I Inherited Trillions, Now What?-Chapter 197: Race

Even years into the future—decades past the age of slavery, long after the dust of colonialism had supposedly settled—one topic remained capable of igniting a fire in the hearts of Black people worldwide. Whether they lived in the glass towers of Manhattan, the backstreets of Brixton, the hills of Accra, or the bustling streets of Lagos, the mere mention of colonization still struck a nerve.

And it wasn't without reason.

The history lingered. Like an open wound never fully healed, like a ghost that refused to fade. The photos were still there—black and white, grainy, but real—showing men and women with dark skin, eyes vacant or defiant, backs lashed open by whips, chained, auctioned, brutalized. Generations had tried to forget. But how could they, when even today, the echoes of the past had simply taken on new forms?

There were still people—mostly online, sometimes in real life—who wore racism like a badge of honor, who screamed from the depths of their ignorant lungs, "White makes right!" They were descendants of slave owners, colonizers, and warlords who had achieved nothing of their own, living off the borrowed glory of bloodstained legacies. These were people who'd never built anything in their lives, yet believed they were superior simply because their ancestors had conquered, enslaved, and stolen.

And then there were the subtle chains. Systemic racism. Economic gatekeeping. Neo-colonialism wrapped in billion-dollar trade deals and diplomatic handshakes. In Africa, western corporations continued to pillage, cloaking greed as investment. In the West, Black men and women still fought to be seen, still begged not for superiority—but equality. Just a fair shot.

So when news broke that a white man—an American no less—had come to Nigeria not just to visit, but to buy, to acquire, to own… it set the nation ablaze.

And not just any man.

Alexander Blackwell.

The name rang like a thunderclap.

In America, he had been the ghost in every boardroom, the trillionaire no one could pin down, the man with black eyes and a blacker soul. He was the head of Blackwell Investments, the richest man alive, an economic god to some and a corporate devil to others. He had been born in New York, raised in private mansions, educated by the best, and hated by even more.

He was also wanted by the New York State Police Department.

Yes. Wanted.

There were court cases, secret investigations, billion-dollar legal battles. They said he had fled the United States like a shadow disappearing at dawn. They said he'd renounced his citizenship and sought refuge in Saudi Arabia, where money could buy silence and power could build empires.

To the average Nigerian, this man was a myth.

To the informed Nigerian, he was a threat.

And now, Alexander Blackwell had set his sights on Lekki.

Lekki was more than just a place. It was a dream. A strip of coastline once sleepy, now glittering with glass towers, exotic cars, rooftop bars, and beachfront mansions. It was the Nigerian Riviera, the epicenter of wealth and aspiration. In a country still scarred by poverty and inequality, Lekki was where hope lived.

And now, it was being bought.

Bought. By a foreigner.

Reports trickled in first—whispers in real estate offices, murmurs on social media, then a loud shout across headlines. Alexander Blackwell had quietly acquired hectares of Lekki land. Not just one property. Blocks. Streets. Waterfronts. Whole districts.

The paperwork had been legal.

But the message was violent.

He was buying, developing, and displacing. Long-term residents received notices to vacate. Old families who had lived there for decades were told the land had changed hands. Bulldozers arrived. Generators roared. Skyscraper foundations were laid.

And the people? They were given silence.

It didn't matter how clean the contracts were. It didn't matter that the politicians smiled for the cameras and called it "foreign investment."

To Nigerians, it felt like colonization all over again.

A white man had come into their land, taken it with money, and thrown out the very people who had made it what it was. All without a gunshot.

Alexander Blackwell was trending on every platform. Twitter. Instagram. TikTok. The news.

"WHO IS ALEXANDER BLACKWELL?"

That question was followed by a thousand more.

And the answers came quickly.

"He's the richest man in the world."

"He owns Blackwell Investments. Google it."

"He's the son of Cassius Blackwell, the unhappy one."

"He's wanted in America, you didn't hear?"

"He had to flee to Saudi Arabia! He's not even American anymore!"

"He's dangerous."

"He's brilliant."

"He's… white."

Within days, every Nigerian knew who he was. From the crowded buses of Oshodi to the tea shops in Kano. From Port Harcourt to Enugu. Across tribes, across religions, across language barriers, a rare unity was formed.

