys that they have absolutely NO right to a woman's body! IT'S ABOUT TIME OUR SOCIETY STOPS FAILING THE GIRL-CHILD.

When the Covid-19 Coronavirus started in Nigeria, I was leaving Kano State with my dad. We had gone for his eye treatment at ECWA Hospital, and spent more than two weeks there. Few days after we left, Kano State experienced an unprecedented increase in the number of Covid-19 cases across the State. The hospital we left had to shut their doors, so as not to risk the well-being of patients that came for their eye checkup. In fact, States across Nigeria closed down their borders few days after we made it back home. It was a mayhem. Most times, when I think about our " lucky escape", and the turnout of events, I just know that we were really lucky and fortunate. Back home, we had to engage in all the precautionary measures as directed by the health authorities. Dad was recovering, and so it was a very sensitive time for everyone. All hands were on deck. Yes, we were keeping safe for ourselves. But more importantly, we were doing it for my father. And the reason was quite obvious. His health wasn't a hundred percent, and that means that any contact with the Coronavirus will have a devastating effect on him. On my part, I had to reduce my outdoor activities and work from home. It was quite challenging for me, because as a journalist, most of my work was done outside the house. But just like everyone else, I had to improvise. Thank goodness for the internet, I had to leverage the online space to conduct interviews, research, have meetings and even publish my articles. I even got to meet more people and engaging leads to work on after the stay at home experience. The whole stay at home experience gave me the ample opportunity to appreciate the little things of life and also to read more and watch what I eat. I had to look at my vision board and projections for the year, and even had to work on my podcast more. It just seems as if I was given a grand opportunity to get my house in order. Meanwhile, the virus was still ravaging different States across Nigeria, and people were dying in numbers. Most of us had to stay indoors because people were not following the precautionary measures by health authorities, and also, most States across the country lacked the equipment to test residents. So, it was far better to be safe than sorry. Many people refused to follow the figures by the national health authorities because for some of them, they are yet to see anyone killed by the Coronavirus. I lost an uncle to the virus. He was buried on June 26, 2020. He was a spectacular person, and I miss the way he genuinely listens to you when you're speaking to him. In fact, I miss his positive outlook on life. When he took ill, everyone thought it was the usual Malaria or typhoid. It was not until he started showing symptoms of the virus that everyone became genuinely concerned. Before his death, his lungs collapsed, and he was practically gasping for his last breath. These days, when I think about him, all I can remember is his warm smile and his positive energy towards life, living and spreading happiness. He once told me to live very intentionally and make an impact, even if it's just in the life of one person. I guess he was indirectly talking to himself, because his life is an inspiration to me, and I got to learn a lot from him. These days, when I look at how fast the year is running, I also remember that I have lit up the path for others to find their way. The Virus may have made all of us stay in doors at some point, but then again, it didn't stop media professionals from doing the needful. One of the proud moments I had during the lockdown was when I worked with a lady who is into digital literacy in her community. Due to the pandemic, her work became very important because people began to depend on the online space to get gigs, have meetings and even make sales. It was a humbling experience for me to share her stories, experiences and knowledge. In fact, my work with her renewed my faith in humanity and our ability to keep pushing, even in the midst of challenges. I may not know when this pandemic will come to an end. But just like everything else humans have faced over the years, we shall overcome. Impossible is nothing.

How do you survive a holocaust, I remember asking myself. When you see a child, you don't expect them to grow up. You expect them to stay small and ask “why” until you run out of reasons to give them. You expect them to spill milk and cry and you teach them to clean it up. You expect them to be scared of the dark and the boogyman, so you look under the bed and in the closet to show them that there's nothing there. But the child eventually learns how to drink without a sippy cup. And the child stops asking “why” and stops wondering because it knows what curiosity does. And they learn that there are things much scarier than the boogyman and the dark. “Let's go see Papa,” my dad calls from the front door. I grab my sandals and meet him at the bottom of the stairs. We exit the tall iron spiked front gates and begin walking down a dirt road. The air in Nigeria is thick with sand. I cough, struggling to keep up with my dad. He walks two steps ahead, his lungs unfazed. “Edewu,” the villagers greet us as we march. Their igbo dialect rolls off their ounce. The word is one of the very few I've learned during my visit. I think it means ‘blessings.' I return the greeting with a wave and half a smile. My dad leads the way, slipping past the crowds of people and their blessings, sparing no time for friendly small talk. The walk is only but five minutes. A direct path from my dad's house to his dad's house; a lifeline of sorts. My dad is the oldest son of eight children. “Your uncle Charlie lives over there.” He points to the left at a sky blue house hidden behind a collection of palm trees. I nod. I've never seen my uncle Charlie before. His house is a snapshot of sibling rivalry the way his is built one story taller than my dad's three story flat. My dad takes my hand in his and we cross a gravel road. The buzz of mopeds and motorcycles rush past us barely missing our heels. My dad looks to the right at a run down mud house shaded with rusted tin sheets. “Your uncle Sabinus lived here. They murdered him. Poison.” All the houses of my relatives line the dirt path like a museum of his childhood, their houses as empty as skeletons. His tongue doesn't slip when it speaks of poison. He doesn't stutter or cry. He soldiers on ahead to copper gates and thrusts open the doors to his father's compound. A monopoly of mud houses scatter the lot placed so tightly together they nearly stand atop each other. A broken down Mercedes marks the entry way to my dad's childhood home. The first car he ever learned how to drive, a dusty relic of his past. Two graves sit at his feet. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket he wipes down the first. “Mazi Vitalis Nweze Nwocha” the inscription reads. My grandfather. He bows his head in silent prayer. “Your grandfather was a fugitive of the war. They annihilated us. Burned us alive like sacrificial animals.” My dad says “they strapped people to military vehicles while their lower limbs dragged helplessly beneath them. I was only 12 at the time.” I stay silent. He tells me about the Birafian War. How Nigerian soldiers raided houses in the middle of the night with machetes, painting walls scarlet. How as a kid, he built a bunker big enough for nine people in the back of his house to hide his father from being recruited into the Birafian army. My dad is 64 now. He dusts off hid hands and pockets his handkerchief sweeping fours years of bloodshed back under the rug. We turn to leave his compound passing more unmarked graves on the way out. I look at him, realizing for the first time how silent it really is when a heart breaks. As kids we are taught not to cry over spilt milk. The war taught my dad not to cry over blood either.

