this is an unedited work of art.
OBINNA
GETTING TO THE TOP IS child’s play. Staying there? It demands blood, surveillance, sacrifice, and the occasional burial of morals. In daddy’s opinion, power is held by instilling fear, not by exhibiting refinement. And life experiences have taught me that daddy is always right. If he has experienced these things, scaled through them, and become the man he is, why should I listen to poor, wretched inspirational speakers who have nothing to show for all their talk? I swear, I don’t know why daddy hasn’t written a book on godfatherism, working with people, or making money from nothing. I’m assuming he doesn’t want to take food from hungry writers posing as billionaires. Everyone understanding their lane is paramount to their success, another thing daddy will say.
I’m scrolling through offshore payment authorizations on my phone and waiting for updates, when a call buzzes through my other phone.
It’s a call I must pick.
“Uncle Obi!” My nephew’s voice explodes in my ear.
I exhale, softening at the sight of him in pjs. “Kamso, you should be in bed.”
He giggles, then his sister, Kodi, grabs the phone. “We miss you, Uncle Obi! Come over tomorrow!”
“I will,” I say, even though I haven’t had an unscheduled tomorrow in five years.
“Uncle Obi, I have a question for you.”
“Nooooo!” Kamso counters, demanding I come over ASAP.
They both begin fighting for the phone and who should speak next. Kodi claims she placed the call, so she’s right to ask her pressing question.
A quiet reprimand from Joy, their nanny, has them in order and Kodi goes ahead with her question.
Sigh.
Kodi wants to know if birds get tired.
Not a general inquiry about avian stamina. A specific, urgent question about whether, when birds fly, they ever just... get too tired. Stop. And fall out of the sky.
“Because Uncle Obi, the sky is very far.”
Man, what a long day. Getting up to stretch, I sit on my desk’s edge and take off my cufflinks. I might as well start winding down.
“The sky isn’t far.” I say.
“Huh?” Kamso cries.
“The sky is everywhere. You’re in the sky right now.”
Silence. Seven-year-old silence, which is different from adult silence. Adult silence means calculation. Seven-year-old silence means the universe is being restructured.
“I’m in the sskkkyyyy?”
“The sky starts at the ground and goes up forever. You’re at the bottom of it.”
More silence as she processes this. In the background, Kamso is making explosion sounds—meaning he’s either playing with action figures or trying to distract his sister.
“Kamso!” Joy’s voice, a patient but strained whisper, crackles through the speaker, eliciting a smile from me. She has earned her salary tonight. I’ll bet she’s been fielding questions about birds, colors and the nature of the sky for six hours straight.
“So birds never get tired?” Kodi asks.
“They rest. They find trees—they’re very good at finding places to rest.”
“What if there’s no trees?”
“Then they find… rooftops.”
“What if there’s nothing else?”
This child.
“Then they keep flying until there is. Because that’s what birds do. They keep going.”
“Uncle!” that’s Kamso’s breathless, urgent voice. “Did you know that sooome birds can sleep while they flyyyy?”
“Albatrosses. Yes.”
“Eiiiii?! How do you know that?”
“I know many things.” I scoff. “I’m your uncle.”
“You don’t know everything.”
“Name one thing I don’t know.”
I hear the gears turning. Nine years old, already trying to outsmart me. That trait comes from his father, my step-brother-in-law, who was quite upset about losing a ludo game.
“You don’t know...” Kamso says slowly, building suspense, “...what Kodi’s favorite color is.”
“Orange.”
“Whhhhat?! How did you—”
“It was purple last time. She changed it to orange after she saw the sunset over Grandpa’s compound. She told me.”
“Hmmph. She tells you everrrrything.”
“She trusts me. You should try it. Ngwanu, give the phone to Madam Joy and go to bed.”
Joy reclaims the phone. “Good evening, sir.”
I can hear her smile through the phone. Joy has been with my step-sister’s family for five years. She knows me. Knows that whenever the kids call their favorite uncle, he’ll pick or call back as soon as he can.
“Kodi is asking if you’re bringing pizza when you visit.”
“Tell her I’m bringing pizza so big it won’t fit through the door.”
Kodi screams in the background. Joy laughs. Kamso starts arguing about the physics of pizza-sized-doorways.
Smiling, I let the sound wash over me.
