I Inherited Trillions, Now What?-Chapter 184: Nigeria

While America and much of the Western world were still reeling—grappling with the legal and economic fallout of what they would later call The Trial of the Century in West Africa—far across the Atlantic, the aftershocks of that same earthquake were being felt just as deeply, if not more chaotically, in one of the most complex and consequential nations on Earth.

Nigeria.

The Giant of Africa.

A country of over 220 million people. Home to more than 250 distinct ethnic groups and hundreds of languages. A land that balances its identity on the twin shoulders of Islam and Christianity, two major religions practiced almost equally by its people. Nigeria did not earn its nickname lightly. It deserved it—rightfully. This was not just the most populous Black nation on the planet; this was a land of unimaginable potential.

A land so blessed, so rich, so strategically positioned, that if there ever existed a country kissed by the divine, it was Nigeria.

From oil to natural gas, from fertile farmlands to untapped mineral veins, from a youthful population to a global diaspora of brilliant minds—Nigeria had it all. No tsunamis. No major earthquakes. No deadly volcanoes or devastating blizzards. The climate, the terrain, the natural advantages—it was all there. A country rich enough in natural resources to feed and power not just itself but multiple smaller nations. A population young and energetic enough to lead a technological revolution. If nations were computers, Nigeria had been given all the best hardware.

But there was one thing—one vital thing—it lacked.

Software.

Leadership.

It had been given everything by God, and then, as though Heaven couldn't resist the joke, He assigned to this blessed land some of the most vile, corrupt, shortsighted, and disgracefully incompetent leaders the modern world had ever known.

Nigerian leadership was not just a problem—it was a curse. A curse that wore Gucci belts and spoke polished English, a curse that flew private jets to lecture others on patriotism, a curse that built mansions abroad while hospitals at home rotted.

Corruption wasn't just a flaw in the system—it was the system.

From televised interviews where officials seriously claimed a snake slithered into a government vault and swallowed over two hundred million dollars in cash, to reports of two civil servants allegedly embezzling over two billion naira—with the stolen funds safely tucked away in offshore accounts under false names—Nigerians had seen it all.

And who could forget the infamous moment when Maryam Abacha, the widow of Nigeria's last military dictator, coldly declared on national television after another five hundred million dollars was recovered in her name:

"You people can keep finding money and taking it all. All I know is, at the end of the day, I will never be as poor as Dangote."

What made that quote scary/iconic was at the time, Aliko Dangote is the richest black person in the world and was the 50th richest man in the world, valued at a staggering 25 billion dollars, and was rumored to be considering the purchase of Arsenal Football Club. That was the level of arrogance—the sheer, unrepentant audacity—of those who had held Nigeria hostage.

You could scream. You could cry. You could protest. But one thing remained universally understood:Nigerian leaders were corrupt. Period.

And yet… something changed.

Eight years ago.

Out of the silence and sorrow, from the battered hearts of a tired people, arose a new voice—a movement.

A suppressed political coalition, long ignored and underestimated, had re-emerged onto the scene. They claimed they had returned not for power, not for profit, but for purpose. Their mission?To fight the corruption that had become a second national anthem.To give voice to the oppressed, dignity to the poor, and hope to the hopeless.

Their slogan was simple: "Change."

But it was not just a word. It became a war cry.

The logo of the party appeared everywhere—on T-shirts, on car bumpers, on walls painted in slums and high-rises alike. It wasn't just branding. It was belief. It was rebellion against decades of pain.

Millions marched.Old and young.Christian and Muslim.Hausa, Igbo, Yoruba, Tiv, Fulani, Bini, Ijaw—all walked together, chanting, dreaming, praying.

For the first time in generations, the people weren't just surviving—they were fighting for their future.

And then, in a historic moment, the impossible happened:A member of the PAC Party, a party that had never even come close to holding the highest seat of power, was declared the new President of the Federal Republic of Nigeria.

The whole country cheered.

They rejoiced

Then that happiness turned to sorrow.

What had once been a wave of triumph, of national celebration, began to curdle into a bitter taste of betrayal. The same political party that had ridden into power on the back of people's dreams, the same PAC that had promised "Change," that had united the streets and silenced doubt, made a move so devastating, it tore the soul out of the revolution.

They chose a new chairman.

The former governor of Lagos. A man whose name had become synonymous with godfatherism. A man feared, not for strength or wisdom, but for his grip on power and corruption.Adewale Dantana Tinubu.

To many, he was the single most corrupt political figure in Nigeria's modern history—a shadowy puppeteer behind the scenes, whose influence reached every arm of government and whose ambition knew no limit. To see him now, standing tall as the chairman of the party that was once the people's only hope… was a betrayal beyond words.

The shock hit like a nationwide blackout.

Everything the people had fought for, marched for, died for—it all came crashing down. For many, it felt like a cruel, elaborate prank, played by those in power on the suffering masses. The "Change" they had believed in had chosen corruption incarnate. And just like that, millions of hearts broke in unison.

Some clung to denial, holding out hope that maybe, just maybe, this was a move they didn't yet understand. Others argued passionately, refusing to accept that the movement had been hijacked. But reality couldn't be ignored.

Eight years passed.

Eight long, brutal years.

Nigeria, once full of hope, had become a shadow of itself. The change the people had fought for had come—but it was not the change they envisioned. It was darker. Crueler. Colder. The corruption they had tried to uproot had not only remained—it had evolved. It had learned how to camouflage itself in laws, in systems, in silence.