Yoruba. Igbo. Hausa. Efik. Tiv. Ijaw. Over 100 ethnic groups. Christians. Muslims. Atheists. Men. Women. Children.

And they all said the same thing:

"GET THIS WHITE MAN OUT OF THE COUNTRY!"

It wasn't xenophobia. It was memory. History. Instinct.

They had seen this play before. Their grandparents had lived through it. Their parents had warned them. Colonizers never came with guns first. They came with charm. Then money. Then laws.

By the time the people realized what had happened, their homes were gone. Their names were changed. Their gods were forgotten.

But this was a new era. And this time? They were ready.

In the markets, old women shook their heads. "We've seen this before," they muttered.

University students protested in front of the Ministry of Housing, holding signs that read: "Our Land, Our Right!"

Muslim clerics and Christian bishops alike denounced the act during sermons.

"This is modern-day colonization!" one fiery pastor screamed to a packed church in Abuja. "He comes with money, but he brings chains!"

Online, the hashtags exploded:

#BlackwellOut #LekkiIsOurs #SayNoToNeoColonialism #NeoColonialismEndsNow#SayNoToBlackwell #NigeriaForNigerians

Protesters clashed with security forces outside new construction sites. Drone footage captured people lying on the roads to block bulldozers. Celebrities weighed in. Influencers made videos. Everyone had an opinion.

And still, Alexander Blackwell did not say a word.

Because Alexander Blackwell didn't deal in emotions.

He dealt in inevitabilities.

Alexander Blackwell believed in systems. He believed in structure. He believed in division. He had long said that unity was an illusion—an aesthetic layer painted over centuries of division. That if you peeled back the skin of any nation, any people, any movement, what you found underneath was a battlefield of differences, stitched together by power, necessity, or lies.

And he'd built a career, an empire, off those differences. He weaponized them. Not through guns or tanks, but through something far more surgical—doubt. In the markets, in the media, in governments, in boardrooms. His philosophy was elegant in its cruelty: people will always choose someone who looks like them before someone who thinks like them.

He didn't invent that idea—he just perfected it.

And now, as his plan unfurled in the heart of Nigeria, it should've been simple: divide them, pit the poor against the rich, stir old tribal tensions, elevate a few, punish the rest. The classic colonial playbook dressed in a three-piece suit and leather gloves.

But had he gone wrong. Spectacularly wrong.

Alexander had spoken often about the nature of division. He said it was the most ancient tool of man. Older than language. Older than war. "A species at odds with itself is a species easy to rule," he would muse in his Oxford drawl, sipping from a glass of organic juice that cost more than most earned in a month. "The trick is to make the division feel organic. Natural. Like it was their idea."

And to a degree, he was right. History bore him out. Kingdoms had crumbled not because enemies at the gate were too strong, but because the hearts within were too divided. Cousins hated cousins more than they feared conquest. Brothers warred for thrones while foreign armies watched, amused, then swept in to claim the pieces.

The Romans, mighty in their legions, fell because the Senate rotted. The Persians, proud and cultured, were undone by palace intrigue. The Ottomans, vast in power, eroded from the inside long before European powers drew their maps. Even in the mythos of fantasy, the lesson echoed loud—House Targaryen, born of dragons and fire, did not collapse under rebellion alone. It fell when the blood of the dragon turned against itself. Mad kings. Bitter heirs. Sisters and brothers, driven by pride, paranoia, and lust for control. In the end, it was not the usurpers who broke the house—but the house that broke itself.

But for all his strategic genius, had Alexander forgotten one thing.

Had He forgotten the most powerful, most dangerous form of division was not ideology, not territory, not even money.

It wasn't nationalism, where America argued with Britain.It wasn't sports, where fans screamed their allegiance until hoarse.It wasn't even politics, where sons disowned fathers and daughters fled homes.

It was color.

Race.

Not the kind debated in textbooks or filed in census records, but the deep, primal reaction embedded in the animal brain. Before politics, before religion, before empires—there was skin. Hue. Shade.

"I'm white. Why are you black?""I'm yellow. Why are both of you different from me?"