The smile disappears the moment Chuks appears in the doorway.
He doesn’t speak. His stiff shoulders, set jaw, and clasped hands says it all.
“Joy, I have to go.”
“Okay sir—take care, sir. I’ll put them to bed now.”
I hang up. The office goes quiet—just the hum of the air conditioning.
“She’s ready?” I ask.
“Yes, sir.”
I stand. Check my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window. Charcoal shirt, open collar, sleeves rolled to the forearm. Looking like a man about to have a casual dinner. Hmm.
To moisturize my lips, I run my tongue over them. “How long did it take?”
“Three days. She fought the approach—wouldn’t take meetings, wouldn’t return calls. Her colleague tried to broker a conversation; she refused. So we... escalated.”
“Hmm.”
Chuks’s face remains neutral. “She’s been told you want to discuss her investigation. That you’re willing to answer questions on the record.”
“She doesn’t believe it.”
“Because she’s a journalist.”
“Good thing you brought her here anyway.”
I offer a wry smile as I place my silver cufflinks—a gift from my mother, Hafsa—into the drawer. Every year on my birthday, she sends a new pair with a note: Obinnaya, dress like the man you’re becoming, not the boy you were.
“One moment.” I say, the softness from my earlier call evaporates like mist under sun. Flipping screens on my monitor, I watch the still image of the lady waiting for me.
With all the stress it took to get her here, this better be quick.
“Okay, let’s go.”
The holding room is three floors down, not a basement. Nothing so dramatic. A converted office space with no windows, soundproofing in the walls, and furniture chosen for function rather than comfort. One table. Two chairs. A single light overhead, warm but bright enough to see every detail.
I designed the room myself. It’s not for torture—I’m not my father, and I don’t employ those methods. It’s for… conversations. Conversations people don’t want to have until they have no other choice. A room I occasionally enter out of necessity.
She’s tall.
That’s the first thing I notice as I step in. Even seated, there’s a length to her—legs crossed at the ankle, spine straight, shoulders back. She’s in a blazer and slacks, professional clothes for what she probably thought would be a normal day. Her hands rest on the table in front of her, and I notice the cuffs.
Polished metal. Not cruel—I insist on that—but effective. Attached to a bolt in the table, allowing movement but preventing escape.
And the black silk blindfold I chose silk because compared it’s alternatives, it is soft and leaves no marks. A detail that’s important when the person you’re holding is a public figure who might, eventually, describe this experience on live television.
She doesn’t flinch when I walk in. Or turn toward the sound of my footsteps. She’s just sitting there. Waiting.
Like she has all the time in the world.
Chuks positions himself by the door while I take the chair across from her.
Up close, she’s different than I expected. I’ve seen her on screen—the special segments, the hard-hitting interviews, dismantling politicians and executives. On camera, she’s beautiful. Styled. Lit. Controlled.
Here, she’s different.
Her braids are pulled back tight. No makeup—or whatever she was wearing has been sweated off during the escalated persuasion. Her jaw is cutting, her cheekbones keener.
“Miss Nentawe.”
“Mr. Okwuluoka.”
Forget the fancy TV voice; this one’s got a Northern accent, likely Ngas, with the distinct Plateau cadence.
I push back from my seat and rise, the scrape of the chair soft against the floor. Crossing to her, I stop behind her, close enough to catch the subtle hitch in her breathing.
My fingers find the silk of the blindfold, tracing the knot at the back of her head. She goes still at my touch but doesn’t pull away.
The blindfold falls.
She blinks against the light, lashes fluttering as her eyes adjust, then lift. They find mine just as I settle back into my seat across from her.
Oh boy e… see eyes.
Gray-brown irises that should be warm brew a cold storm that contains anger, defiance, and reckless courage that makes people win Pulitzers, or get assassinated.
She’s an interesting pawn piece that’s making a storm in a teacup and needs to be reminded she’s irrelevant. An inconvenience that could be smashed like an annoying mosquito. It will do all of us good if she stuck to celebrity gossip or student activism articles.
“You’ve been difficult to reach,” I say.
She lifts her chin; lips curled in disdain. “So, you had your minions harass and kidnap me.” She leans forward slightly, the cuffs catching the light, then tuts. “This is not helping your case, Mr. Okwuluoka.”
