Great! Here's Chapter 1: The Currency of Control of The Price of Gold. Word count target: 1500+ words, wri
"Money doesn't just speak. It commands."
The hospital waiting room stank of bleach and hopelessness. Ceiling fans creaked like tired lungs, circulating heat instead of air. Jude Ikenna sat in silence, legs too short to touch the ground, shoes worn to the bone. He was eleven years old, watching the life drain out of his father from behind a glass door he wasn't allowed to enter.
His mother, Florence, stood pleading at the reception desk, voice cracking like old porcelain.
"Please, nurse… He needs oxygen! We can pay you later, I swear! I just need someone to help us!"
The nurse didn't even look up. "Madam, no deposit, no treatment. Hospital policy."
"But he's dying!"
"And I'm not the doctor."
The woman turned away like it was nothing. Florence collapsed into a chair, clutching Jude close as if her tears could buy time.
Jude didn't cry. He didn't scream. He just stared at the blood-stained hospital sheet where his father once lay breathing. Minutes later, they wheeled the body out, covered head to toe. No sirens. No code blue. Just silence.
That day, Jude learned a lesson schools would never teach: money doesn't care who's right. It only listens to who can pay.
By the time he was sixteen, Jude had buried both parents, dropped out of school, and joined Lagos's invisible economy: betting joints, online trading forums, and later—crypto laundering.
He wasn't a thief.
He was a student of the system.
Jude understood what made the world tick—and it wasn't love, justice, or God.
It was currency.
Even prayer requests came with "seed offerings" now.
One afternoon, deep inside the backroom of a dusty phone shop in Ojota, Jude leaned over a laptop, his fingers flying across the keyboard. His eyes glinted with sharp intent, monitoring Bitcoin prices, manipulating fake transactions, and pushing tokens through ghost wallets.
"Another one," his partner, Dayo, said, tossing Jude a phone.
"Who?" Jude asked.
"Some politician's errand boy. Transferred 3 million for 'consulting.' Wants it cleaned."
Jude grinned.
"Make sure he gets his 'receipt.' Same fake invoice format."
He paused and glanced out the barred window at the crowded street outside.
Children hawking sachet water under the sun. A beggar with one leg hopping between moving buses. Preachers shouting with cracked microphones, promising financial breakthrough in exchange for offering.
Everyone wants money.
But no one asks what it costs to get it—or keep it.
Meanwhile, across the city, Tonia Wale stood in her air-conditioned studio, rehearsing a headline for her evening broadcast.
"BREAKING: Tech Prodigy Jude Ikenna Allegedly Linked to Cybercrime Syndicate Targeting Political Funds…"
She looked at the teleprompter, then at her reflection. Perfect makeup. Strong tone. Controlled eyes.
"Cut," she said.
The cameraman frowned. "Something wrong, ma?"
She hesitated. Something in her chest tightened. Not guilt—regret, maybe.
But regrets don't pay salaries.
"Nothing," she replied. "Run it again."
As the red light blinked and she smiled for the nation, she knew the truth: her empire ran on scandal and drama—sold to the highest bidder. Jude was useful today. Tomorrow, someone else.
Her headlines didn't need to be true. They just needed to trend.
And in her world, truth cost more than most people could afford.
Far from the spotlight, Dr. Kelvin Dairo sat in a packed lecture hall at the University of Abuja, facing students whose eyes flickered between boredom and barely concealed hunger.
He tapped the whiteboard with his marker.
"Class, what is money?"
A girl in front raised her hand. "Sir, it's a medium of exchange."
"Good. But incomplete." He turned to the room. "What else?"
"A store of value," someone added.
"Wrong," Kelvin said sharply. "Money is no longer a store of value. It is a store of power. And power," he paused, "is never neutral."
He clicked to the next slide:
"The Illusion of Freedom: How Modern Economies Buy Your Will."
Kelvin had spent fifteen years studying how wealth reshaped societies—not just financially, but morally, politically, even spiritually.
"Money doesn't just buy things," he continued. "It buys decisions. Allegiances. Silence. Votes. Even love. And once you're owned by it, you forget how to think freely."
A student scoffed in the back. "So, what—should we all be broke?"
Kelvin smiled sadly. "No. But we must stop pretending that money is just a tool. It's become our god. And most of us don't even realize we're worshipping it."
That night, while the city slept under flickering lights and generator hums, Jude sat alone in a luxury apartment paid for by invisible money. He stared at the ceiling, thinking about the hospital again.
The sounds. The smell.
He didn't hate the nurse anymore.
He didn't even hate the system.
He had become it.
He reached for his phone and scrolled through bank alerts like bedtime stories.
₦4.5M credited.
₦1.8M credited.
₦200K debit—delivery for designer shoes.
Still, sleep didn't come.