The governor's office no longer felt like a place Chinedu needed to enter with guarded caution. He had been here before—negotiating the school feeding program that had given Imperial Farms its first big government foothold. This time, the air between them was warmer, more familiar.
Governor Okorie stood by the wide window overlooking the city, a cup of tea in hand. "Chinedu," he greeted with an easy smile, "the man who kept our schoolchildren fed and happy. My aides still talk about the day the yam porridge was served at the pilot schools—apparently, it was a small festival in itself."
Chinedu chuckled as they shook hands. "We just do our best, sir. The children deserve it."
"Indeed." Okorie gestured for him to sit. "That's why I thought of you for something else. You've proven you can deliver, and I need a man like that right now."
He leaned forward, voice lowering just enough to signal this was business of importance. "Our state healthcare system is bleeding money importing basic supplies—nutritional food for patients, fortified staples for the elderly, recovery diets for mothers and children. It's embarrassing. I want Imperial Farms to take over the supply of every public hospital and clinic in the state."
Chinedu absorbed the words quickly. It wasn't just about revenue—this was about embedding his business in a critical public service. "We can handle that," he said. "But we'll need the logistics ironed out—delivery routes, storage facilities—"
"You'll have all the support you need," Okorie interrupted with a wave. "Tax breaks, permits, even priority access to the state's transport network. I'll make sure the media knows who's keeping our hospitals supplied. And in return…" he smiled knowingly, "you help me remind the people who made it possible."
The meaning was clear: reelection was on the horizon.
"I understand," Chinedu replied smoothly. "We'll make it work."
As they stood to leave, Okorie paused, almost as if deciding whether to speak. "One more thing—off the record. I've heard of a small airline looking to sell. Domestic routes, decent fleet. It's not public knowledge yet."
Chinedu's eyebrows rose slightly, but his voice stayed even. "Interesting."
"I thought you might think so," the governor said with a knowing grin. "Let's just say… in the right hands, it could be more than just an airline."
The announcement of the healthcare deal broke in the news before Chinedu even reached home. Local papers carried headlines like:
Imperial Farms to Feed State Hospitals – 'A New Era for Healthcare Supply'
From Yams to Hospitals: The Rise of Chinedu Obasi
TV stations replayed footage of him shaking hands with the governor, analysts debating the scale of the contract. Some praised his efficiency and patriotism; others raised questions about the "meteoric rise" of a man barely in his thirties.
Bloggers and financial commentators tried to estimate his net worth. One online article claimed he was "quietly approaching billionaire territory" when the combined value of his farms, transport fleet, retail outlets, and recent stock market gains were considered. Others speculated about "hidden ventures" and whether he had political ambitions.
Chinedu ignored most of it. Public curiosity was inevitable, and as long as it didn't slow his deals, it was just noise. Still, he made a mental note: the more visible he became, the more careful he would have to be.
The healthcare deal was signed before week's end. For Chinedu, it was more than a contract—it was a signal that Imperial Farms was no longer just a regional player. And somewhere in the back of his mind, the governor's hint about the airline lingered, like a seed waiting for the right soil.