I Inherited Trillions, Now What?-Chapter 183: Nigeria (Dont buy would be changed )

While the chessboard was being reset—alliances shifting like tides, strategies reworked in whispers and war rooms—a storm gathered across continents. This wasn't politics as usual. This was war, dressed in the suit of power plays, stock collapses, court decisions, and shadowy investigations.

And while others scrambled to gather their pawns and kings, one old player already had his board laid out. Every piece was positioned. Every contingency accounted for. While the world was distracted, while enemies reveled in fleeting victories and hasty celebrations, he had been preparing—quietly, obsessively—for years. He had weathered storms no one saw, crossed infernos no enemy imagined. Broken alliances, backstabbing partners, financial betrayals—he had survived them all. The unforeseen? Expected. The unexpected? Accounted for.

Now, the board was cleared of smoke. The pieces stood still. It was time.Time to strike. Time to attack—not in defense, but in sheer, unrelenting force.

In the Motherland—in the western cradle of Africa—stood a nation known to some as the Giant of the Continent. A land with over 200 distinct ethnic groups, languages that sang history and sorrow, faiths that clashed and coexisted. To the outside world, it was chaotic, vibrant, defiant. But within, it was a nation battered by its own paradox: rich in soil, poor in systems; blessed with brilliance, cursed with corruption.

This country, where hardship was not news but a lifestyle—where laughter lived alongside loss, and survival was woven into the DNA of its people—was about to witness something unimaginable. Even for them. Even for the toughest of its children, who had weathered fuel scarcity, police brutality, currency crashes, and political drama like daily rain.

And yet… what was coming would make even them pause. Something was about to unfold in this land. Something deep. Something dangerous. Something… divine in its orchestration.

"So, Japan… ehn?"The words came smooth, amused—spoken in a voice that held both charm and threat.

Alexander Blackwell.The Chessmaster.

The past few days had been a hurricane. Though he never appeared in court himself, his fingerprints were on every document, every delay, every devastating move. A war had been waged over his empire—Blackwell Investments—and now, the judgment had come down.

He was to sell off 40% of all U.S.-based assets. A wound so deep it would have crippled most men. But not Alexander.

He sat now in Lagos—known to locals as Eko, the relentless city that never truly sleeps. In a luxury suite in Ikeja, he looked as if the court decision hadn't even grazed him. Calm. Too calm.

He already knew what would follow. They would try to tank the share prices of his holdings. It was textbook. Create a fire, then offer water—at a cost. With the market dip, his influence in the companies would shrink. His voting power reduced. His position diluted. And after all that, the IRS would swoop in, claiming half of whatever value he managed to recover from the forced sales.

A perfect trap.And yet…

He didn't flinch.He wasn't even reading about the case.

The documents in his hands were unrelated. Entirely. Files from another war. Another strategy. Another battlefield altogether.

He skimmed the final page and slowly set the folder down, eyes fixed on the wall as if peering through it.

Then he asked, in a voice sharp as glass—"Is the President ready now?"

Abuja, NigeriaThe air in the capital was different—less humid than Lagos, but heavier somehow. Heavier with power. With secrets. With decisions that shaped nations. fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm

Inside the Aso Rock Presidential Villa, the atmosphere was buzzing long before sunrise. Not from alarm, but from preparation. The kind of preparation that happened behind triple-locked doors and encrypted calls.

In the master bedroom, high above the rest of the city, the old man stood tall—his gait slow but filled with an unmistakable authority. Bola Ahmed Tinubu. President. Kingmaker turned king.

He adjusted the agbada draped around his shoulders, custom-stitched in white and gold. His cap sat at a perfect angle. His rings sparkled beneath the light. Around him were women—some laughing, some quiet, all strategically beautiful. Concubines, companions, or just ornaments—it didn't matter. He liked to be surrounded.

He looked into the mirror and smiled at himself. "Is the plane ready?" he asked no one in particular.

"Yes, sir," came a voice from the hallway. An aide, bowing as he entered, holding a tablet. Tinubu waved him off like a fly.

He reached for the secure phone on the side table and dialed—no pleasantries, no greetings.

