The CAC office in Awka buzzed with slow bureaucracy — fans whirring uselessly, papers stacked in lopsided piles, and queues moving only when someone yelled. Chinedu sat at a narrow desk beside Tunde, filling out forms with determined focus.
Tunde leaned over, guiding his pen. "Business name goes here — write Imperial Farms. Then tick agricultural enterprise. It'll make you eligible for tax breaks."
Chinedu did as instructed. The pen moved slowly, but every word felt like a step toward legitimacy. His business, born out of necessity, was now something recognized by law.
"You'll get your certificate in a few days," Tunde said confidently. "With that, you can open a business account. Maybe even qualify for federal grants."
Chinedu nodded. He didn't fully understand the system, but Tunde clearly did — and for now, that was enough.
"You know," Tunde added, "the government waives profit tax for agri-businesses for up to five years. You'll save a lot if you file it right."
Chinedu didn't respond, but the numbers were already running through his mind. Tax breaks. Grants. Leverage.
His dream wasn't just growing cassava anymore. He was building something… bigger.
That night, under the weak glow of a kerosene lamp, Chinedu leaned against the wall of his room. His body was still, but his mind raced. The visions had returned — fragmented memories of football matches he had no memory of watching, but somehow knew the results of.
Arsenal 3 – Wolves 1.
Barcelona 2 – Sevilla 0.
PSG to win by two. Nigeria draw Ghana. Yellow card in the 89th minute.
They were too specific to be guesses. Too consistent to be luck.
Last time he followed the visions, he turned ₦25,000 into over a hundred thousand. But he had been cautious then. Careful. Conservative.
This time, the stakes were different.
He had a name now. A business. Employees. Land. The beginnings of a cooperative. He couldn't scale it all with chicken change.
He needed real capital.
The next morning, with his registration papers filed and heart pounding in his chest, Chinedu walked to the mobile kiosk and loaded ₦150,000 into his betting account.
This time, he didn't place just one bet.
He placed nine.
Different leagues. Different odds. Different outcomes — all rooted in the same strange intuition that had guided him before.
Three days passed.
Then the alerts started rolling in.
One win. Then another. Then five more.
By nightfall, his wallet balance read: ₦1,282,000.
He sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the screen, stunned. No words. No movement. Just breathing.
"More capital… less risk," he whispered.
He wasted no time.
Within the week, Chinedu had purchased two more used buses — one from a mechanic in Onitsha, another through a contact in Nnewi. Both needed work, but the engines were sound. He paid cash.
Then he hired three full-time drivers and a small support team. The vehicles were repainted with the Imperial Transit colors — green and gold — and immediately put to work: hauling produce to larger regional markets in the mornings, then transporting passengers between towns in the afternoons.
What started as an extra income idea had evolved into a growing fleet
At the same time, he hired two NYSC agriculture graduates, a soil consultant, and an irrigation technician. With their help, Imperial Farms expanded to four additional plots across Anambra, organized into proper crop rotations and yield plans.
This wasn't farming anymore.
This was strategy.
Ireti, impressed but curious, started shadowing him more closely. She offered insights on which farms to buy out or lease next. She accompanied him on negotiation visits, leveraging her natural charm and Yoruba fluency in mixed communities.
Chinedu welcomed it. For the first time, the future felt… stable.
But it wasn't all smooth
Some locals began whispering — wondering aloud how a boy with no inheritance, no political father, and no known sponsors could suddenly afford buses, land, and staff.
The more Chinedu rose, the more suspicious the questions became. But he ignored them. He was busy laying down pipes, building sheds, and drawing boundary maps.
He wasn't in this for applause.
He was in this for legacy.
Standing by the new produce warehouse, Tunde looked at the two buses parked side by side. "You know what people are saying?"
"I know," Chinedu replied, wiping sweat from his brow. "Let them talk."
"You've gone from bush boy to business tycoon in less than two months."
"Not a tycoon," Chinedu corrected. "Not yet."
Tunde laughed. "But you're aiming for it."
Chinedu turned toward the horizon, eyes squinting at the long, empty road that led toward Enugu. Trucks passed occasionally. Buses too.
But one day, he thought, they would all carry his brand.
"Today, we move produce," he said quietly. "Tomorrow, we move markets."
And so the empire grew — not by accident, not by chance — but by vision, calculated risk, and the willingness to bet big when the world expected small.
Imperial Farms was no longer just a patch of land
It was the beginning of a revolution. And he was ready