The evening after the agricultural fair, Chinedu sat in his study, curtains drawn against the dusk. Two folders lay open before him: one thick with Ireti's reports from the farm, the other a thin stack of handwritten notes and price charts — his own quiet work in stocks, commodities, and sports futures.
Ireti's reports painted a shifting picture.
Landowners who once welcomed Imperial Farms were hesitating over renewals. A pair of smaller co-ops had gone cold, avoiding meetings. There were hints of pressure, politics seeping in like damp through the walls.
He had been turning the idea over in his mind for weeks. Now, the decision was made: more capital meant less risk — at least, in the short term. And if he had to gamble on that truth, he would.
He moved with precision, splitting the untouched betting profit into three streams. Agricultural futures, oil-linked commodities, and a set of carefully timed sports predictions. The risk was calculated, the plays spread wide. He didn't tell Tunde or Ireti. This was his alone — the part of the empire no one else needed to see until the results spoke for themselves.
When Tunde arrived two days later, the conversation was different. "Oil and retail," Chinedu said, sliding a fresh cup of tea across the desk. "We're not waiting. You'll handle it — find small distributors, fuel depots, anyone willing to work with a growing transport network."
Tunde grinned. "You give me the network, I'll give you the supply lines."
While Tunde started working his way into fuel yards and small-market warehouses, Chinedu stayed behind the scenes, watching numbers shift in his ledgers. Each trade, each bet, each sale brought the total higher, until the sum was no longer just a safety net — it was a war chest.
It was during a stop in Onitsha, inspecting a newly purchased passenger bus, that Chinedu saw him: the young man from the governor's entourage at the fair. The man lingered near a kiosk, then stepped forward.
"Sir… a word?" His voice was low. "They're talking about you in the house. Not officially, but the transport unions think you're stepping on their ground. And some politicians are listening."
Chinedu's eyes narrowed.
"I can keep you ahead of it," the man went on. "Information, early warnings — for a little something on the side. Cash. Foodstuff from your farms."
Chinedu studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Every week, you'll get your package. You keep me informed."
By month's end, Imperial Farms had outposts in two new states. The transport fleet ran routes into the far east, buses marked with the rising green-and-gold crest. Oil distribution talks were warming, retail supply lines beginning to take form under Tunde's watch.
But Chinedu knew expansion was a kind of announcement. Every move invited a counter-move. And somewhere in the back rooms of politics and business, pieces were already being set against him.
Still, as he closed the ledger that night, the numbers glowing in the lamplight, a quiet satisfaction settled over him. He was no longer just building a farm. He was building reach. And reach was power.
He had seen a champions league match coming, he had seen flashes across his vision. the champions league final, a date he had written into his ledger,
Still, as he closed the ledger that night, the circled date of the Champions League Final almost seemed to glow under the lamplight. When that match came, if it went the way he thought, there would be no hesitation in his next move — the oil depot, the retail network, the land itself. Everything would be within reach.