I Inherited Trillions, Now What?-Chapter 196: News II

"Bro, pass me the canna."

The unmistakable voice of Burna Boy sliced through the haze of smoke and low trap beats vibrating in the background. Dressed in a pair of dark shades, a vintage Fela Kuti tee, and silk Versace pants that shimmered in the purple-tinted LED lighting of his Lekki mansion, Burna lounged on a leather sectional. His phone was propped up on a gold-plated tripod, the screen showing he was live on Instagram, with over 143,000 viewers already locked in.

A joint was lazily passed to him by a friend slouched nearby. The camera caught glimpses of red cups, a few girls dancing in the background, laughter echoing in and out of frame. The scene was a mix of unfiltered superstar chaos and curated rebellion. One of his boys was humming a beat, another playing with a French bulldog wearing a diamond-studded collar.

Burna took a deep drag and exhaled slowly, letting the smoke roll from his nose like a ritual.

"What's going on, my people?" he began, his voice gravelly but calm. "You know I don't usually come online to talk carelessly. But today, I'm upset. I'm really hurt."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The comments were flying too fast to read, but emojis, flames, and "Tell us!" messages flooded the screen. He took another drag, looked at the phone, and chuckled.

"Please don't be angry if I go off and on a bit. You know when you're upset and high, everything gets jumbled. But let me tell you the real issue."

He stood up suddenly, revealing the size of the room. The ceiling stretched like a cathedral's, chandeliers glittered above, the floors were black marble, and the walls were decorated with platinum plaques. He turned the camera around to face the expansive lounge, giving viewers a brief, dizzying tour.

"Do you see this place? Are you seeing it? This house you're looking at—I bought it for five hundred and sixty million naira. 560 MILLION! It wasn't a gift, I wasn't squatting. I paid cash!"

His voice rose as he gestured around. Another friend shouted in the background, "Tell them, Odogwu!" followed by laughter.

"Yesterday, they dropped an eviction notice at my gate. Can you imagine?! Saying I should vacate. That the land title isn't legitimate. That the person who sold it to me had no rights."

One of his boys jumped in from the side, mouth full of food, "Wait! You're telling me you bought a mansion with an invalid title?"

Burna threw a cushion at him playfully. "Guy, shut up, it's a scam! I have documents. They're right here."

He returned to the phone, pulling up a manila envelope, dramatically removing several official-looking papers. He flashed them quickly to the camera.

"Original documents. This is the Ministry of Lands seal. Everything is intact. All the papers are here. Do you see the receipt? Do you see the lawyer's signature? What's all this nonsense now?"

He took a moment to sip from a red cup, shaking his head.

"Since they dropped that letter, we've called everyone—agent, lawyer, property manager. Guess what? All their numbers just keep ringing, some don't even connect. All of them have disappeared like magicians."

He puffed smoke into the air, visibly more frustrated.

"What is really wrong with this country? We complain about government corruption, but we are the government. We can't even handle land matters cleanly. Scams everywhere. A person can't even trust official documents anymore."

A girl's laughter echoed off-camera. One of his boys was playing FIFA on the large flat screen and yelling at the TV. Another friend, in designer shorts and a bucket hat, joined Burna in frame, holding his own joint.

"Don't worry, bro," the friend said, "we're not going anywhere."

Burna nodded, raising his hand for a fist bump. "We're not going ANYWHERE."

The boys around echoed: "NOWHERE!"

More laughter. More smoke.

"Me and my boys—we're solid!" Burna shouted, throwing his hands up. "We're standing strong! Who's going to move us?!"

He spun the camera to show the front door.

"Anyone who tries to come in here is looking for trouble. They'll meet Odogwu face to face."

He walked back, sat again, and this time his tone dropped into something darker, more serious.

"But let me speak the truth… it's nonsense. This country... it's broken. You spend your hard-earned money, and you get scammed. Nobody regulates anything. Everyone's hustling everyone. You call the Ministry, they say 'we're looking into it.' Looking into what?! Are you mad?!"

He slapped the table. The sound echoed.

"Are you mad?! You're telling me to pack out of my house?! The house I paid 560 million for?! Are you crazy?!"

He stood again, his energy rising. ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm

"The governor needs to address this. You're sitting in office smiling for the camera while people are being scammed left and right. I'm Burna Boy, that's why you're hearing me. What about the regular guy who used all his savings to buy land? Are you insane?!"

He paced the room now, his voice sharp, eyes behind his shades flashing.

"This thing will go viral. I'll take it everywhere. CNN will hear. BBC will hear. Even Al Jazeera will report it. Because enough is enough!"

He turned back to the phone.

"They better not be offended, but I'm not going anywhere. Not today, not tomorrow. This house—it's my sweat. My pain. My blood. And I will defend it."

His friends started chanting again: "NOWHERE! NOWHERE!"

He sat, breath heavy, but not done.

"So, governor, whoever you are—you better come and address this. Because this nonsense will not fly. Keep playing, keep testing people. You think just because we have money, we have no sense?"

He reached for the joint again, lit it, and inhaled deeply. Then he exhaled, leaned back, and cracked a smile.

"But anyway… that's it. That's my rant."

His voice softened.

"To everyone going through this kind of nonsense—you're not alone. We're in this together. If we don't fight, who will fight for us?"

He leaned into the camera.

"Tag the governor. Tag the Ministry. Tag everybody. Because today, we start this fight."

He gave a quick peace sign, letting the camera linger on his annoyed but defiant face.

"Odogwu has spoken."

Then he ended the live.

