It was the week after the gathering at Nkwo field, and the energy in the city had shifted. For the first time in months, parents were the ones asking questions, not just the youths. Street vendors played back voice notes from the rally. A video had gone viral. Not a staged video, not something polished. Just a clip of Uzo standing still while the rival leader had spoken, and how he responded without raising his voice.
"Na who teach am that kind calm?" someone had asked in a shop. The video spread not because of Uzo's words, but because of what he did not say. It was the restraint. The stillness.
Yet behind that public respect, a quiet tension thickened.
"Ikenna has not called in three days," Adaeze said as they walked home from a visit to one of the centers. "That's not like him."
"Maybe he needs space," Uzo replied, though he was not convinced.
The truth was, the team had been pulled thin. Some of them had gone home to visit family after the gathering. Others were unsure of what came next. Victory, however mild, had made some comfortable. But for Uzo, it made him restless.
"It is now they will press harder," he said one morning while cleaning the floors of the main hall.
"Mama Nnena said the same thing," Adaeze replied. "She said victory attracts watchers."
Uzo smiled faintly. "Then let them watch."
That evening, they received word that the rival figure had visited one of the smaller youth groups in Amawire. A quiet visit, no announcements. But that youth group stopped attending meetings the next day.
Then a bag of grain, stamped with the rival's initials, arrived at the center's gate. No note. Just the bag.
"They are baiting you," Adaeze warned. "They want you to respond publicly, to call it out."
"We will not," Uzo said. "We stay focused. We are not feeding attention."
But things continued.
One morning, the chalkboard they used for training was shattered. Not removed. Shattered. Another morning, two chairs were missing.
Then came the real blow.
During a night class, someone in the group passed a folded note to one of the volunteers. It simply read: "Not all of us are with you."
The volunteer, a girl named Nkiru, was shaken. She handed the note to Uzo with trembling hands. "I do not know who wrote it," she whispered.
Uzo read it, then folded it again and placed it in his pocket.
"We are not here because it is safe," he said to the class. "We are here because it is needed. If anyone wants to leave, I will not stop you. But if you stay, then know that we move with one mind. Not perfect. But one."
No one left that night. But the air changed.
A week later, the mechanic who had once warned Uzo about "high table matters" waved him over.
"Wetin I hear no sweet me," he said. "Dem dey plan something. Public again. I no fit talk pass like this. But shine ya eye. Dem wan disgrace you."
Uzo thanked him. He was not surprised. The silence had gone on too long. Something would come.
And it came not in the form of confrontation, but an invitation.
A letter. Delivered in an envelope with a gold seal. From the City Youth Committee. A real one.
They wanted Uzo to speak at a summit. Not a trap. A real opportunity. But the catch was, the rival figure would be there too.
Adaeze was the first to speak. "This is what they want. To turn it into a match. Who speaks better. Who sounds smarter. It is a setup."
"I know," Uzo said. "But I also know this is not about us. If we don't show up, they fill the space. And we keep losing the ones in the middle. The ones who don't care who is right. They care who shows up."
Ikenna, who had returned quietly the day before, nodded. "Then we show up. But we do not compete. We stay rooted. No side talk. No pride."