It was election season in Nigeria.
The cities buzzed with billboards and jingles, televised debates filled the airwaves, and the streets churned with rallies, promises, and the calculated chaos that came with choosing a new leader. But in the quiet corridors of Abuja's deep state, the outcome was never in doubt. Not to those who mattered. Not to Michael Ogunlade.
The president's tenure had come to an end. His health had deteriorated, his grip on power loosened, and his legacy uncertain. But where others saw a vacuum, Michael saw an opportunity—a pivot point.
The man poised to take over was no stranger to the corridors of power. He was the sitting Minister of Defence, a battle-hardened strategist who had risen through the military with ruthless efficiency. He had overseen counterterrorism operations, managed secret arms deals, and maintained delicate relationships with foreign powers. Most importantly, he was Michael's ally.
In the shadows, the Imperial Intelligence Service had grown far beyond its original mandate. Fueled by Michael's exploits in Asia and the Middle East, the IIS now operated with a confidence and autonomy previously unheard of. Its agents didn't just gather intelligence; they influenced policy, controlled narratives, and silenced dissent. The once modest agency had become the spear tip of Nigeria's unspoken imperial ambition.
Michael, still officially the Chief of Station for South Asia, had spent the election season not at home, but coordinating from afar—calling in favours, arranging strategic leaks, sabotaging rival campaigns, and ensuring the political machine moved only in one direction. The defence minister's campaign was bolstered by unseen hands. Opponents were quietly discredited, their scandals "discovered" at just the right moment. Mysterious technical failures shut down polling in hostile regions. Key military officers ensured loyalty where votes failed. And the IIS? They played kingmaker.
When the results came in, the Minister of Defence had won in a landslide.
The country celebrated a "new era," unaware that the real celebration was being held behind closed doors in a darkened command centre hundreds of miles from the capital. For the first time, Nigeria's top three positions were held by men bound to Michael—not by friendship, but by history, secrets, and a common vision.
The new President, the former Minister of Defence, owed his throne to Michael's web. The new Minister of Defence was a former head of Nigeria's elite Cyber Command—a man who'd coordinated with Michael during early digital intelligence operations. And the new head of the IIS? None other than the quiet, calculating naval intelligence officer who had first recruited Michael straight out of Lagos, years ago. A mentor turned partner.
Together, they formed an invisible triumvirate, and Michael was at the centre of its gravity.
He didn't need a public title. His influence wasn't in headlines or cabinet seats. It was in operations no one could talk about. Regime changes. Strategic assassinations. Silent trade deals. Covert alliances and invisible wars. Nigeria's foreign policy was no longer reactive; it was calculated, surgical, and relentless.
The world would not see a giant rising. It would feel one.
In embassies across Africa and the Middle East, new whispers emerged. Nigeria's reach was expanding. Its hands were in conflicts far from home. Its enemies were falling silent. And in every whisper, in every backchannel, one name kept surfacing—never confirmed, never spoken too loudly.
Michael Ogunlade.
The man behind the curtain. The architect of Nigeria's growing shadow empire. A weapon unto himself—and now, with the entire intelligence apparatus shaped by his will, he had never been more dangerous.
And this was only the beginning.