It had always been there. In the stares of strangers. In the tightening of hands around purses. In the way accents changed when a white man entered a room. Race wasn't invented. It was observed.

Even animals reacted this way. In the wild, birds of the same feather literally flocked together. Wolves fought off those not from their pack. Monkeys raised in uniform environments still showed preference to others with similar fur tone. Nature rewarded the familiar. It wasn't racism—it was survival.

Humans, for all their claims of intelligence, were no different.

We don't trust what we don't recognize. And nothing is more recognizable than a face that looks like yours. The curve of the nose. The shade of the eye. The texture of the hair.

Philosophers had debated this for centuries. Were white racists evil by choice, or were they simply obeying ancient instincts of distrust toward the unfamiliar? Was the European's conquest of Africa a moral failure—or just evolution's cruel law: the fittest survive, and survival requires suspicion?

What is racism, if not fear wrapped in superiority?

But here was the irony—division, though it splinters societies, also creates

Unity.

Not among everyone. But among those on the same side of the fracture.

Division is the devil's hammer, but it forges fellowship.

That's why rivalries sell. In sports, in politics, in art. Derby matches between teams from the same city draw more blood than international tournaments. Why? Because division isn't about difference—it's about belonging. You don't cheer for your team because they're better. You cheer because they're yours.

You can have more in common with the guy in the other jersey, but the badge on your chest says: He is the enemy.

Division sells because it simplifies. It draws a line in the sand and says, choose a side. In a world of chaos, we crave that certainty. That's why it's marketed. That's why it's weaponized.

And that's why Alexander's plan might have failed before he even executed it.

Because Nigeria did not respond like he thought it would.

The division he tried to sow had already been eclipsed by another, older one.

Black and white.

He came expecting resistance. But had he underestimated who would resist him—and why.

He thought he could set the poor against the rich. That he could make the masses forget who their real enemies were. After all, their politicians had stolen from them for decades. Their leaders had sold their futures for cars, for property in Dubai, for school fees abroad. The elite had crushed them slowly, so slowly, they didn't even notice they were being stepped on.

And yet, when Alexander struck—when he upturned the music industry, when he ruined reputations, when he silenced voices chasing their rich from the land it wasn't the poor who cheered.

It was the poor who rose.

Not for justice. Not for truth. But for pride.

Because Alexander forgot something essential: Nigeria's poor may hate their leaders, but they hate foreign control even more.

Suddenly, it didn't matter who their favorite artist was. It didn't matter who made good music or bad music. It didn't matter who drove a Rolls Royce or who walked barefoot.

It only mattered that Alexander was white.

And they were not.

The old colonial wound reopened. Not the physical kind—those scars had faded. But the psychological one. The memory. Of being called savages. Of being drawn in caricatures. Of being told their gods were demons, their skin was dirty, their minds inferior.

Alexander, with all his charm, had stepped into that memory like a landmine.

Now, the fight wasn't about money. Or corruption. Or fame.

It was about dignity.

It was about identity.

It was about race.

And in that instant, 200 million people stopped being divided by tribe, by class, by party.

They united.

Not because they loved one another. But because they now had a common enemy.

Him.

Alexander Blackwell. The outsider. The intruder. The white man who thought he could play God in a black man's land.

And it was in that unity that Alexander's grand philosophy began to devour itself. The snake eating its own tail.

He had always said: division breeds control.

But he forgot the corollary.

Oppression breeds unity.

Even among strangers. Even among enemies.

Because when the fire comes, people don't ask which tribe you're from. They ask: are you burning too?

And right now, the streets of Lagos, Abuja, Port Harcourt—they were all burning.

Not in flames. But in feeling. In fury.

It wasn't about politics anymore. It wasn't about who dropped an album or who got blacklisted. It wasn't about who was right or who was wrong. It wasn't about who sold out the biggest stadium.

It was about color.

And so, from every state, from every voice, from every background, the whisper turned into a chorus. A single phrase repeated, online, offline, shouted in pidgin and English and Igbo and Hausa:

"This no be about music again."

"This na about us."

"E don reach."

And in that moment, Alexander wasn't facing divided Nigeria.

He was facing a monolith. A continent's largest nation turned into a single fist.

200 million blacks versus 1 white.

And that was the end of the game.