It was after the summit that the tremor began. Not loud, but enough to unsettle the ground. Emails arrived for youth leaders from other districts, asking for advice. Community elders at the market whispered that Uzo might be onto something. But the team in the center felt smaller. Many who had once laughed and clapped no longer came.
On that Monday morning, only five remained, including Uzo. They gathered at the old round table, its surface scarred, its legs sturdily planted. No announcements, no events on the board. Just notebooks, pens, a jug of water, and quiet faces.
Uzo cleared his throat. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded letter. "This came yesterday." He slowly opened it and spread it on the table; a polite invite to a national conference, thanking them for their work, signed by the national youth minister.
Adaeze glanced over. "That is big," she said.
"It is," Uzo replied. "But notice the words. No mention of our work. Just thanks from afar. They want the story, not the sweat."
Chima pressed his lips together. "So they want the headline, not the root."
"That is the test," Uzo said. "Let us choose what we want to build."
He looked at each one of them. Their eyes flickered back, uncertain, hopeful, guarded.
Ikenna broke the silence. "What do we do?"
Uzo folded the letter gently. "We keep watering where we choose to plant."
A moment later he added, "We don't need recognition. We need fruit."
Ngozi leaned forward. "But people want to know we exist. They want it public."
Uzo nodded. "Public is fine. But it cannot be performance. We will share when there is proof. Not before."
Adaeze smiled. "Like waiting for a mango to ripen before you pick it."
Pidgin slipped out softly as Chima said, "Na true talk."
The room hummed with that quiet agreement.
Uzo pulled open his notebook. The pages were filled with names and dates. He flipped to a fresh sheet and wrote in bold letters: Deep Roots.
"What does that mean?" Ngozi asked.
"It means we are going deeper than yesterday. We are not here to make noise. We are here to nourish."
They nodded again, this time more firmly.
Later that week, Uzo and Adaeze visited an area called Mkele. It was dusty and narrow, the paint peeling from the walls. Life was tight there. But when they arrived, they found a group of fifteen teenagers meeting in a small room. They had chairs in a circle and stories on their lips.
Adaeze smiled. "They are not many."
Uzo stepped forward. "Small is fine. What matters is why you're here."
One girl named Ifunanya spoke up. "We came to learn. Not to talk. We want to build something of our own. How do we start?"
Uzo nodded. He began with a simple question. "What can you do today? Not tomorrow. Today."
They listed basic things: water a garden, paint a wall, clean a public drain, teach a child. The list grew.
Then Uzo said, "Pick one. Do that. Then come back and tell us the result."
They all agreed.
As Uzo left the room, he heard them already making plans. The tremor had become a pulse.
Back at the center, the small team cleaned floors and repainted a broken bench. They worked in silence, their movements synchronized.
At midday, Ikenna spoke. "I met someone today. He said they watched the video of the summit speech again. They said it was real."
"What does real feel like?" Chima asked.
"Not a slogan," Ikenna said. "Something that stays after the sound stops."
They all nodded.
That afternoon, a package arrived for Uzo. He recognized the handwriting—belonging to a teacher from the village where he had grown up. Inside were two notebooks—many pages blank—and a note. It read:
"Continue the work. Quiet, strong, steady."
He read it quietly. Then he placed it on the top shelf.
That evening, as the sun set low across the windows, Uzo gathered everyone outside in the courtyard. They formed a small circle. No chairs. No fans. Just the hum of insects and the fading light.
He spoke softly: "Today I learned that deep roots grow in what you cannot see. In sweat. In waiting. In simple acts."
Adaeze stepped forward. "We build by doing. Not by announcing."
Chima raised his hand. "And we stay even when it is hard."
Ikenna added, "We stay even when the wind stops bringing news."
Ngozi looked at them all and nodded. "We stay."
Uzo smiled. "Because storms will come. That is certain. But roots hold even when the wind is strong."
He looked up at the sky now darkening.
A light breeze blew across the courtyard.
Uzo closed his eyes. "Let us build this together. Not for applause. Not for headlines. But so that those who come after us will say, 'They stood when others ran. They built when others left.'"
They all nodded.
Chima whispered, "Na so e suppose be."
They went back inside, lights soft, the mood quiet but alive.
That night, Uzo found himself on the path home, stopping under a streetlight. The city had grown quieter again. He thought of the summit, the letters, the youth in Mkele, the storm yet to come.
He lifted his head and whispered, "Let them come."
He walked on, each footstep steady.
Because roots do not shout. But they hold everything up.