And that's how the general public caught wind of the whole situation. Not through an official statement or a government press release, but through the raw, unfiltered Instagram Live of one of the most recognizable faces in the country: Burna Boy.

By the time the stream ended, it had racked up millions of views. The comments section had exploded. On Twitter, the hashtags were everywhere: #JusticeForBurna, #LekkiEvictions, #NaijaLandScam, #BurnaNoGoAnywhere.

Burna's passionate outburst had lit a match, and it set the internet ablaze.

Within minutes, the whole thing had overtaken Nigeria's digital landscape. Every social feed, every WhatsApp group, every street corner conversation was buzzing about it. People began shouting online and offline, some ready to stand behind the Afrobeat superstar. Fans flooded his comments section with messages of support. Some even offered to come to the house and physically block anyone who tried to evict him.

"Drop location, Burna. Make we scatter there," one fan wrote.

"Dem wan evict African Giant? We die there!" another tweeted.

But of course, not everyone was on Burna's side.

His haters — especially fans of Davido and Wizkid, the other giants of the Afrobeat scene — began mocking him. Some laughed that he got scammed, comparing his 560 million naira home to the palatial mansions of their own favorites.

"Imagine spending 560m on land and dem still dey pursue you. Our GOAT no dey move like that," a Davido fan tweeted.

But underneath the jokes and the stan wars, something else was brewing.

Some people began sharing their own stories. Stories of being sold fake land. Stories of agents vanishing after payment. Stories of "omo oniles" — land touts — extorting them. What started as celebrity drama had triggered something deeper: a national conversation about land fraud, corruption, and broken systems.

Yet, the biggest shock was still to come.

As journalists began to dig deeper into the story, they weren't just looking for who scammed Burna Boy. They were investigating the roots of the eviction letter, the authenticity of the documents, and whether this was an isolated incident.

What they uncovered sent shockwaves across the country.

It wasn't just Burna.

The mansion Burna had shown off on IG Live? It was located in a massive estate that, as it turned out, had received mass eviction notices. And it didn't stop there.

Neighboring areas had been hit too.

Landmark Beach — one of the most iconic beach destinations in Nigeria, known for concerts, festivals, weddings, and Sunday vibes — had also received eviction notices.

Even more shocking: Governor Makinde himself, the sitting governor of Lagos State, who reportedly owned a property within the estate, had received a letter.

And it didn't end there. Mega Chicken Headquarters — a beloved Nigerian fast food franchise — was right next to the estate. So was Shoprite, the massive South African retail chain. Both were affected. Letters. Evictions.

Nobody was safe.

Journalists, editors, and news directors were stunned. It felt like they had stepped into a political thriller. They kept digging, calling estate managers, registry officials, even court clerks. What they discovered wasn't just shocking. It was terrifying.

Everyone. Was. Being. Chased.

Burna Boy, Landmark Beach, Governor Makinde, Mega Chicken — Evicted From Home

That was the headline that exploded across the country.

It ran on TV, in newspapers, on every major blog. Social media accounts began sharing clips of Burna's Live, now paired with eerie footage of bulldozers moving through parts of the estate, homes being abandoned, people packing their things.

Memes followed, but so did fear. If the Governor wasn't safe, who was?

And then, just when the nation thought it couldn't get crazier, a small online media channel based in Ajah dropped a story that blew the roof off.

BREAKING: WHITE MAN BUYS ACRES OF LEKKI LAND, CHASES NIGERIANS OUT

That headline was all it took.

The article was raw. It wasn't polished journalism, but it didn't need to be. It struck a nerve. It talked about a foreign investor — unnamed but allegedly powerful — who had been quietly buying up land in Lekki and surrounding areas under shell companies and legal loopholes.

People couldn't believe it.

But they also could.

Because in Nigeria, it's often the unbelievable that turns out to be true.

Soon, all eyes turned to a name mentioned just once in that article: Alexander Blackwell.

Who was he? Why was his name on so many land acquisition documents? How did he manage to sign off evictions on government property, celebrity homes, and major commercial sites?

What no one knew yet — what hadn't been fully uncovered — was that Alexander Blackwell was more than just another foreign investor.

He was running a simulation.

A global power experiment.

You see, Alexander had once had a plan for America. He had studied the country's infrastructure, its land laws, its digital reach. But after being kicked out by U.S. authorities for unsavoury planning and activities, he needed a new stage.

He found it in Nigeria. Another reason he had picked Nigeria

Why Nigeria?

Because it was young. a very nice similarity to the states

Over 80% of Nigeria's population was under 35. Teens. Young adults. The restless generation. The generation that danced to Burna Boy, that tweeted in Pidgin and slang, that lived online. The same generation that could erupt, revolt, and rebuild a nation — or burn it to the ground.

Alexander saw Nigeria not just as an opportunity. He saw it as a prototype. A testing ground.

If he could manipulate systems here — the land registry, the courts, the banks, even the influencers and especially the public — then maybe, just maybe, he could scale it up elsewhere maybe he would have a much safer way of achieving his goals back home.

The digital youth had now heard the story.

And they weren't happy.

Influencers began to post.

TikTokers stitched Burna's rant into reaction videos.

Activists launched threads on X (formerly Twitter) tracing the names of the shell companies linked to the foreigner.

One girl, a 19-year-old YouTuber from Surulere, filmed herself at Landmark Beach, crying as she said, "This is where I had my birthday. They want to take it."

Something had changed.

The revolution wouldn't come in the form of a protest, at least not yet. But something was bubbling.

People were waking up.

They were no longer asking, "Who sold fake land to Burna?"

They were now asking, "Who sold Nigeria?"

And that question — once asked — can never be unanswered.