Minions. I nearly laugh at the audacity. No one calls my security team minions. No one speaks to me like this when they’re cuffed to a table in a room I control.
“I invited you for a conversation. You declined.”
“I declined because I don’t negotiate with the subjects of my investigations. A principle you might consider adopting.”
“Investigation.” I spit the word. “You’ve been digging into PuntPlay’s licensing for weeks. Calling my office. Emailing my legal team. Requesting documents that aren’t public. You’ve talked to my competitors, my regulators, my former employees. You’ve built a file on me that’s probably thicker than my tax returns. Plus, don’t get me started on that unprofessional mini-documentary stunt where you bad-mouthed my family.”
Her expression doesn’t change, but recognition flickers in those storm-cloud eyes. Interest, maybe?
“I’m a journalist. That’s what journalists do.”
“Most journalists want headlines. That’s not what you’re gunning for. You want architecture.”
The flicker again. Brighter this time.
“You’ve been watching me.”
“You’ve been investigating me. Don’t act surprised that I returned the favor.”
She’s good. I knew she was good from the questions she was asking, but sitting across from her now, I can see the machinery. How she catalogs information in real time.
“If you want to answer my questions, there are simpler ways to arrange an interview.”
“I don’t want to answer your questions.”
“Then why am I here?”
I lean back. Cross one leg over the other. Take my time.
“You’re here because you’re becoming a problem. Your investigation is touching parts of my business that I’d prefer stayed untouched. Not because they’re illegal—they’re not—but because the narrative you’re building is... inconvenient.”
“The truth is often inconvenient.”
“The truth is complicated. The version you’re building is simpler. And simple one-sided stories are dangerous.”
She tilts her head. Studying me the way I’ve been studying her.
“You kidnapped me to complain about my framing?” She tugs at the cuffs, glaring at me.
“I invited you to discuss your perspective. The cuffs are a precaution.”
“You’re used to people being afraid of you,” she says.
“Reasonable. I’m used to people being reasonable.”
She scoffs. “Define reasonable.”
“Understanding that some stories aren’t worth telling. That some investigations lead nowhere good. That the man sitting across from you has the resources to make your life very uncomfortable if you continue down this path.”
The anger crystallizes. Her eyes go from cold storm to glacial. “Is that a threat, Mr. Okwuluoka?”
“It’s information. What you do with it is your choice.”
She holds my gaze.
I’ve had this conversation before. With regulators, competitors, politicians who thought they could touch my businesses and walk away clean. By this point in the conversation, they’re usually calculating the cost of resistance. Weighing their principles against their mortgages. Looking for exits that lets them keep their dignity.
This one’s not looking for an exit. She’s looking for an opening.
She eventually blinks.
“You know what I think, Mr. Okwuluoka?”
“Enlighten me.”
“I think you brought me here because you’re scared.”
Me. Scared?
“I think you’re scared because I’m asking questions nobody else is asking. Not the easy questions like is PuntPlay profitable? How much is Mr. Obinna Bernard Okwuluoka worth? Does the Odogwu play golf with politicians? The hard questions. The architecture questions, as you put it. Where the money comes from. Where it goes. What’s being built underneath the surface.”
She leans forward, the cuffs clinking against the table.
“And I think you’re scared because I’m not going to stop. Not because you threatened me. Not because you kidnapped me. Not because you have resources and connections and a father whose name opens doors.” Her voice drops. Hardens. “I’ve been investigating systems my entire career. Systems that exploit people. Systems that eat the vulnerable and call it business. You think I’m afraid of you? I’ve sat across from warlords and oil barons and men who make you look like a schoolboy playing dress-up.”
My jaw tightens. I can feel Chuks’s attention from the doorway—he knows this isn’t going the way I planned.
She’s not done.
“Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to uncuff me. You’re going to have your driver take me home. And I’m going to continue my investigation, because that’s what journalists do. And when I find what I’m looking for—and I will find it—I’m going to put it on national television, have it all over social media—the internet. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”
Sitting back, she folds her hands and locks eyes with me.
Crickets.
I should be angry. I should be recalculating, finding the angle, the leverage, the pressure point that will make her bend. That’s what I do. That’s what I’m good at.
Instead, I’m thinking about her height. The way she seemed to unfold when she sat back, like a praying mantis settling after a strike. She’s taller than I expected—the photos don’t capture it. In heels, she’d look down at me.
