When the Americans thought they were probing him, Chinedu was already thinking several moves ahead.
The meeting at the Lagos hotel had ended without commitments, but his mind refused to rest. The U.S. wanted to test his loyalty, to see if he leaned toward Beijing. Instead of rejecting or submitting, Chinedu saw an opening—a chance to turn the probe into a partnership that could vault Imperial Holdings into an entirely new dimension.
That night, pacing his Lagos home, he drafted the outline of an idea that had been simmering in the back of his mind: Imperial Communications.
Nigeria's telecoms sector was strong but strained—patchy coverage, overloaded systems, expensive data. What if he could leapfrog the bottlenecks? What if Imperial launched its own communications satellite, with American technology and launch support, to cover Nigeria and later all of West Africa?
It would do more than just carry data. It would plant Imperial Holdings in the heart of the future economy: internet, broadcasting, secure corporate networks. It would also anchor the next frontier of his entertainment push.
The next morning, he called Tunde.
"They want to test if I'm worth keeping close," Chinedu said, his voice calm but urgent. "So we give them something irresistible. A project that legitimizes their stake, secures my base, and gives me room to grow."
"What do you have in mind?" Tunde asked, wary but curious.
"A satellite. Imperial Communications. It will connect our farms, our malls, our oil stations, even Imperial Real Estate. But more importantly—" his eyes gleamed, "—it will carry Imperial Entertainment across Nigeria, across Africa. Imperial Cinemas. A legitimate platform for American studios, music labels, and networks. We'll make Lagos their gateway, and they'll make sure I succeed."
Tunde blinked, stunned. "That's… massive. Do you know what this means? You're not just playing Nigerian politics anymore—you're entering global infrastructure."
Chinedu only smiled. "Exactly."
The proposal he sent to the American Chamber was bold, almost audacious. Imperial Holdings would invest heavily in Imperial Communications, but the U.S. would provide the satellite design, launch services, and long-term technical support. In exchange, American entertainment giants would receive priority slots in Imperial Cinemas, a new nationwide chain of theaters he planned to seed across major Nigerian cities.
For Washington, it was perfect. They gained a foothold in Nigeria's media and tech space, limiting China's growing influence. For Hollywood, it was a new frontier, an untapped market with millions of young consumers hungry for films and concerts.
For Chinedu, it was leverage. The satellite gave Imperial an independent backbone for all its operations. The cinemas legitimized his expansion into entertainment while creating goodwill with the Americans. And most importantly, it gave him bargaining chips—technology, capital, and prestige—that neither China nor the U.S. could take lightly.
Weeks later, when the deal-in-principle was signed, the Nigerian press exploded. "Imperial to Launch First Private Communications Satellite in West Africa." "Imperial Holdings Partners with U.S. Firms on Entertainment Push."
The governor of Enugu called him personally, congratulating him, already imagining campaign posters with Imperial roads, schools, and now satellites behind him. The universities buzzed, students whispering that Obasi was no longer just a businessman—he was becoming something more, a symbol of a rising Nigeria.
But alone in his study, Chinedu was calm.
The Americans thought they had tied him in. The Chinese assumed he would keep coming back. Neither saw the truth.
He was no one's pawn.
He was building an empire that would outlast them all.