Twenty years had passed since the world burned.
Cities that once dictated global policy were now monuments of silence, their governments long buried beneath rubble and surrender. Washington was no longer a command post of Western might — it was a museum. London had become a cultural relic. Brussels, a footnote. The old world had ended, and a new one reigned.
And at the heart of it all stood Nigeria.
Not just a regional power, not just a symbol — the hegemon. The center of gravity for global economics, intelligence, and influence. From Lagos to Nairobi, from Tripoli to Johannesburg, Nigeria held every string, pulled every lever. The map had been redrawn with Abuja as its spine.
At the summit in Geneva — the New World Conference — world leaders stood, not to negotiate, but to listen.
China and Russia, his quiet partners, were rewarded with open markets, natural resource access, and security alliances. They were powers — but they knew who had broken the West and enslaved a continent. They stood beside him, but never ahead of him.
The United States? A shattered shell of its former self. Europe? A divided, bleeding peninsula. Israel's radical factions crushed, and the last surviving generals either in exile or under Nigerian custody. Iran? Purged, its proxies burned. The Arab world? Pacified, partitioned, and subservient.
Michael Ogunlade had no need to raise his voice. His silence commanded attention.
When he announced his retirement at the close of the summit, the world was stunned. No speeches, no farewell tours. Just a single statement:
"The work is done."
He declined all titles. No crown, no presidency. He had been the director, the shadow, the master of puppets. Now he would be the ghost behind the throne, the quiet force every world leader feared — and sought approval from.
Nigeria's president, its minister of defense, its entire National Assembly — all answered to his legacy. Every election across the continent was an echo of his will. In private, they called him "The Architect."
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Twenty Years Later – The French Riviera
The waves rolled gently beneath a superyacht the size of a destroyer. Its hull gleamed with obsidian-black steel, the Nigerian eagle emblazoned on the side in gold. It was the most secure vessel afloat — built with anti-ship defenses, satellite shielding, and enough armory to hold off a fleet. But today, it bore no weapons.
Only pleasure.
Michael lay stretched across a reclined lounge chair on the upper deck, sunglasses resting lazily over his eyes. A silk robe wrapped around his aging but powerful frame, while two stunning women massaged his shoulders and legs, their laughter drowned by soft jazz playing from hidden speakers.
His skin bore the stories of war, of empire, of sacrifice. But his eyes — calm, detached — gazed at the endless horizon.
A drone hovered briefly overhead, dropping off a tray of rare Cuban cigars and a bottle of 80-year-old whiskey. He barely acknowledged it.
He had everything: wealth, peace, power, and the world's silent respect.
From time to time, heads of state came to visit — African presidents, European chancellors, Asian premiers — all seeking counsel, blessings, or forgiveness. He received them when he felt like it. Most times, he didn't.
As the sun dipped toward the sea, painting the sky gold and red, Michael sipped his whiskey and finally let himself ask a question that had never quite faded:
"What if I'd just become an average pharmacist?"
No answer came. Only the sound of laughter, waves, and the quiet hum of a world at peace.
But deep down, he knew — the pharmacist would've healed a few.
Michael Ogunlade rebuilt the world.
And now, he would enjoy it.
The End.