My wife and I had had a great night at the Rad Madison Hotel. Head office announced my new role as regional manager and chief of operations across Sub-Saharan Africa and some part of the Middle East.\n\nRegina was beaming, with a permanent smile stuck to her face. I'd never seen her that happy.\n\nThe Cadillac Escalade crawled into the driveway of our Gregorian type home; sturdy columns, vintage carvings by the prominent Italian wood sculptor and friend El Giovanna.\n\nI stepped out and helped Regina onto the Porch, the light came on but there was no Dare. My Valet and Chef also doubled as the family Nanny and would always watch the kids while we went on outings.\n\nThe day we met, it was at an African day function, he was there cooking up some grilled meat popularly called \\"Suya.\\" We laughed and talked about our homes; how I missed Kumasi and he Lagos. We shared an uncommon bond which seemed to be a result of our West-African heritage.\n\n\\"Why's the house so quiet?\\" Regina asked me. I turned to shush her.\n\nThe eerie silence told me there was something out of place.\n\nEven Kgomotso, our live-in gardener was not at the gate as usual of him. We had made sure our home was colored with African nationals. John, our first son could speak a little of the Zulu he had learned from Kgomotso. Our daughter had taken a liking to Dare who told some of the most beautiful Ijapa and Yanibo stories.\n\nRemembering where we had been from, I always felt like my home was too perfect to remain forever.\n\nI could feel my heart starting to race as I pushed open the front door.\n\nThe lights were out. We stepped into the living room and I flicked on the light. Regina let out a scream.\n\nThe seats and shattered center table were covered in blood. Regina had started to run up the stairs and I followed suit, grabbing a baseball bat along the way.\n\nWe rushed into the children's room, Regina ran straight at the pile of bodies.\n\nFirst, she pulled off Kgomotso whose back was riddled with knife cuts, his body rolled off the pile.\n\nMy hands fumbled through my jacket, grabbing my phone, I dialed 911.\n\n\\"Help me pull his leg!\\" Regina screamed at me, pointing at Dare whose eyes stared into space unblinking.\n\nI could see the tiny arms of my daughter, so I grabbed Regina and held her as she kicked and thrashed about.\n\n\\"My babies, My babies!\\" she wailed on and on in my arms.\n\nThen we heard the sound that shut her up \\"Mommy...\\" John called out almost inaudibly.\n\nWe both rushed to pull Dare's body off. John had a small cut above his eyebrow, a scar that would forever remind us of that day. Kisi cried for months anytime she saw or heard someone speak Yoruba.\n\nThe reports from the New York Police Department (NYPD) led to the conclusion that the homicide attack was politically motivated, there was a letter. Someone had wanted me dead after the deal for DRC oil exploration had pissed off the government.\n\nThey thought I was the key to making sure insurgents were not given the fat payoff they had always had in the region.\n\nThe attacker had kicked open the door smack into John's face. The boy had quickly regained composure and run up the stairs to grab his sister.\n\nDare and Kgomotso had paid the ultimate price to defend our babies. They wouldn't budge until the attacker fled the house.\n\nThey must have made themselves into a body shield covering John and Kisi with their battered bodies.\n\n***\n\nThis fictional story is the result of my thoughts today about Ghana, South Africa, and Nigeria. We have been a major part of African liberation but yet are still full of hate for each other.\n\nNigerians must forgive South Africans in advance for what they might or will do to us. This is the only way to break the cycle of hate in Africa. The same must apply to South Africa and Ghana and every African country.\n\nOur fathers bled for the development of other countries of which today most of us have no stake in. We will always be presented with a choice, to bleed for Africa or to make others bleed.\n\nNo African has had it easy. Whether rich, poor or privileged. We all are products of centuries of bloodshed, slavery, colonialism, and struggle. It's our duty to honour their memories by defending Africa with our lives. This might cost us our pride, our feelings of entitlement, our memories of killings across tribes and countries. It will cost us a lot but we must be willing to forgive ourselves in advance for the evil planted in our hearts by decades of oppression and separatist politics.

