The ink on the airline purchase wasn't even dry when Chinedu realized the next step wasn't to chase another acquisition—it was to tie his empire together. Imperial Holdings had grown like a wildfire, leaping from farms to transport, from oil to retail, and now into aviation. But the fire needed a hearth, a center that gave it direction.
The decision came during a quiet morning at Imperial Farms. Ireti had brought him updated yield figures; the new processing arm was already cutting wastage by nearly half. Tunde called minutes later, reporting promising projections for the oil and retail arms. The machinery was moving, but Chinedu knew it could be faster—if it had one place to converge.
He called an emergency meeting with his inner circle: Ireti, Tunde, Temilade, and two trusted managers.
"I'm planting our headquarters here," Chinedu declared, pointing to a map of his home state. "The farms started here, the brand was born here, and the people will see that we're here to stay."
There was a pause, then Ireti smiled. "It will make the governor very happy."
Happy was an understatement. By that evening, the governor had summoned him to the state house. They spoke over kola nuts and tea, and the deal was simple: the state would provide the land, tax incentives, and infrastructure support, while Imperial Holdings would commit to housing its primary HQ there and employ at least 500 locals in the first year. It wasn't charity—it was political currency.
"I'll give you more than roads and power," the governor said with a knowing smile. "I'll make sure no one dares touch you here."
They both understood the unspoken agreement—Chinedu's growth would bolster the governor's reelection campaign, and the governor's influence would shield Imperial Holdings in rough waters.
The media caught wind within hours. Newspapers blared headlines like "Homegrown Billionaire Puts Roots in Home Soil" and "Imperial Holdings to Employ Hundreds Locally". TV pundits debated his net worth, estimating everything from ₦50 billion to ₦200 billion, while online gossip churned out wild stories—some claiming he had oil blocks in secret, others saying foreign investors were backing his every move.
Temilade was already handling the legal groundwork. "We'll structure Imperial Holdings properly," she told him over stacks of documents. "Every subsidiary will report here. But… you might want a Lagos presence too. That's where the big money circles are."
Chinedu nodded. "Mini-HQ in Lagos, later. For now, this is home."
In the weeks that followed, recruitment began for senior executives. Some were Nigerians returning from top positions abroad; others were seasoned managers from within Imperial's own ranks. Not everyone welcomed the change—whispers of resentment floated from older staff who feared being pushed aside by "outsiders with foreign accents."
Chinedu handled it with calculated charm, assuring the old guard of their importance while quietly bringing in new talent to modernize operations. Ireti kept the farm division steady, ensuring that the company's agricultural roots stayed healthy even as the branches grew.
From the new HQ site—still a skeletal construction of steel and glass—Chinedu looked over the fields that had started it all. The sun was setting, casting long shadows over the land. He could almost see the supply chain in his mind: from orchard to warehouse, from processing plant to retail store, from the state capital to Lagos… and soon, beyond the borders of Nigeria.
Imperial Holdings was no longer just a business. It was becoming the beating heart of an empire.