07/09/2025
Billionaire Betrayals: Widow Pains, Blind Girl Gift, Revenge And Justice.
To Lagos, Chief Olumide Adebanjo was not just a wealthy man — he was an institution. His journey from poverty to power was the kind of story mothers told their children at night.
He was the kind of man whose generosity and kindness left ripples everywhere he went.
His Family Was His Pride.
But suffering has a way of finding even those most determined to keep it out.
The Last Goodbye
It happened on a Thursday morning.
The chief was preparing to travel to Abuja for a charity gala where he was to give the keynote speech. The three of them had breakfast together, laughing over stories from the newspapers.
“Ifunanya,” he said, leaning toward his daughter with a smile, “by tomorrow evening, I will be back — and I will bring your favorite groundnuts from Lokoja.”
Her eyes lit up. “From the man who gives extra when you tip him?”
He laughed. “That’s the one. Tell Mama to make space for it in the kitchen.”
His wife Adanma shook her head fondly. “Just remember to drive carefully. The roads are dangerous this season.”
He kissed her forehead. “I will return, my love.”
Those were the last words he ever said to her.
The Sky Wept Before the People Could
By midday, the rain came without warning. It poured violently, hitting the roads like angry fists. Somewhere along the Abuja expressway, a reckless truck swerved into the wrong lane. The driver of the lead car in Olumide’s convoy tried to avoid it, but the wet asphalt betrayed them.
The crash was brutal. The sound of twisting metal and shattering glass filled the air for seconds that felt like hours.
Back in Lagos, Adanma was knitting a scarf in the living room when the phone rang. The voice on the other end trembled:
“Madam… I don’t know how to tell you… Chief… Chief is gone.”
The scarf slid from her hands. The world around her faded. She sat frozen, staring at nothing, her breath caught in her throat.
The funeral was a sea of black cloth and red eyes. Politicians, businessmen, church leaders, and villagers came to pay their respects. The church was so full that people stood outside under umbrellas in the rain.
For some, the grief was genuine. For others, it was an opportunity — to be seen at the funeral of a great man, to whisper to the right people, to measure what might be left behind.
Among those who stood at the edge of the crowd were two men in dark agbadas: Femi and Kolade, Chief Olumide’s younger brothers.
They bowed their heads like mourners, but their eyes were sharp. They noticed the sleek cars parked in the compound. They noted the faces of the chief’s business partners. And somewhere in their hearts, grief was not the only thing growing.
A week after the burial, Adanma was in the sitting room, surrounded by unopened condolence letters, when Femi and Kolade arrived.
“Sister-in-law,” Femi began with a tone that was too smooth, “we have come to discuss the estate.”
Adanma looked up. “The estate?”
Kolade nodded. “You know our tradition — when a man dies, his property belongs to the family. It is our duty to manage it.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I am his family. So is Ifunanya. My husband built all this for us.”
“That is why we must protect it,” Femi said, forcing a smile. “You are a woman. Business is… complicated. Let us handle it for you.”
“I do not need your handling,” she replied coldly.
They exchanged a glance, then pulled out a folder of documents. They spoke of “company shares,” “board resolutions,” “trust agreements.” The words felt like a trap being laid in the middle of her own living room.
That night, after they left, Adanma couldn’t sleep. She stepped out to the corridor for air — and that was when she heard them in the compound, speaking in low tones to a friend.
“This woman will not be here long,” Femi said.
“Two weeks, and we will have the house,” Kolade added.
“And the companies?” the friend asked.
Kolade chuckled. “The board is already on our side. She knows nothing about running them. They will fall into our hands easily.”
From where she stood in the shadows, Adanma felt her stomach twist. These were her husband’s brothers. Men he had trusted. Men who had stood beside his coffin just days ago.
The very next day, strange things began to happen. Bank accounts were “under investigation.” Her husband’s personal assistant stopped taking her calls. At the construction company’s office, she was told she could not sign any documents without “family authorization.”
Servants who had once greeted her with respect began to avoid her eyes. A few even started whispering as she passed.
It was as if an invisible hand was reaching into her life, piece by piece, and taking everything away.
She sat on her bed that night, holding Ifunanya close. The child had been unusually quiet since the burial. Adanma stroked her hair and whispered, “We will be alright, my daughter. We will fight this.”
But deep inside, she knew a storm was coming — and she and her child were standing directly in its path.
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