I Inherited Trillions, Now What?-Chapter 198: Chaos

The early afternoon sun beat down mercilessly over Tafawa Balewa Square, casting sharp shadows across the crowd that had gathered. Thousands had come out—men and women, young and old, traders from the bustling markets, journalists clutching their notepads, cameramen adjusting their lenses, and curious onlookers squeezed tightly together. The air was thick with anticipation, mingled with the faint scent of roasted corn and the distant roar of traffic weaving through the city.

At the far end of the square, a raised platform had been erected, draped in the green and white colors of Nigeria, festooned with Lagos State flags fluttering proudly in the breeze. Loudspeakers boomed, amplifying the quiet murmurs and the occasional burst of laughter from the crowd.

From the side, a man appeared—mid-fifties, sharply dressed in a traditional agbada embroidered with subtle gold accents. His gait was purposeful, his eyes scanning the sea of faces before him. He paused for a moment at the edge of the platform, adjusting his glasses, and then strode confidently to the microphone.

"Good day, ladies and gentlemen!" His voice cut through the murmurs, clear and resonant. Immediately, all eyes locked on him. Cameras zoomed in, journalists straightened their notepads, and the crowd hushed in unison.

A ripple of applause greeted him, but it was his smile and warmth that softened the atmosphere further. He raised a hand in greeting and began, "I see many familiar faces here today, from the heart of Lagos to the furthest corners of this great city."

The man chuckled lightly and leaned forward, as if sharing a private joke. "I was told some of you thought I was going to talk politics all day. Well, I might just surprise you!" A hearty laugh rose from the crowd.

"Now, before we get down to business," he continued, "let me share a little story." His eyes twinkled with mischief. "Last week, I was walking through a market, and a young boy shouted, 'Governor, is it true a white man has come to buy Lagos?' I laughed so hard, I almost dropped my phone!"

The crowd burst into laughter, the tension easing with the shared humor. Cameras clicked as reporters jotted down his words.

He straightened up, his tone shifting to something more serious but no less commanding. "But jokes aside, I want to speak to you about these rumors—these lies—that have been swirling around our city. The stories you've seen on blogs, the whispers on social media—saying that a white man has come to Lagos, our city of excellence, to buy our land, to chase us out."

The crowd grew still, the lighthearted mood replaced by unease.

He raised a hand to silence any murmurs. "Let me be clear: none of these things are true. There is no white man buying up Lagos. No foreigner chasing us from our homes. These are fabrications, propaganda spread by our enemies, those who seek to undermine us, to tarnish the image of our great city."

His voice grew louder, more fervent, ringing across the square. "Lagos is not for sale! Lagos is ours! The beating heart of Nigeria! The city where dreams are born and futures made! We are builders, traders, creators—nothing and no one can destroy what we have built!"

The crowd erupted, voices raising in a chorus, shouting slogans and chanting proudly. "Eko ko ni baje! Eko ko ni baje!"—Lagos will not spoil! Lagos will not spoil!

The energy was electric. People raised their fists, swayed with the rhythm of their chant, eyes shining with pride and defiance. Reporters scrambled to capture the moment, their lenses catching every expression, every hopeful smile.

The governor stood tall, soaking in the adoration, his smile broad and genuine. But as the chants echoed around him, a flicker passed over his face—a sudden shadow, a subtle crease of worry in his brow. For just a moment, the jovial leader's façade cracked, and his eyes darkened with a silent calculation.

Then, just as quickly, the frown was gone. He straightened his posture, nodded to the crowd, and stepped away from the microphone, moving down into the throng of his supporters, shaking hands, exchanging pleasantries.

Beneath the crowd's cheers and the applause, beneath the colorful banners and smiling faces, the governor carried with him the weight of unseen battles—whispers of division, fears of upheaval, and the fragile line between power and chaos.

For now, Lagos celebrated its resilience, but in the back of his mind, the question lingered—how long could the city hold together when the world outside was shifting faster than ever?

He was starting to feel that the plan was becoming one he didn't like.

The land—gone. His new house, one he had barely slept in—about to be leveled in a single night.

He just hoped that would be the last thing he'd lose… after the President was done playing with his game.

He stood by the podium, staring out at the golden horizon of Lagos. Even in chaos, the city had a strange kind of beauty—bustling, never sleeping, always pulsing like a heart that refused to stop beating. He hated that he could admire it. He hated even more that it was now part of their game board. His city

The governor lamented.

Meanwhile.

"Sir," Sebastian's voice pierced through the heavy silence. "The governor's speech just ended."

Alexander didn't turn around. He had already known it was ending. He had been watching it.

A flatscreen was mounted on the wall behind them, the image frozen now—Governor Makinde's face locked mid-grin, hands still up, mid-wave, the crowd in front of him a sea of cheers. Eko ò ní bàjé, they had chanted over and over. Lagos will not spoil.

Sebastian stood at attention, unsure whether to speak again. He glanced briefly at the screen and then at his employer's back. Alexander remained still, as if frozen with thought, or perhaps strategy.

