"When the rich gamble with nations, the poor pay with their lives."
Part 1: The Collapse Begins
A week after Tonia's anonymous leak went live on an international news network, Nigeria's economy trembled.
At first, people thought it was fake. A setup. Just one of those attention-seeking exposés that trended and vanished.
But then the foreign investors started pulling out.
Stock markets dipped.
Foreign exchange rates surged overnight.
₦1,200 to $1.
Then ₦1,400.
By the third day, it hit ₦1,680.
And by the end of the week…
₦2,150 to the dollar.
People panicked.
Prices tripled in local markets. Bread. Rice. Petrol. Sanitary pads. Baby formula.
The middle class disappeared in one week.
Part 2: The Market That Died
In Agege, Lagos — where survival was already war — Mama Isioma, a widowed pepper seller, arrived at the market to discover that her stall had been ransacked.
Not by robbers.
By desperate neighbors.
They had taken everything — her tomatoes, peppers, onions, seasoning cubes. All of it.
A neighbor's daughter whispered, "It was Wasiu and the boys. They said if they don't eat, they'll die. And God will forgive them."
Mama Isioma slumped to her knees.
She had borrowed ₦40,000 from a local cooperative to buy that produce. She had no savings. No backup.
Just two children at home and the ache in her knees.
No police would help her.
Not for pepper.
Not in a dying country.
Part 3: Jude on the Streets
Meanwhile, Jude Ikenna walked the streets of Mushin with his hoodie up, sunglasses on, and a burner phone buzzing in his pocket.
He had been avoiding media. Dodging police. Watching the chaos from below.
He passed a line of people outside an ATM. The machine blinked red. Out of service. The crowd cursed and shouted, fists in the air.
At a fuel station, he watched a fight break out between a keke driver and a bus conductor over who filled their jerrycan first.
He saw a man steal powdered milk from a woman's baby bag and run.
And worst of all, he saw a child digging through a gutter for sachets of water — used, dirty, half-empty — just to quench thirst.
Jude's heart clenched.
"This isn't the revolution I wanted," he whispered.
Part 4: The Rich Retreat
In Banana Island, generators hummed like lullabies behind high walls. Private guards patrolled with tasers and German Shepherds.
Inside a mansion with Italian marble floors and Persian rugs, Senator Oladipo sat in his robe, sipping imported whiskey.
His TV displayed images of chaos.
Looters. Fires. Empty shelves.
"Animals," he muttered.
His wife entered with a shopping receipt. "Darling, the Dubai account has been frozen. The Swiss one too. We should consider South Africa for now."
He nodded. "Call Chief Ebube. We need to get ahead of this."
The elite weren't worried.
They had options.
Planes. Assets. Passports.
They only needed one thing: time.
And while the poor bled, the rich made plans.
Part 5: Voices of the Damned
In Ilorin, a young man named Salman posted a TikTok video with tears in his eyes.
"They say we should endure. But for how long? I've eaten twice this week. My father died in 2021. My mother sells pap. We are not lazy. We are just cursed with bad leaders."
The video went viral.
Another girl in Enugu fainted in her classroom. Her teacher uploaded a photo with the caption:
"She came to school hungry. Collapsed while writing a test. What are we even testing?"
From city to village, stories spilled online. Hashtags trended.
#NoFuelNoFood
#WhoStoleOurFuture
#RevolutionOrNothing
But hashtags couldn't feed stomachs.
And revolution was a luxury the hungry couldn't afford.
Part 6: A Letter to Tonia
Back in her office, Tonia Wale stared at a printed letter that had no stamp, no address.
Just her name.
She opened it.
"You wanted to tell the truth. Now the truth is eating us alive.
Are you happy now, Queen of Ink?
When babies start dying from diarrhea and hospitals run out of gloves, I hope your conscience keeps you company."
It was unsigned.
But she felt the weight of it.
She had exposed the machine.
But the cost was more than she expected.
The worst part?
She didn't know if she would do it differently.
Not anymore.
Part 7: Feeding the Fire
Jude returned to his apartment and powered on his laptop.
He uploaded a new video.
"This is not collapse. It is correction. What you see is the mask falling off. The elite have fed off our silence. Let them now hear our hunger."
Within minutes, it began trending.
His words became scripture.
And scripture, once believed, cannot be unlearned.
The government declared a state of emergency.
Military tanks appeared in Abuja.
Protesters flooded Ojota, Ikeja, Port Harcourt.
Jude knew they would come for him soon.
But this time, he wouldn't run.
He had spoken.
And the people were finally listening.