"Hello? Minister of Power? Listen well—Lagos, especially Ikeja, must not lose power today or the entire week have you heard. I don't care if you have to bring angels from heaven. If the lights go off, you go off too. You understand me?""Yes sir, Mr. President.""Good. Tell the governor as well. Anyone playing smart will answer to me personally."

He dropped the call, not waiting for a response.

Moments later, he walked out of the bedroom. His convoy was ready—armored SUVs, motorcycles, military escorts, the works. Everything gleamed. He didn't just move. He arrived.

As he descended the steps of the villa, he looked like a man going to a coronation, not a covert meeting. Reporters were kept far, far away. No cameras. No press briefings. Just quiet, decisive motion.

At the edge of the motorcade, his Chief of Staff, a tall man in black suit and glasses, approached with a sleek leather briefcase in hand.

"Do you have the files?" Tinubu asked without looking at him.

"Yes, Mr. President," the man replied, voice low. Then, after a beat— "But… are we sure about this thing?"

Tinubu paused.

Then he let out a booming laugh. "Ah! Doubt? You're doubting now?" He turned to face him, eyes twinkling. "This man we're talking about—he's not ordinary. He's my friend. And what we're about to do will not just change Nigeria… it will save it. Make it stronger. And richer."

He patted his Chief of Staff on the shoulder with the confidence of a man who had never lost a game of survival.

Then he turned back toward the black Mercedes waiting for him, the door held open by one of his security officers. As he entered the car, his face stretched into a wide grin.

He was thinking of money.

He was remembering the day he visited his son's school overseas. A quiet, unremarkable event at the time. But that was the day he shook hands with a man whose name now echoed in stock markets, oil circles, and power corridors.

Alexander Blackwell.

Back then, it was just a polite introduction. Now? It was the handshake that would reshape an empire.

And the money… the kind of money that made even a president feel small… was finally within reach.

"The president is on his way now sir" said Everlyn who was in the room said as she replied her boss

Alexander Blackwell nodded slowly."Okay then," he said, voice low, calm—almost too calm.

He stood from the chair, the file still resting on the table beside him, untouched since he'd last glanced at it. His footsteps moved toward the room slowly, with purpose. Evelyn, who had been standing silently to the side, took a half-step forward.

"I want to get some sleep before the president arrives," Alexander said, stretching his arms casually. "I'm feeling jet-lagged."

Evelyn blinked, stunned. "O-okay, sir."

But her voice cracked at the edge. There was something wrong with the way he was taking this. Too still. Too detached.

She swallowed and said again, this time shakier, more desperate, "Sir… the judgment—what are we going to do?"

Her fingers trembled slightly as she held her tablet tighter, her brain running a mile a minute. "We—we could set up shell companies in the Cayman Islands or the British Virgin Islands… reroute purchases through nominee accounts. Or we could use some of the sovereign wealth proxies in the Middle East to discreetly start buying the shares back. We could spin a counter-narrative through finance media… maybe drop quiet rumors about internal restructuring to raise the value and then do a sweep."

Alexander didn't turn. He didn't flinch. His hand paused briefly on the door handle.

"If I were Nathaniel," he said softly, "I'd already be preparing countermeasures. I'd flood the media with analyst downgrades, quietly tank the market. I'd lean on internal watchdogs to trace shell movements. Block the buys. Flag the accounts. Then I'd prep my own pool—buy every single share we lose."

He was calm. Unfeeling. Surgical. Like he wasn't even talking about a war being waged against his life's work.

"And tax?" Evelyn asked in a whisper. "If we comply fully with U.S. law, we lose half of everything after the forced sale…"

"There's nothing we can do about that—yet," Alexander murmured, his voice falling even lower. "The law has been passed. What matters now is how fast we move. I want you to handle it."

He turned finally, eyes like stone. "You're capable. Act like it. Link up with our team in New York. Start selling now. Quickly. Get ahead of them. Apart from NVIDIA, reduce our exposure in the other companies. Trim capital. Drop below the 40% threshold without giving them too much control."

She nodded, even as her body remained frozen.

"And as for the taxes…" he continued, voice dropping into something darker, more cryptic."Someone's already on that. He knows what to do. It'll be… handled."

He began walking again. "Okay then. That's it."

"Sir?" Evelyn called after him, her voice soft, her lips trembling. She stood there, watching his back as he moved into the room."Sir, are you… just accepting this?"