The Middle East had been a playground.
But home—home was a different beast.
After years orchestrating chaos from Tel Aviv, Pharm Dr. Michael Ogunlade had returned to Nigeria. Not as a mere station chief, not even as the regional head of the Middle East Division. No, this time, he came back as the newly appointed Deputy Director of the Imperial Intelligence Service—and the new Head of Covert Operations Worldwide.
He was second only to the Director-General, the Minister of Defence, and the President himself.
But soon, even they would learn that second was just a number.
Michael now commanded the black arteries of global espionage—from Karachi to Cairo, Berlin to Brasília. But with the world's attention fractured, he turned his gaze back to Africa. Because while toppling regimes in Damascus and sinking naval convoys in the Red Sea had been thrilling, not having eyes on your own backyard was dangerous.
And Abuja was a jungle all its own.
His first order of business: he handed over the Middle East to a trusted successor—Aisha Yusuf, the brilliant but brutal veiled operative who had turned Syria into a graveyard of jihadists. She would run Tel Aviv now, and Cairo, and Doha. Michael had built the machine—now it would run itself.
His focus? Total domination of Africa.
The deals struck in Almaty, the promises whispered to the Chinese and Russians, the energy pacts and military corridors—they were coming due. Nigeria would be the giant no one could ignore, not just by GDP or oil, but by shadow—by fear.
And to do that, Michael needed to deal with a more petty enemy: local politics.
He had no tolerance for it.
The corruption, the tribal calculations, the performative nationalism—it all reeked of small men with small dreams. But now, those men would bend.
Journalists began to vanish.
Not all—just the loud ones. The ones who poked at the IIS with ink-stained fingers. A newspaper editor known for "patriotic dissent" was found outside Ilorin, face rearranged by a car tire. His replacement published pro-government headlines the next day.
Senators received unmarked packages.
Some found videos of their wives with lovers. Others saw footage of themselves—drunk, begging, or indulging their darkest appetites. Michael didn't even need to ask them for anything. Their obedience arrived pre-packaged, sealed in fear.
Governors discovered that their security details had been reassigned.
Their personal aides now worked for the IIS. Their private chats leaked. Their mistresses warned. Their bank accounts "flagged" by unknown third parties. Soon they were calling Abuja, humbling themselves before the throne of the invisible empire.
Michael didn't shout.
He didn't need parades or declarations.
He simply choked the air out of dissent, until even the most powerful in the land whispered his name only in fear—or awe.
Nigeria wasn't just back on top of Africa.
Nigeria would own Africa.
Kenya's elections? Rigged—by IIS-linked tech firms.
South African protests? Drowned in cash funneled to loyalist police commanders.
ECOWAS? Now a toothless husk chaired by Nigerian puppets.
Even foreign diplomats knew better. The French ambassador began his meetings in Abuja by asking, "What does the IIS require?" Not the President. The IIS. Meaning: Michael.
And the people?
They didn't see him. They saw the effects: fuel scarcity ended. Borders tightened. Armed groups disappeared in the night. Crime reduced. Food flowing again.
But always with whispers—the price of order is silence.
Because the devil was home.
And the fires he lit in the Middle East?
That was just rehearsal.
Africa was next.