I Inherited Trillions, Now What?

To prevent Africa from becoming a superpower, you wouldn't have to invent a new strategy. The blueprint has already been written, tested, and perfected over centuries. You'd start by making sure Africa never unites.

The easiest way to do that is by keeping people divided along ethnic, tribal, and religious lines. If they ever start working together, remind them of past grievances. Stoke old wounds. Fund separatist movements. Keep border disputes unresolved. Make sure every time they take one step forward, they take two steps back because they're too busy fighting each other.

You'd install leaders who serve foreign interests, not their people. Find the most corrupt, the most easily manipulated, the ones who crave wealth and status more than progress. Offer them power in exchange for loyalty. If a leader rises who actually cares about Africa, get rid of them. Assassinate them if necessary, but if that's too messy, just destabilize their government and back a coup. If they talk about nationalizing resources, make an example out of them. If they try to unite Africa, take them out before the idea spreads.

You'd keep Africa economically weak by making sure it never industrializes. Let them export raw materials but never process them themselves. Control the mines, the oil fields, the rare earth minerals. Keep them selling cheap and buying expensive. If a country tries to break free and build its own industries, sabotage it. Place sanctions, destabilize its currency, fund local opposition, crash its economy. If that doesn't work, orchestrate a civil war.

People can't build when they're too busy trying to survive. You'd make sure their education system produces workers, not innovators. Teach them history that glorifies their oppressors. Make them think their cultures are primitive, their ancestors were savages, their future depends on foreign approval. Train them to memorize, not to think critically. Keep their best and brightest looking overseas for opportunities. Make them dream of escaping Africa rather than fixing it. Offer scholarships that take their top mines to the west and never encourage them to return. Let the continent keep training doctors and engineers only for them to go enrich other nations.

You'd control their narratives. Own their media, control their stories, dictate their image to the world. Make them believe they are corrupt, hopeless, eternally in crisis. Flood their screens with poverty porn and war zones. Show them charity ads that make them believe they are helpless without foreign aid. Downplay their successes. Twist their victories into isolated incidents. If an African country develops a groundbreaking innovation, credit a foreign investor. If an African leader implements a successful policy, frame it as an anomaly rather than proof of competence.

You'd make sure they remain dependent. Drown them in debt. Offer loans with impossible conditions. Force them to privatize everything so foreign corporations own their water, their electricity, their land. When they struggle, give them just enough aid to keep them alive, but never enough to make themselves sufficient. Use charities to create a culture of reliance rather than resilience. Make them think foreign intervention is necessary. That they can't solve their own problems. That they always need help from the outside. You'd suppress their military strength. Keep their armies weak, their defense industries non-existent. Sell them weapons to fight each other, but never let them develop high-tech military technology. If a country tries to build a strong defense system, accuse them of being a threat to stability. Make sure they always need foreign peacekeepers, foreign military bases, foreign advisors controlling their security. Keep them vulnerable to invasion, coups, and foreign interference.

The formula is simple. Divide, corrupt, exploit, miseducate, control. Keep them fighting each other. Keep them looking outside for solutions. Keep them poor, dependent, insecure. Make sure every attempt to break free is met with resistance so strong that the next generation thinks twice before trying again. This isn't a theory. It's history.

Cassius Blackwell-Speech at The Council of Thirteen meeting

It had been nearly three decades since Cassius Blackwell delivered his infamous address at the Decade Meeting—a speech that echoed across continents and unsettled governments. Titled Africa: A Ground for Evolution, it was less a call for cooperation and more a blueprint for dominance. To this day, that speech was studied, memorized, and whispered in elite rooms by—those who shared his cold brilliance and lacked any sentiment for flags or frontiers. and was now being practiced those who bore his blood.

In the back of the darkened room, Bola Ahmed Tinubu sat like a silent relic, cloaked in layers of western suit that draped across his frail frame. At eighty-something years old, time had carved his face into sharp valleys and creases, but his eyes remained alert, cold, and calculating. They didn't waver as the foreigner spoke from the platform above.

Alexander Blackwell.

