"Every coin minted in silence will be paid for in screams."
Part 1: A Country Under Siege
At dawn, Lagos looked like a warzone.
No gunfire. No explosions. Just the sound of a million souls gasping under the weight of a broken economy.
Shops remained closed. Schools locked. ATMs still dead.
But on Ikorodu Road, a crowd had gathered.
A boy stood atop an abandoned bus, holding a speaker. His voice cracked, but it roared through the crowd like thunder:
"We are not slaves! We are not animals! We are the ones who build this country while they steal it!"
The crowd erupted.
Young. Old. Mothers with babies. Mechanics in overalls. Students with protest signs scrawled on cardboard.
They marched.
The police arrived.
Tear gas followed.
Then bullets.
By noon, five were dead.
By evening, the hashtags changed.
#LagosMassacre
#CurrencyOfBlood
Part 2: Jude Underground
Jude Ikenna sat inside a bare room in Ibadan, staring at a cracked laptop screen.
His new name was Elijah.
He used a fake passport. Cash-only hotels. Burner phones changed every 48 hours.
But he was alive.
His voice still reached thousands.
He was now part of a growing underground network — students, former journalists, whistleblowers, hackers.
They called themselves The Ledger.
Their mission: track stolen money, expose the elite, and help victims.
That night, they released their most damning leak yet:
$1.7 billion laundered from pension funds
$900 million missing from flood relief aid
48 government officials with secret properties in Dubai
The leak went viral within hours.
And somewhere in Aso Rock, a cabinet meeting turned into a screaming match.
Part 3: The Palace Cracks
President Alhaji Musa Bello was not a foolish man.
He had ruled for eight years. Survived scandals. Bought votes. Silenced critics.
But now, the beast he fed was eating its own tail.
"Mr. President," said the Minister of Interior, "we must shut down all social media. Ban VPNs. Block YouTube. Arrest tech CEOs."
The President shook his head slowly. "That will only confirm their claims. The people will see it as proof."
Another minister slammed his fist on the table. "Then what do we do? This Jude is a ghost! Tonia is still publishing! The youth are in the streets!"
A long silence.
Then the President spoke.
"We make an example. One big, bloody example."
Part 4: Tonia Targeted
Tonia Wale's name trended for days.
Not for her bravery.
But for the bounty on her head.
₥2 million for anyone who revealed her location.
She moved into hiding, living between safehouses in Ibadan and Akure, with allies from her university days.
One night, a car tailed her for over twenty minutes.
She ditched it by driving into a church compound and claiming to be part of choir practice.
Her hands trembled for hours afterward.
But she didn't stop publishing.
Not even when her editor was arrested.
Not even when her mother's house was searched.
Not even when she received a voice note of her younger brother, crying and begging for his life.
She published the voice note.
And the world heard it.
Part 5: Hunger Games
In Kano, riots erupted over bread.
A bakery was burned to the ground by dozens of teenagers who hadn't eaten in three days.
In Makurdi, traders refused to accept the naira.
"Bring rice or dollars," they said. "Your money is dying."
In Bayelsa, fishermen began trading in fresh catch for medicine.
The economy had collapsed in all but name.
The Central Bank remained silent.
And the people began to whisper a name they once feared: Sanni Eze.
Part 6: Sanni's Return
The exiled warlord turned populist, Sanni Eze, had been hiding in Ghana for over a decade.
But in chaos, old devils return.
He released a video from an unknown location, wearing traditional attire, flanked by bodyguards with AK-47s.
"The time for talking is over. Our fathers begged. Our mothers prayed. What did it bring us? Hunger. Death. Betrayal.
Let the land drink the blood of its thieves."
His video gained five million views in three hours.
And by morning, his supporters had taken over a police station in Kogi State.
They raised his flag.
A red fist over a broken naira sign.
Part 7: The President Bleeds
On the 22nd of August, an explosion rocked the Presidential Villa.
A kitchen staffer had smuggled in explosives.
The blast killed three.
President Bello survived. But he suffered third-degree burns to his back and arms.
Photos leaked online showed his bandaged form. Eyes swollen. Skin blistered.
Suddenly, the invincible ruler looked mortal.
His enemies saw weakness.
And the country smelled blood.
Part 8: New Alliances
Jude met with Tonia for the first time in six months.
In a secluded guesthouse near Ogbomosho, they talked for hours.
"You broke the story," Jude said.
"But you gave it teeth," she replied.
"It's not enough. They'll keep patching the system. We need to destroy it."
"And replace it with what?"
He paused.
"With people who fear the people. Not the other way around."
That night, they drafted a 10-point manifesto.
Free press
Decentralized budget tracking
Real-time government spending apps
Transparent salary systems
Term limits
Independent anti-corruption court
Internet freedom bill
Electoral reforms
Whistleblower protection
Citizens' Audit Force
They called it The People's Constitution.
Part 9: The Final Spark
One week later, The Ledger published a list.
Names. Accounts. Properties. Offshore companies.
All connected.
Proof of theft totaling $18.9 billion.
It spread like wildfire.
And then the unimaginable happened.
The Nigerian Military released a statement:
"In light of growing unrest, and in defense of our Constitution and our People, we demand the resignation of the current administration within 72 hours. Failure to do so will result in a civilian-military transition to restore order."
The countdown began.
Part 10: Blood or Rebirth
In cities across Nigeria, people waited.
Not for deliverance.
But for the outcome of a gamble.
Would there be a coup?
Would the President step down?
Would the military take over? Would it be worse?
Tonia sat by her window, pen in hand, writing what might be her final piece.
Jude stood on a rooftop, watching the sunrise over Ibadan.
Somewhere, Mama Isioma lit a candle for her children.
And in the darkness, millions held their breath.
The cost of truth was blood.
But perhaps, just perhaps, it might also buy freedom.