The deal had been struck, but Chinedu knew that words without action would be meaningless. Villagers had seen oil companies arrive with fanfare before, only to leave destruction in their wake. He refused to be counted among them.
So Imperial's first phase was not a rig or a drill, but a clean-up.
Chinese second-hand machines, refurbished and shipped discreetly through Port Harcourt, arrived in convoys. Boats fitted with skimmers patrolled the oily creeks, while young men in overalls hauled blackened soil into containment pits. The air of skepticism lingered, but each day that passed chipped at the wall of mistrust.
Chinedu was there often, not as an overseer from afar but as a man who rolled his sleeves and walked the mud. He listened to the fishermen, their voices thick with both anger and hope, and made sure their nets were among the first replaced. He sat with the women who had lost trade at the markets and gave them contracts to supply meals for Imperial's clean-up crews.
Imperial's emblem — a rising sun over strong roots — began appearing on water tanks, replacement nets, and the boots of workers. It was more than branding; it was proof that Imperial was present, accountable, and willing to invest first before taking.
By the second month, the difference was visible. Oil sheen on the river's surface had receded in some stretches. Children played by the bank again. Skepticism turned to murmured praise, and even the most hardened youth, who once glared with folded arms, now worked long hours under Imperial's payroll.
But Chinedu didn't stop there. He expanded the clean-up efforts beyond the first village, reaching neighboring communities that had long been ignored. It was strategic — trust built in one village could quickly unravel if another felt abandoned.
As Imperial engineers began scouting for drilling platforms, the real work of Imperial Upstream began taking shape. The company was no longer just a concept. It was visible — in the creeks, in the clinics under construction, in the laughter of villagers who had been given dignity again.
Tunde visited often, impressed but pragmatic. "Nedu, this is good, very good. But it costs. Expansion means heavier capital. You've bought goodwill, but to drill, you'll need more — rigs, licenses, partners."
Chinedu nodded. He had expected it. "The money will come. For now, we prove that Imperial is not like the others. When the wells start flowing, we'll have not just oil, but loyalty. And loyalty," he said quietly, "cannot be bought at auction."
That night, as the village celebrated the opening of the new clinic with song and drums, Chinedu stood apart, watching the firelight flicker across smiling faces. This was the beginning of Imperial Upstream — not as a faceless corporation, but as a promise made visible.
But beyond the riverbanks, news of his approach was spreading fast. Rival companies, politicians with interests in the oil blocks, even militants who profited from chaos — they were all starting to whisper the same question:
Who is this man building an empire in their backyard?