I’m thinking about her voice. The weight it carries.
I’m thinking about the way she said schoolboy playing dress-up.
I’m experiencing some sort of heat, annoyance, fascination. A pull toward her like gravity—
Abegi!
I crush the reaction before it finishes forming.
Everyone has a price.
That’s what I believe. That’s what I know. I’ve built an empire on it—understanding what people want, finding the gap between their principles and their needs, sliding into that gap until they give me what I’m after.
Look at this one looking at me like she doesn’t have a price.
Scoffing, I stand.
She tracks the movement but doesn’t tense, simply watching me with those storm-cloud eyes, like she has some street cred I should be aware of.
I walk around the table and stop behind her chair.
Her breathing stays steady; the rise and fall of her shoulders, controlled, even. She’s trained herself not to react. Trained herself to be still when stillness is the only weapon left.
I reach for the cuffs, pull the key from my pocket, and turn it in the lock. They fall open.
She doesn’t move immediately. When she does, she tests her wrists—rolling them, checking for damage.
Tsk. There won’t be any. I don’t leave marks.
Then she stands.
And stands.
And stands.
Barefeet—they took her heels when they brought her in—she’s almost my height.
She meets my gaze. “Why?” she asks.
“Why what?”
“Why let me go? You threatened me. Laid out all the consequences. Made your case. And now you’re releasing me.”
I consider lying. Consider giving her the strategic answer—that I’ve made my point, that the intimidation will work eventually, that I’m playing a longer game.
Instead, I tell her the truth. “Because you were right.”
She narrows her eyes. “About which part?”
“About me being scared.”
I’ve never said those words out loud. Not to Chuks, not to Jidenna, not to Tayo—shit—not to anyone who could use them against me.
But she already has all the weapons she needs. One more won’t make a difference.
“I’m not scared of you,” I clarify. “I’m scared of what you represent. Journalists who ask good questions. Who don’t take payments or make deals. Who look at an empire and see the cracks instead of the shine.” I pause. “There aren’t many of you left. However, I’ll suggest you look beyond PuntPlay, the regulations. There’s a lot you might find.”
She remains silent, observing me.
“Chuks will arrange your transportation home,” I say. “Your heels are in the car. Your phone has been returned to your bag—we didn’t access it, you can check. This is Midas Towers in VI—you’re not in some no man’s land. And Miss Nentawe?”
She’s already walking toward the door, but she pauses. Turns.
“I’ll be watching your work with interest.”
Although her expression doesn’t change, her posture slightly shifts. “I’m sure you will, Mr. Okwuluoka.”
She walks out.
I stand in the empty room, the cuffs still open on the table, the silk blindfold pooled on the floor like skin shed.
Everyone has a price.
I’ve believed that since I was fourteen years old, watching Uncle Ladi negotiate with governors, learning the math of power. It’s served me well. Helped me built multiple businesses from nothing.
But she looked at me like the equation doesn’t apply to her. Like she’s outside the system I’ve spent my life mastering.
And the worst part—the part I’m not ready to examine—is the way that made me feel. Not angry or threatened.
More like… interested.
Chuks appears in the doorway. “She’s in the car, sir. No incidents.”
“Good.”
“Do you want surveillance continued?”
Do I? The smart play is yes—keep watching, keep gathering leverage, find the price she doesn’t think she has.
“No. Pull the team.”
Chuks’s eyebrows rise fractionally. The closest he comes to expressing surprise.
“Sir?”
“She’ll come to me. Sooner or later.” I pick up the blindfold. Run the silk through my fingers. “And when she does, I want it to be her choice.”
Chuks nods.
I leave the holding room, picturing her in one of my cars, heading home sixteen floors down. I can bet she’s already planning her next step.
Schoolboy playing dress-up, huh?
My phone buzzes.
Message from Jidenna.
Did you feel it?
I stare at the words, thinking about cold-stormy eyes.
Me:
Yes.
44 chapters to go…
Ouuuu
I’m enjoying this
Why did he let her go ?? POV my brain already in blender mode
Release it Release it Release it!!!!!!! This is my 10th time reading this and I'm not going 🥺🥺😍😍😍 the tension between Rot and Obi😍😍😍🥺🥺