The days after the celebration of Ụlọ Anyị brought a stillness that was not silence. It was a deep kind of listening , the kind that followed a stirring in the soul. Uzo walked the compound early each morning, barefoot, the same way he had done when Oku first began whispering purpose to him. But now, there was something new in his steps: weight.
The weight of responsibility.
The weight of expectation.
The weight of knowing that they could not go back.
Zuby said it first, as they packed the benches after one of their planning sessions.
"Bro, this center dey breathe now. But we go need lungs wey no go tire."
Adaeze looked up. "You mean money."
"Not just money," Zuby answered. "Structure. Something that will last, even if we are no more."
Ngozi nodded slowly. "Something the youths themselves can run."
That was when Uzo called for a full meeting. No dancing. No cooking. No printing of handouts. Just one circle. One truth.
"We've seen what small things can do," he began. "Now let us ask: how do we build something that feeds itself? Not just passion. But plan."
Adaeze had brought a notebook filled with rough ideas. They spread them out on the floor like children laying stones.
There was talk of:
• Skill classes that didn't just teach, but produced goods for sale.
• A small farming project on a donated piece of land someone's uncle wasn't using.
• A weekly community thrift stall, where donated items could be sold and proceeds used to fund the center.
• Mobile phone repair training, led by a young boy who had once slept in the center's corridor but now ran a roadside kiosk with steady customers.
But the idea that caught fire was the one that made the room sit still and came from Ikenna.
He looked up from where he'd been scribbling quietly and said, "Why don't we start a cooperative?"
Everyone turned.
"A cooperative?" Uzo repeated.
"Yes. A youth cooperative. Every member puts something, even if it's just 500 naira every week. We open a proper account. We keep record. We invest in small things. Buy and resell pure water in bulk. Or start a dry-cleaning service. If we run it well, we can use it to fund the center, help members when they need emergency money, and even give small loans for business ideas."
Adaeze tilted her head. "You're thinking like an old man."
Ikenna laughed. "It's hunger that sharpen my brain."
"But how do we start?" Ngozi asked. "People trust us, yes, but they are also watching. If one thing fail, they will write stories about us."
Uzo remained quiet.
That night, he went to see an elder Mama Olumma, a widow who had run a successful palm oil trade group in her younger days. She had seen them on the day of the Ụlọ Anyị event but stayed on the edge of the crowd, nodding slowly.
She poured him palm wine into a wooden cup and said, "So. You finally came."
"I don't know what to do," Uzo said simply.
She motioned for him to sit.
"You are strong, Uzo. But strength needs method. That is what keeps a tree from breaking under storm. Now tell me everything."
He did.
And when he was done, she leaned back.
"Let me help you call some of the women who know how money moves among people. You have energy. But you need elders who know how people behave around trust, ego, and temptation."
She gave him names. Women who were not loud but had run food stalls, fabric kiosks, shared farm tools, and helped many keep their homes afloat without drama.