The world had changed.
But nowhere had the change been more brutal, more absolute, than within Nigeria.
Under the shadows of state dinners and development summits, a silent purge was underway. And at its center stood one man—Pharm Dr. Michael Ogunlade, now officially Director of the Imperial Intelligence Service, Lord of the shadows, devil incarnate, master of the blade that sliced quietly in the night.
His first directive as Director was neither whispered nor signed.
It was simply understood.
Nigeria would be ruled.
Not debated. Not negotiated. Ruled.
And rule began with fear.
A senator from the opposition, known for fiery speeches and inciting the public against the President, woke up one morning to news no father should ever hear. His daughter—his most beloved—was found dead in her hotel room, overdosed on cocaine and fentanyl. The toxicology report was leaked before he could grieve. He tried to scream injustice, but was met with silence. Whispers of her secret lifestyle became gossip on the streets. Within weeks, he was a broken man, irrelevant.
A popular newspaper editor, famous for his "crusade against tyranny," discovered his funding cut overnight. His backers—oil tycoons, foreign NGOs, local businessmen—suddenly vanished. Threats, audits, family pressure. Within days, his newsroom emptied. No paper would hire him. No TV would feature him. He was a ghost.
Religious clerics, local kings, and traditional leaders who dared speak against the government began to fall ill. Mysterious diseases. Food poisoning. Strokes in their sleep. One by one, they were replaced—not by elections or consensus—but by men hand-picked by the Office of Traditional Affairs, now quietly controlled by the IIS.
Even the military wasn't spared.
Generals who padded budgets but failed to deliver results found themselves forcefully retired. Within months, many were discovered hanging in their compounds. Suicides, the official statements claimed. The truth? No one dared ask.
In just under one year, Nigeria's ruling class was remade:
The House of Reps and Senate: Rubber stamps.
The governors: Obedient, quiet, grateful.
Ministers: On edge, desperate to prove their loyalty.
Civil servants: Diligent, robotic, terrified.
And the streets?
Michael turned the bandit crisis into a national horror movie. Captured bandits were hanged publicly, their corpses left by major highways, a warning in flesh and bone. Kidnapping syndicates were infiltrated, their families quietly relocated, and their leaders executed in forest ambushes. Crime rates plummeted. People praised the results.
But the message was clear: Safety comes with silence.
In Abuja, the President now spoke softly in meetings. The Minister of Defence deferred almost everything to Michael. They knew. Everyone knew. He had a plan. They just needed to get out of the way.
To cement the new order, the former Director of the IIS, Michael's old mentor, was appointed Minister of Foreign Affairs. A graceful exit. An honorable promotion. A public bow.
And then the announcement came:
Dr. Michael Ogunlade, Director-General, Imperial Intelligence Service.
The world shuddered.
Because the devil was no longer just operating in shadows.
He was now the system itself.
Africa trembled. Kenya. Ghana. Côte d'Ivoire. Mali. Their ambassadors quietly reported back: Nigeria had become a leviathan. Any resistance? Dismantled. Any competition? Bought or buried.
China and Russia came calling.
They wanted oil. Lithium. Rare earths. Military bases.
Michael smiled. "We deal on my terms," he said.
The West?
Cut off. Bleeding influence. Watching from afar as their media flailed and their diplomats were ignored. Their embassies flooded with requests for visas from Nigerians eager to flee the stability of fear.
But Michael wasn't running a country.
He was building an empire—from the shadows.
One murder, one secret, one shattered soul at a time.