2019 started less than a month ago, and you could see, all over social media, the normal promises to change by the next year, and cut people out of your life. But is this really necessary? It's one thing to look at a new year as a new opportunity to be a better person, and a new chapter for growth and development. That's a beautiful thing, and it's amazing. It's another thing though, to be referring to a new year as a chance to discard the memories, experiences, and relationships of the old year - as if they were all bad - in an attempt to draw a clean slate. I look at myself, for example. Half of 2018 was probably the worst six months of my life - but half of it was the best. I choose to focus on the good. In 2018, I graduated from high school, met a ton of people online, and even a few offline, and started getting out more - something I'd never have seen myself doing just a couple of years ago. 2018 me learned the importance of giving to people in ways that don't necessarily include finance, 2018 me bonded tightly with people I would have never thought I'd associate myself with, and 2018 me finally learned self love. 2018 me has found herself, and I wouldn't trade that for the world.

1.0. INTRODUCTION Huge debt profiles, non-willingness to pay and the vice of electricity theft are prevalent components in the Nigerian Electricity Supply Industry (NESI). The aforementioned factors contribute to the huge liquidity gap in the NESI. The negative effect of energy theft cannot be overemphasized as the huge liquidity gap in the NESI affects all aspects of the value chain from generation to distribution. This, in turn diminishes the quantity and quality of electricity service delivery. In recent times, to curb the menace of energy theft, efforts have been intensified by the Distribution Companies (DisCos) in collaboration with the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC). However, an aspect of this vice often left out is the issue of inaccurate customer enumeration of some residential maximum demand, commercial and industrial customers by the DisCos. 1.1 PROBLEM STATEMENT Electricity customers in Nigeria are classified into diverse broad categories which are: Residential (R1, R2, R3 & R4), Commercial (C1, C2 & C3), Industrial (D1, D2 & D3), Special (A1, A2 & A3) and Street lighting (S1) by the Nigerian Electricity Regulatory Commission (NERC) as contained in the amended 2015 Multi-Year Tariff Order (MYTO) 2.1. However, it is important to note that the eleven (11) DisCos have peculiar rates per kWh of electricity. The purpose of this study is to evaluate the commercial losses borne by the DisCos as a function of improper billing methods as opposed to the specified structures as set out in the MYTO 2.1 schedule. This is especially true for maximum demand, commercial and industrial customers who are billed on the inappropriate customer class category. The implication of this is that electricity is ineffectively priced. This further leads to huge commercial losses experienced by the DisCos. 1.2 SCENARIO ANALYSIS Example 1: Suppose an Industrial Firm in Lagos consumes 10kW/h for 10 hours daily in June 2017 but is billed based on R2 like most residential customers. It means that commercial losses to IKEJA DISCO for June 2017 is: Billing based on R2 Customer Classification: 30 days * 10 hours * N21.30/kWh * 10kWh = N63,900/Month Billing based on D2 Customer Classification: 30 days * 10 hours * N37.54/kWh * 10kWh = N112,620/Month Therefore, commercial loss to IKEJA DISCO is N112,620 – N63,900 = N48,720/Month. Example 2: Suppose a Commercial Hub in Abuja FCT consumes 4kW/h of electricity for 8 hours daily in June 2017 but is billed based on R2 like most residential customers. Commercial losses to ABUJA DISCO for June 2017 is: Billing based on R2 Customer Classification: 30 days * 8 hours * N24.30/kWh * 4kWh = N23,328/Month Billing based on C3 Customer Classification: 30 days * 8 hours * N47.09/kWh * 4kWh = N45,206.4/Month Therefore, commercial loss to ABUJA DISCO is N45,206.4 – N23,328 = N21,878/Month. The scenarios above show the monetary enumerations lost by the DisCos on a monthly basis as a function of incorrect electricity customer billing categories. To reduce the liquidity challenges encumbering the DisCos, this issue needs to be looked into and proper actions taken to reduce these commercial losses which are subsequently passed on to the residential electricity consumers. 1.3 RECOMMENDATIONS It is therefore recommended that the DisCos should: 1. Inspect and conduct energy audits for electricity customers under their jurisdiction to ensure proper customers classification. 2. Ensure customers use their buildings for the ab initio stated purposes and sanction those who default. 3. DisCo metering officials should be given incentives to reduce improper customer billing methodologies and corrupt practices. They should also be trained and re-trained on proper customer categorization. 4. Regularly monitor their electricity customers. 5. Reconcile their records and claw back lost funds from erring maximum demand, industrial and commercial customers. 6. Come up with an Energy Theft Whistle-blower policy.