In the early light of Abuja, the Presidential Situation Room pulsed with tension.
Holographic maps of the Sahel shimmered above the conference table, littered with threat markers and intel tags. Generals, ministers, and intelligence chiefs sat in near silence as Michael's voice filtered through the encrypted video feed from Islamabad.
"The funding lifelines to AQIM have been disrupted," he said calmly. "Secondary arms corridors through the Gulf are collapsing. Within thirty days, their operational tempo will drop by forty percent."
Defense Minister Musa leaned forward. "And what of Boko Haram's new backers in N'Djamena?"
"Gone," Michael replied. "Their bank accounts in Beirut were seized through a shell firm in Geneva. The Chadian intermediaries have been... neutralized."
The President nodded slowly, his face impassive. "What do you need from us?"
"Recognition," Michael said, eyes hard through the screen. "And clearance to form an elite cross-border operations unit. Silent, deniable, and entirely under IIS command."
A beat of silence passed. Then:
"Approved," the President said.
Just like that, Nigeria took a step into the shadows—where empires move without being seen.
Three days later, in Accra, Ghana, the African Union Defense Summit was underway.
Flags fluttered, cameras flashed, and dignitaries applauded speeches about continental unity. But beneath the pageantry, something far more consequential was unfolding.
Michael—present as the IIS liaison for transnational threat assessments—sat across from the Ghanaian Defense Minister and whispered promises that carried the weight of war.
"You want intelligence on the ivory routes funding separatists in the north," Michael said. "We can give you that. But we'll need your cooperation at the Lome ports. Cargo manifests. Immunity for our inspectors."
The minister hesitated. "You're expanding your influence fast."
Michael smiled. "We're stabilizing the region."
Behind him, a delegate from the U.S. State Department observed with quiet concern. Nigeria wasn't just rising—it was becoming unpredictable.
Back in Abuja, the shifts were already showing.
Multinational firms were rerouting supply chains through Port Harcourt instead of Dakar. A sudden influx of Saudi and Indian diplomats flooded Nigerian ministries, offering trade deals with hidden clauses. At the ECOWAS headquarters, whispered rumors circulated of Nigeria planning a permanent task force for "security containment" across the Sahel.
General Ikenna, head of Nigerian Cyber Command, leaned against the balcony outside the Ministry of Defense, watching rain sweep over the capital.
"You realize what he's doing," he muttered to Musa Aliyu beside him.
"Yes," Musa said.
"He's turning Nigeria into a shadow superpower."
"Yes," Musa repeated. "And no one can stop him now."
That evening, Michael's jet touched down at Nnamdi Azikiwe International Airport. There was no motorcade. No photographers.
Just a single black vehicle waiting by the tarmac.
Inside, Emeka Kalu waited.
"You've lit fires across three continents," Emeka said as Michael stepped in. "Now the world's watching."
Michael closed the door, eyes unreadable. "Then let them watch."
"We've never had this kind of leverage before."
Michael looked out the window, where the skyline of Abuja flickered with potential.
"We're not asking to be respected anymore," he said. "We're forcing the world to reckon with us."
The car rolled into the city like a quiet storm. Nigeria wasn't rising.
Nigeria had already risen.