Because truth be told—this was all Alexander's plan.

The governor had stepped on that stage with fire in his voice and mockery on his lips, addressing the crowd like a showman. He had laughed, cracked jokes, and then thundered down the "truth." That no white man had come to buy Lagos land. That it was all blogger lies—cheap propaganda from political enemies. That the enemies of progress wanted to destroy Lagos from within, to break the spirit of the people by peddling stories of invasion and conquest. That he, the governor, was not running from anyone.

It was a fiery speech. Passionate. Righteous.

But it had been orchestrated from a room half a city away—from here.

Alexander had lit the fire. Quietly. Intentionally. And all it had taken was one leak.

A voice note here. A blurry photo there. A screenshot of a supposed land purchase contract with Alexander Blackwell's name on it. Shared with just the right people—bloggers hungry for stories, desperate for views. Whispers turned into rumors, and rumors turned into headlines.

"White Man Buys Prime Lagos Land—Displaces Locals."

"Foreign Billionaire Behind Sudden Evictions in Lekki."

"Governor Flees from Real Owner?"

It had gone viral within twelve hours. In twenty-four, there were protests in Ajah. Angry tweets. Hashtags. Petitions. A Lagos that had been quietly simmering under the weight of bad roads, power outages, and unemployment suddenly found a unifying spark. One target.

Him.

Alexander Blackwell.

The foreign invader. The arrogant capitalist. The new colonialist. They had painted him as everything they hated. A symbol.

He had watched it all happen.

He had read the tweets—some threatening to hunt him down. He had seen the news anchors scream his name in alarm. He had watched the masses curse his existence as if he were the devil himself.

And he absorbed it.

Every insult.

Every lie.

Every truth.

He didn't care. Not in the way they wanted him to.

Because unity was only dangerous when it was built on truth.

What he had done was more complex.

He had given them a lie that felt real. A villain that seemed tangible. And now, they had found something to unite around.

But unity built on myth?

That was the most fragile thing in the world.

He wasn't trying to break the people of Lagos. Not yet. Not directly. Not with bullets or orders or contracts. He was trying to break their spirit. Their illusion of control.

He had wanted to see what would happen when you gave a people hope—and then snatched it from them.

That was the true game.

Revolutions don't start in the streets—they start in hearts. But what most people forget is that hearts can break.

So let them gather.

Let them march.

Let them chant Eko ò ní bàjé.

Because what happens when they wake up tomorrow and find out the rumors were…true?

What happens when the government that promised it was all propaganda is revealed to have signed off on it?

What happens when the enemy they thought was outside the gates…was already inside?

They would break. fгeewebnovёl.com

And that was when Alexander would move.

He finally turned from the window, slowly walking toward the couch where Sebastian stood.

The television screen now flickered with a recap of the speech—dramatized by local media. A split-screen of the governor's face and angry Lagosians shouting in the market. Drama. Spectacle.

Exactly as planned.

Sebastian watched Alexander closely. He had worked for many men. Powerful men. Dangerous men. But Alexander wasn't just powerful. He was precise. Ice-cold. Ruthless in ways you didn't notice until it was too late.

Sebastian broke the silence, his voice cautious. "They're uniting, sir. Even the youths online—everyone's rallied together. Some are calling this the beginning of a revolution."

Alexander stopped, his back to the screen. He let out a soft breath, almost like a chuckle.

"A revolution?" he repeated, as if the word itself was beneath him. Then he turned slowly, his voice hardening. "You know what revolutions really are, Sebastian?"

Sebastian stayed quiet.

"False gods. Fabricated saviors. A parade of the desperate who think unity means strength. It doesn't. Unity means vulnerability. You give people a banner to hold, and all it takes is one match… to burn the entire banner down."

He walked toward the bar at the corner, poured himself a drink—something dark and foreign—and took a slow sip.

"Do you know what I love about revolutions?" he asked, eyes still on his glass. "They look unstoppable. Untouchable. Until someone whispers the right lie. Until someone shatters the illusion. And then… poof."

He snapped his fingers.

"Hope dies."

Sebastian's mouth twitched, but he didn't speak. He wasn't sure if Alexander was being philosophical or threatening—or both.

Alexander walked back to the center of the room, the light above him catching the silver in his cufflinks.

He turned once more to the television. It had shifted now to a political panel—commentators screaming over each other about foreign threats and the role of government. Noise. Pure noise.

Then Alexander turned his gaze to the far corner of the room.

To the shadows.

Where a figure sat quietly.

Suits and sunglasses. A presence so calculated it seemed to suck the air out of the room.

He had said nothing this whole time. Simply watched.

Now Alexander faced him directly, his tone even.

"So…" he said, almost casually, "after all the chaos, after all the shouting and the singing and the 'Eko ò ní bàjé' chants…"

He raised his glass, saluting the darkness.

"…Tell me."

His lips curled into the faintest smile.

" Mr. President?"