The first signals came quietly.
A journalist from a respected American paper requested an interview, under the guise of writing about "emerging African billionaires." Chinedu declined, politely. Days later, his assistants reported an unusual number of inquiries from U.S.-based think tanks, all wanting data on Imperial Holdings. The questions weren't about farming or oil—they were about China.
The Americans had noticed.
For months, Chinedu had been sourcing second-hand machinery from Chinese manufacturers, especially for Imperial Processing and Imperial Construction. The costs were low, the deliveries fast, and the Chinese were willing to look the other way on details others would haggle over. To him, it was purely strategic. But to Washington, it looked like another African mogul falling into Beijing's orbit.
Then the real probe began.
An invitation arrived through the U.S. consulate in Lagos. It wasn't official state business—not yet—but framed as a "private dialogue" with business representatives from the American Chamber of Commerce. The letter was warm, but beneath the tone was a clear signal: we see you, and we want to talk.
Chinedu read it twice before handing it to Tunde, who frowned.
"They want to pull you in. Too many deals with the Chinese and they'll tag you. America doesn't like to be second choice."
Chinedu leaned back in his chair, thoughtful. "And if I play their game, I risk losing the Chinese advantage. If I don't, I look like I've already chosen sides."
The dilemma was real. Imperial Holdings was still climbing, still fragile in some parts. Any misstep with superpowers could drag him into battles he wasn't ready for. Yet, ignoring the Americans wasn't an option.
Two weeks later, he agreed to meet.
The venue was a discreet hotel in Lagos, secured by both Nigerian and American security teams. Chinedu arrived with only one aide, dressed simply, his calm presence masking the calculations racing in his head.
Across the table sat a group of American businessmen, flanked by embassy staff. Their tone was friendly, but every word carried weight.
"Mr. Obasi," one of them began, "we admire what you're building. Imperial Holdings has the potential to change not just Nigeria, but the region. The U.S. wants to be part of that story."
They spoke of partnerships, of American technology for Imperial Processing, of access to capital markets in New York, of guarantees that no sanctions or regulatory walls would trip him up if he stayed aligned. It was all carrot, no stick—but the stick was obvious, unspoken, hovering in the air.
At one point, an embassy attaché leaned forward.
"We understand you've been sourcing machinery from China. That's fine, but America can give you better—newer, cleaner, and more reliable. You won't have to settle for used goods."
Chinedu didn't respond immediately. He sipped his water, letting the silence stretch. To him, the message was clear: America wasn't asking. They were probing—testing his loyalty, seeing how much he was willing to lean their way.
By the end of the meeting, nothing was signed, but offers had been placed on the table: easier access to U.S. loans, potential partnerships with American agribusiness firms, even a mention of "introductions in Washington" if he was interested.
As he left the hotel, Chinedu kept his face unreadable. But inside, he was turning over the implications.
China had given him speed, scale, and cheap entry. America was offering prestige, capital, and legitimacy on the world stage. Both wanted a piece of him. Both could help—or ruin—Imperial's future.
For the first time, Chinedu realized Imperial Holdings was no longer just a Nigerian story. His empire had grown so large, so fast, that the eyes of superpowers were now fixed on him.
And in that realization came a quiet fire.
If they wanted him, he would make them earn it.