What used to be criminal was now legal.

Embezzlement was no longer hidden; it was executed in plain sight, under state and federal policy. The thieves wore suits now, and they shook hands in front of cameras. Politicians moved millions without fear, guarded by the very laws that should have condemned them.

Insecurity grew like wildfire. The streets were no longer safe, but worse—neither were the uniforms. The police, once seen as protectors, had become predators. Soldiers, meant to defend, now harassed, extorted, and brutalized. The average Nigerian would sooner beg a thief for mercy than be caught by the police.

And the economy? It collapsed on itself.

The rice they once bought for ₦8,000 now cost over ₦70,000—a staggering 775% increase. The naira, once strong at ₦70 to a dollar, had plummeted past ₦1,000. Fuel, once ₦30, was now over ₦130—a 333% surge. Everything cost more. Every salary meant less. Every hope dwindled.

The nation was hungry. Not just for food—but for meaning. For hope. For justice.

Nigerians had become angry. Hollow. A shell of the once resilient and joyful people they had been. And then—after eight crushing years—the tenure of President Mohammed came to an end. The nation stood at another fork in the road. A new election loomed.

But the people were tired.

They didn't want more pain from the current regime—but neither did they trust the party of old. The ghosts of betrayal still lingered. Then… from the shadows, another option emerged. A new party. A new path. A new chance.

Hope tried to rise again.

But Nigerians, once burned, were now twice wary. They hesitated. They debated. They remembered. They feared. Could they dare trust again?

Then, like thunder on a clear day, it happened.

Under the slogan "It's My Time," Adewale Tinubu—the same man once crowned the godfather of Nigerian politics—emerged from hiding. For months, he had rejected the idea. Denied the rumors. Laughed off speculation. But now, under the banner of the PAC, he announced his bid for the presidency.

"The incompetence of those running," he said, "has forced me to come out. Only I can lead Nigeria to greatness."

It was a declaration that split the country down the middle.

The man many believed to be the source of their misery was now seeking the highest seat in the land. Nigerians reacted with fury. Outrage. Disbelief. Protests erupted. Streets burned with chants and banners. But still, the election was set.

Then the chaos began.

This election was unlike anything Nigeria had ever seen.

Those who thought they knew corruption, who thought they'd seen every kind of rigging—realized they had known nothing. This was corruption with a doctorate. This was electoral warfare.

Terrorist groups hijacked entire polling stations, seized result sheets, and replaced officials at gunpoint. Seventeen people were killed in the first hour alone. Midway through voting, the rules were changed—ballots were replaced with electronic systems that failed to recognize names in certain regions. In some states, opposition candidates' names didn't appear at all in the voting devices.

Ballots were burned. Boxes stolen. Voter turnout suppressed. In some places, people were paid not to vote. In others, they were beaten for voting. Fake results were uploaded. Power outages hit INEC centers at suspicious hours. Entire towns reported "zero votes" despite long queues and visible participation.

It was madness. It was mayhem. It was a miracle anything even resembled an election at all.

Yet… it went on.

Hope clashed with fear. Despair wrestled with courage. Some cried for a return to the past. Others begged for something new. And many whispered, "The devil you know is better than the angel you don't."

The nation was torn.

And then the results came in.

32.1% — 33.5% — 34.4%

The closest election in Nigerian history. A split so narrow, it would go down in the annals of global political drama. After the violence. After the cheating. After the deaths. After the betrayals.

Adewale Dantana Tinubu had ascended to become the 16th President of the Federal Republic of Nigeria.

NowApril 10th, 2024Three months after the new president had taken office.

The numbers no longer made sense.

Rice, which had once scraped ₦70,000, now cost ₦200,000 per bag. A basic necessity had become a luxury. Families who once bought a bag every month now bought cups, bowls—if they could afford even that. Fuel, which hovered at ₦130 per litre just a few months prior, had skyrocketed to ₦1,020.And the dollar? It had shattered every known ceiling. ₦1,540 to a single U.S. dollar.

Nigeria had fallen.

Not by war. Not by invasion. But by something slower—quieter. A rotting from the inside. A collapse so deep it no longer shocked anyone. Survival had become the only thing that mattered.

People no longer talked about politics. They didn't care about trials in the West or courtroom dramas gripping America. The "Trial of the Century" that had dominated international news feeds—scandals shaking the very foundations of global democracies—meant nothing here. There was no time for CNN or breaking headlines. Nigerians didn't watch the world anymore.

They watched their gas meters.They watched their children go to bed hungry.They watched job offers vanish, ATM screens spit out "Insufficient Funds," and salaries evaporate before they hit accounts.

What filled the streets wasn't anger—it was exhaustion.A numb, bitter kind of silence.

Dreams had been swapped for desperation.Hope for anxiety.Ambition for fear.

They were too tired to protest, too distracted to mourn. Even prayer had become muted. Churches still rang their bells, mosques still called out—but the faith that once carried a nation felt thin now, strained by the weight of survival.

In the middle of this chaos, in a dusty, crowded part of Lagos, sat a young man named Kunle.

A call came through. He pressed the phone to his ear, and after a brief moment, laughter exploded from his chest.

"Are you for real? You want to buy the house?"

The words came out in disbelief—pure, raw joy flashing across his face. His smile was wide, untamed, like a spark of life bursting in a graveyard.

He didn't know.

He couldn't possibly know.

That in just a few months, everything he thought he understood about life… was about to change.