The city of Owerri woke up before the sun. By the time the first streaks of light hit the rooftops of Egbu Road and Wetheral, people were already outside setting up fruit stands, washing their verandas, shouting over fuel prices, and negotiating pepper prices like survival depended on it. And for most people here, it did.
In a small corner shop off Relief Market road, Uzochukwu sat alone. He was trimming the edge of flyers that would probably be ignored by everyone who passed. He had done this same thing for over five years; print jobs, lamination, occasional typing, quiet work. Steady work.
He liked that no one expected him to be bold. No one asked him to lead. People walked past him like he was part of the furniture. That was the safest place to be.
The hum of the small desktop printer filled the space as sunlight slipped through the window behind him. He sat, slightly hunched, careful not to bend the flyers. His boss, Pascal, would notice.
Then the bell above the door jingled. Uzo did not look up. He thought it was another customer needing passport photos or a last-minute photocopy for a job application.
"Good morning," said a calm voice.
Still trimming, Uzo responded softly. "Good morning."
"You are Uzochukwu?"
He paused. No customer ever asked his name. He raised his head slowly.
The man was dressed in a crisp white shirt, not too formal but clearly not from this side of town. He looked like someone who worked in an office with a desk that faced a window. Someone who had never had to hustle between jobs just to keep the lights on.
"Yes," Uzo answered, cautious.
The man smiled. "My name is Mr Ibe. I work with the Owerri Youth Development Network."
Uzo blinked. That name sounded familiar. They had hosted one or two events around his area. He remembered seeing a flyer months ago.
Mr Ibe stepped forward and placed a brown envelope on the counter.
"You have been nominated to lead the recovery phase of the Eziama Youth Empowerment Program in Owerri North."
Silence fell like harmattan dust.
Uzo stared at the envelope, then at the man. He wondered if this was a joke. It had to be.
"I think there's a mistake," he said.
"There is no mistake," Mr Ibe replied gently. "You were recommended. More than once."
Uzo felt his palms grow moist. "But I am not a coordinator. I just work here. I help with documents."
Mr Ibe nodded. "Exactly."
"Exactly what?"
"You work quietly. You finish what you start. You are present. That is more than most."
Uzo's mind was racing. He could not even remember attending any youth events. He did not volunteer. He never spoke up. He could barely introduce himself in a group of five people.
"This project is about to fail," Mr Ibe continued. "We need someone who knows the ground. Someone who understands how people work here. We do not need a speaker. We need a builder."
Uzo swallowed hard. He had never been called a builder before.
"I am sorry," he said finally. "I think you have the wrong person."
Mr Ibe's smile never wavered. He simply tapped the envelope and said, "You have seven days to prepare a plan. You are expected next Tuesday at the Centre. If you do not come, we will understand. But if you do, we will walk with you."
And just like that, he turned and walked out of the shop, leaving Uzo standing in the still air, the envelope on the counter like a strange invitation from a world he had never entered.