The plastic fan in the corner of the hall buzzed as it turned slowly. Uzo sat at the front row of chairs, a short table placed before him. The others sat behind him, quiet but alert. They had pushed two benches together to form a wide seat. A gesture of readiness, not hospitality.
At exactly 11:00, a black SUV pulled up. It was clean, quiet, and too shiny for this part of town. The door opened, and Chief Maduka stepped out, followed by a younger man in glasses holding a tablet. The chief wore a plain kaftan, beige in colour, with polished brown sandals.
No bodyguards. Just presence.
Zuby muttered under his breath, "He no come play."
Uzo stood up and walked to the door.
"Chief Maduka," he said, offering his hand.
"Call me Maduka. I am not a politician."
They shook hands. The younger man nodded politely and remained outside.
Inside, the air changed.
Maduka looked around. "This is the hall I've heard about."
"Yes," Adaeze replied. "It's not perfect. But it breathes."
Maduka smiled faintly. "I like that."
He sat down without waiting to be told. The others followed. Uzo remained standing.
"You offered help," Uzo began. "We asked you to meet us. No filters. Just here."
"That is what I respected most," Maduka said. "Most people would have begged or sent long proposals."
"We are not most people," Adaeze said plainly.
Maduka looked at her, then turned to Uzo. "And what are you?"
Uzo answered, "We are a reminder. That a quiet flame can light the whole bush, if it keeps burning long enough."
Maduka folded his hands. "I will speak straight. I am ready to invest. Not because of what I saw online, but because of what I felt when I listened. People talk. But your work has echo. That matters."
Ikenna leaned forward slightly. "We also want to be clear. We won't change our message for funding."
"Good," Maduka said. "Because I don't want to change it. I only want to protect it."
Adaeze raised her brow. "With conditions."
Maduka turned to her. "Let me ask you something. If someone gave you a house, but asked that you only use eco-friendly paint, would you still call it a prison?"
Adaeze answered without blinking. "Depends. Does the paint have a voice too?"
Maduka smiled again. "You are strong."
Zuby cleared his throat. "Chief, abeg no vex. I get question."
"Go ahead."
"If you fund us, and tomorrow we talk about something you no like, you go still dey our side?"
Maduka nodded slowly. "If your voice is clean, even when it stings, I will not run."
Silence followed.
Then Uzo asked, "Why are you really here?"
Maduka breathed deeply. "Because I've made mistakes. I built things with money, but not meaning. I watched younger men rise, but with no compass. I don't want to own your movement. I want to stand near it. That's all."
Adaeze looked at Uzo. He said nothing.
Maduka reached into his folder and passed a sheet forward. "This is what I'm offering. First phase. Fifteen million naira. Equipment, light, rent for two years, and staff allowance. But no seats. I won't ask for a place on your board. Only quarterly updates, just so I know where my money sleeps at night."
Nneka took the sheet and scanned it. Her lips tightened. "No PR team?"
"No PR team."
"No media control?"
"None."
Uzo finally sat down.
He looked straight at Maduka. "We won't sign anything today."
"I didn't come with a pen," Maduka replied.
"We will read. We will ask questions. And if we say yes, it will be because we still see ourselves in the mirror."
"That's all I ask," Maduka said. "Truth in the light."
They stood.
Outside, Maduka turned to Uzo one more time. "Your strength is not your voice. It is your silence when you listen."
Uzo nodded. "We have heard you. Now we must listen to ourselves."
After Maduka left, the team sat in the silence he left behind.
Ikenna broke it first. "Fifteen million."
"Na serious money," Zuby added.
Adaeze spoke softly. "But what is the cost if we drift?"
Uzo looked up. "Then we weigh it. Like elders. Like fire that burns slow, not wide."
Nneka held up the sheet again. "The offer is fair. But the decision must be full. Not fast."
That night, Uzo wrote in his journal:
We were poor, but free. Now there is provision. But will we still be free? Oku, light our steps, not just our path.