The first crack appeared when a neighboring farmer, Pa Ebuka, stopped responding to Chinedu's greetings.
For weeks, the man had been friendly — offering tips about yam preservation and joking about Ireti's "fine handwriting" on produce invoices. But once word spread that Chinedu was buying up surrounding land and expanding his cooperative, the man's mood shifted. Cold nods replaced warm laughter. Soon, even that stopped.
It wasn't just Pa Ebuka.
One by one, older landowners around Umunze started pulling back. Some muttered to each other when Chinedu passed. Others flat-out refused meetings.
The success of Imperial Farms — visible in the new irrigation pipes, the branded trucks, the early harvests — had started to feel like a threat.
"You're trying to turn us into tenants on our own land!" one farmer, Uzochukwu, snapped during a community meeting.
Chinedu kept his tone even. "No one is forcing anyone to sell. We're creating a cooperative, not a company town."
Ireti, seated beside him in a floral print blouse and headscarf, leaned forward. "The plan isn't to buy everyone out. It's to pool resources. Shared inputs. Shared machinery. Shared profit — higher than what most of you make now."
Some nodded. Others scoffed.
"We've heard this before. White people said the same with the plantations."
Chinedu resisted the urge to argue. Instead, he stood up and brought out a sheet: a co-op draft agreement, prepared with help from Tunde. He laid it on the table for all to see.
"No one loses ownership. You only give access to machinery, transport, and sales networks. That's it."
The room stayed silent. A few men shifted in their seats.
"We're not here to take," Chinedu said. "We're here to multiply."
Ireti's Insight
Later that evening, Ireti walked beside Chinedu along a narrow path by the edge of the main farm plot.
"You handled that well," she said. "But you need to be careful with the elders."
"They think I'm trying to outshine them."
"You are," she smirked. "But that's not the point. You need allies."
"I was hoping the co-op would be the olive branch."
"Then you have to convince the right person first," she replied. "Talk to Mama Akin. She's respected. If she joins, others will follow."
Chinedu looked at her, impressed. "You're becoming a strategist."
"I always was. You just never asked."
He laughed, but he knew she was right.
The real turning point came not from land or crops — but from a podcast.
A young media entrepreneur from Awka had visited the farm earlier in the month, tagging along with one of the NYSC agronomists. Impressed by the hybrid irrigation system and the seamless transport network, she had recorded a short feature for her show: New Roots: The Future of Nigerian Agriculture.
Three days after the episode dropped, Chinedu's inbox exploded.
Local government officials. NGOs. Small-time investors. A Lagos-based tech blogger even mentioned Imperial Farms on X (formerly Twitter), calling it "a rare case of Gen Z-led agricultural infrastructure."
Suddenly, everyone wanted to know more. Some even wanted to visit.
"Fame is not food," Tunde warned. "But it can buy you time."
Chinedu took it in stride — but quietly hired a part-time digital marketer. They created a simple website, started posting produce pictures on Instagram, and designed flyers for the Imperial Agro Co-op.
The media storm didn't bring money — yet
But it brought attention. And attention was leverage.
Despite the buzz, resistance still lingered. Some elders continued to block access to their land, accusing Chinedu of using "evil money" or "foreign connections."
One night, a section of his fence was torn down. A warning.
Chinedu repaired it quietly — and doubled security.
But not every encounter was hostile.
Mama Akin, the respected widow Ireti had mentioned, invited Chinedu to her compound for roasted corn and groundnut soup. They talked for hours — not just about farming, but about legacy, family, and the weight of community trust.
By the time he left, she had agreed to lease two plots into the co-op for next season.
"They won't all join at once," she told him. "But one by one… you'll pull them in."
Weeks later, as Chinedu stood atop one of the new storage silos, he could see the gradual transformation.
Farm plots now had shared trenches. Workers wore branded aprons. A small sign at the entrance read:
Imperial Farms – Powered by the Imperial Agro Co-op.
Ireti joined him, holding two bottles of water.
"People are still watching you," she said.
"Let them watch.
"They're waiting for you to fail."
"Then let them wait," he smiled. "They'll be waiting a long time."
From whispers of sabotage to waves of support, Chinedu's roots were growing deeper — not just in land, but in people.
And with every storm of resistance, the empire learned to bend without breaking.