Tall. Composed. American. Richer than ten countries combined. And unapologetically foreign.

Tinubu had been briefed, thoroughly, about the real reason Alexander had bought up so much federal land—land that supposedly wasn't for sale. He knew the official story was a facade: a "privatized town," a self-sustaining futuristic haven. But Tinubu wasn't fooled. That wasn't the real plan.

The truth was darker.

Alexander wasn't here to build. He was here to test.

To turn Nigerian citizens—his people—into subjects of a sick, orchestrated social experiment. Guinea pigs in a game designed not just to push limits, but to crush them.

His people.

His country.

His land.

All reduced to pawns on someone else's board.

He should have been furious. He should have walked out of the room, declared war on the deal, and taken back the land. He should have, but he didn't.

Because Tinubu didn't care.

Not really.

National power, collective strength, patriotic duty—those were toys for the naive. What mattered to Tinubu was personal. Personal strength. Personal legacy. Personal influence. And this white man—the devil with a well-tailored suit and eyes colder than winter and darker than the Night—was a vessel for that. A tool.

If sacrificing his own people meant he got to hold onto power a little longer, so be it. If he had to allow Nigerians to be played like puppets for the amusement of outsiders, then let the strings be pulled.

"Makinde has finished speaking," Tinubu said, voice aged but sharp, turning slightly toward the men behind him. "With the governor's endorsement out in the open, we can begin." He leaned back, his voice heavy with the weight of power grown old and unapologetic. "As for the land, we'll start clearing them out. You can call in your team and begin work on the town."

He spoke as if he were discussing tiles being removed from a building. As if families wouldn't be torn from their homes. As if he wasn't about to erase entire lives.

Sebastian, standing stiffly behind Alexander, turned to face the old man. The tension in the air was palpable.

"You're not... afraid?" Sebastian asked, the question slipping from his lips more like a whisper than a challenge. "You'll be blamed. You'll be dragged through the mud—your own people will see you as the villain."

Tinubu turned slowly, the flicker of disdain dancing in his tired eyes. Then he chuckled—a low, gravelly sound that echoed in the hollow of the room.

"Boy," Tinubu said, "a superficial man fears curses and praises alike. But both are nothing more than wind—blown from the mouths of bystanders."

He shifted in his seat and continued, voice growing stronger as if delivering scripture:

"Living by the opinions of others is for the pitiful. They are nothing but pawns—restrained like dogs on leashes, begging for approval while calling it morality. But morality is a leash designed by the powerful to control the foolish. And I am not a fool."

Sebastian stood still, unsure whether to speak again.

Tinubu raised a wrinkled hand and pointed it at the floor as if to drive his words into the very earth beneath them.

"The world shackles you with illusions: honor, duty, public service. But those who want to surpass their limits must break free of these restraints. Most never do. They wear their chains like medals. They call them guidance. And they live and die never having tasted true power."

There was silence when he finished.

Cold. Still. Uncomfortable.

Alexander didn't speak immediately. Instead, he studied Tinubu with rare interest. The old man's words hadn't merely impressed him—they'd mirrored something he rarely found in others. Something disturbingly familiar.

It took him back to a psychological evaluation he had undergone as a boy. An exam arranged by one of the most renowned global mental health institutions. His mother, concerned by his inability to feel empathy and his obsession with control, had insisted on it.

The results had been... unsettling. He was brilliant. Gifted. Dangerous. They told her he saw life as an engine of systems, of levers to be pulled, not a tapestry of emotions to be respected. They said only one other profile had ever come close to his: his late father's.

Until now.

Because sitting before him was an old man who thought in the same twisted architecture of power. Tinubu was not his equal—no one was—but he was close enough to make this moment worth remembering.

Alexander did something he rarely ever did.

He smiled.

Just slightly. Just once.

"Well then, Mr. President," he said, folding his hands neatly on his lap. "Since we're aligned in more ways than one… how about we expand this partnership?"

He leaned in, voice smooth like velvet and sharp like a dagger.

"Shall we talk about your country's oil?"

And just like that, the deal deepened