The governor's words from their last meeting echoed in Chinedu's mind like a restless drumbeat: "There are eyes on you, and not all of them are friendly."
He had built enough to know that power never moved in silence. The expressway project wasn't just a construction deal anymore—it was a statement. To turn Enugu into the state with the most modern roads in Africa was to stamp his name on the map of history. But ambition attracted vultures.
That night, in his Lagos apartment, Chinedu studied the threat message again. The simple words were typed with the coldness of a blade: "Walk away before you are buried in the asphalt." His instincts told him it wasn't an idle warning.
Still, he pressed on.
The next morning, Tunde returned from a closed-door meeting with two bank directors. "They're stalling," he reported grimly, loosening his tie. "They want stronger guarantees. They're afraid the project will collapse if the next governor cancels it."
Chinedu rubbed his temples. "They'll not stall for long."
Because fate had given him something else.
That afternoon, an email came from a discreet channel—forwarded by one of his foreign contacts he had met during an energy summit. The sender was identified only as the Abu Dhabi Investment Authority Liaison. Their words were careful but electrifying:
'We have reviewed Imperial Holdings' expressway proposal and its financing model. There is interest in co-investment. We are willing to enter exploratory talks for up to $200 million in syndicated support, should conditions prove favorable.'
Chinedu leaned back in his chair, heart pounding. This wasn't just capital. This was credibility. The UAE's sovereign wealth was a name no Nigerian bank could ignore.
That night, when he met the governor again, the man's expression brightened for the first time in weeks. "Do you know what this means?" the governor asked, tapping the email printout Chinedu had laid before him. "If the Emiratis show public interest, our local banks won't dare drag their feet. They'd rather crawl than be cut out of history."
Chinedu smiled faintly. "Then let's use their fear."
In the days that followed, whispers spread through Lagos's business corridors: foreign capital is circling Imperial Holdings. Bank executives who had once delayed his calls now reached out to "revisit discussions." The tide had shifted.
But shadows lingered.
Late one evening, as Chinedu stood at the balcony overlooking the neon glow of the city, his phone buzzed again. It was Tunde, his tone tight.
"We found something. The threat didn't come from the streets—it's political. A rival faction, maybe even someone eyeing the governor's seat. They don't want this project tied to you, because it strengthens him."
Chinedu exhaled slowly, eyes hardening as he stared into the Lagos night. The message was clear: he wasn't just negotiating roads. He was negotiating survival.
And yet, beneath the pressure, confidence surged. With Emirati interest behind him, he felt untouchable—for the first time since this project began.
"Let them come," he murmured. "We build anyway."