Uzo walked back to the Youth Centre the next morning with his shoulders straight and his mind alert. He had slept with the booklet open beside him, pages full of confusion and questions. But somehow, it had not crushed him. It had done something else. It had woken something inside him.
He was not here to impress anyone. He was not here to pretend he knew everything. He was here to build something real. If it would take time, then he would give it time. If it would take patience, he would carry that too. What mattered now was that he showed up.
Adaeze was already waiting for him when he arrived. She stood outside the gate with her arms crossed, watching people pass. She looked like someone who had been disappointed before and did not want it to happen again.
"You are early," she said.
"So are you," Uzo replied.
They walked inside and sat under a small tree beside the Centre's side office. She brought out her own copy of the booklet and placed it on the bench between them.
"You want to fix this project?" she asked.
"I want to understand what broke it first," Uzo said.
She nodded slowly, the corner of her mouth lifting just a little.
"The last team talked too much," she said. "They made plans without talking to the people. They assumed they knew what the youth needed. They never asked."
Uzo opened a blank page in his notebook and wrote her words down.
"Start by asking," he repeated.
She leaned back. "And be ready to hear answers you do not like."
He wrote that down too.
They sat in silence for a few minutes. It was not awkward. It was the kind of silence that allows thinking.
After a while, Adaeze spoke again.
"Do you know what I think?"
He looked up.
"You do not look like a leader. But you act like one."
He blinked. "What does that mean?"
"It means you listen before you speak. You do not pretend to know everything. That is rare."
He closed his notebook and looked ahead.
"I do not know everything," he said.
"But you showed up anyway," she said.
They both nodded.
That was enough for today.
Over the next two days, Uzo spent his mornings reviewing the old files and his afternoons walking through the surrounding neighborhoods. He visited local mechanics, hairdressers, welders, tailors, and street vendors. He asked them questions.
What do young people need most here?
Why do you think the last project failed?
If someone actually listened, what would you say?
Some were surprised by his quiet approach. They expected a speech. He gave them space instead.
Others tested him with sarcasm or silence. But he remained steady. He wrote everything down.
He noticed something quickly.
Most of the young people had already given up on anything with the word "initiative" or "program." They had seen too many come and go. They had been promised many things. Few had been delivered.
They were not angry. They were tired.
But there was a hunger underneath the tiredness. A hope that was still breathing somewhere under the dust.
If someone was patient enough, that hope could rise again.
By Friday, Uzo had filled half his notebook. He had spoken to nearly forty people. His feet were sore, and his head was full. But for the first time in a long while, he felt like he was doing something that mattered.
He walked back to the Centre just before sunset and sat outside on the concrete step. The wind was cool and soft, brushing his face gently like a quiet reminder that he was not alone.
He opened his notebook one more time and stared at the words on the first page.
Start with what is broken.
That was the beginning.
He turned to a new page and wrote something fresh.
The real work is listening. The real strength is staying.
Then he circled the words three times.
That night, he returned home late.
Mama Nnenna was sitting outside with her slippers off, resting her feet on a low stool. A small bowl of roasted plantain sat beside her. She looked up as he walked in, but she did not ask questions. She simply shifted the stool beside her and waited.
He sat next to her and said nothing for a while.
Then he finally spoke.
"I think this might work."
She nodded slowly.
"Good. That means you are no longer thinking about yourself. You are thinking about the people."
He looked at her. "Is that what makes a leader?"
"No," she said. "But it is how one begins."
They sat in the evening light, side by side, both quiet, both full of something deep and unspoken. The city continued to move around them. Motorcycles zoomed past. Children laughed in the distance. Radios buzzed in other compounds.
But in their corner of the world, there was peace.
Uzo took a deep breath and smiled.
Whatever came next, he would face it.
One step at a time.