Uzo stood for a long time, staring at the brown envelope.
The hum of the printer had stopped, and the shop had gone quiet, but inside him, a hundred voices were talking at once. His eyes kept returning to the envelope like it might open itself and explain the mistake. Because it had to be a mistake.
Nobody recommended people like him. He had never led anything. He had never even spoken in public except once in church when they called him to read the announcements and his hands shook so badly he could barely turn the page. He was not the kind of man people chose. He was the kind of man people passed over.
He picked up the envelope and held it like it was made of glass. The name on the front was clear: Uzochukwu Nnadi. There was no mistake.
For the rest of the day, he said little. When customers came, he smiled politely. When Pascal barked orders from the back, he nodded. But his mind was not in the shop. It was trapped in that envelope.
By evening, as the city began to wind down and vendors shouted last-minute deals, Uzo slipped the envelope into his backpack and walked the long road home.
The streets of Owerri were full of life as always. Buses screeched, children chased each other through small compounds, and the air was thick with jollof rice smoke from roadside pots. But inside Uzo, there was a silence so loud it drowned everything else
He reached the house just before dark.
It was a small building with peeling paint and two rooms, one of which he shared with his aunt. The compound was filled with plantain trees and rusted buckets. His aunt, Mama Nnenna, was outside, washing cassava with the radio playing highlife music in the background.
"You are late today," she said without looking up.
Uzo mumbled something about work being busy and went inside.
He sat on the bed for a long time before finally opening the envelope.
Inside was a printed letter with the official stamp of the Owerri Youth Development Network. The words were clear. He had been nominated to serve as interim project coordinator for the Eziama Youth Initiative recovery phase. The letter explained that due to recent challenges, the program needed new leadership. Fresh eyes. Someone grounded in the community.
They expected a plan. They expected a leader.
Uzo dropped the letter on the bed and buried his face in his hands.
That night, he barely ate. His aunt noticed.
"What is worrying you?" she asked. "Did something happen at the shop?"
He shook his head. "No. Nothing bad."
She raised an eyebrow. "You are sitting like someone who just found out they have been chosen to fight in a war."
He looked up sharply.
"What?"
She shrugged. "That is the look you have."
He laughed nervously, but it faded fast. Because that was exactly how it felt. Like a battle he had no training for.
Mama Nnenna moved closer. Her eyes were kind, but serious. "Talk to me, Uzo. What happened?"
He told her. Slowly. From the beginning. About the man who walked into the shop. About the recommendation. About the letter. About the strange feeling that someone had chosen him for something he did not ask for.
When he finished, she was quiet for a while.
Then she said something he would never forget.
"Sometimes, courage comes dressed as responsibility. It does not shout. It simply arrives and waits for you to say yes."
He looked at her, confused. "But I do not even know where to start. I have no experience."
She smiled gently. "Neither did most people who changed things."
That night, Uzo lay awake for hours.
The letter sat on the floor beside his mattress. His aunt's words echoed again and again in his mind.
Sometimes, courage comes dressed as responsibility.
The words felt too heavy for him.
He turned on his side, but the thoughts followed him.
What if he said yes and failed?
What if the program collapsed and everyone blamed him?
What if they realized he was not strong, not clever, not even confident?
But another question crept in, quiet but steady.
What if they were right?
What if there really was something inside him no one had seen yet, including himself?
He closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, he would decide.