The sun had not yet climbed fully over the roofs of Nkwo Nwaorie, but the youth center was already alive with noise and motion. Uzo stood by the back window, watching as two boys argued over how to stack new cartons of repackaged oil. He didn't interrupt. He wanted them to learn how to settle things without being told what to do.
Ngozi called from the hallway. "Uzo, there's someone asking after you. Says he knows you well."
Uzo turned, wiping his hands. "Who?"
"He said his name is Ebuka."
Uzo walked toward the entrance.
Ebuka stood just outside the gate, leaner than Uzo remembered, but no less familiar. His shirt clung to his shoulders, dusted at the edges with the brown powder of travel. His bag was slung over one arm, his eyes searching the compound like someone looking for a childhood memory.
When their eyes met, Ebuka smiled.
"Oga Uzo."
Uzo didn't respond at first. He simply stepped forward and embraced him.
"You remember how to come back," Uzo said finally, his voice steady.
"I never forgot where I started," Ebuka replied.
They sat later that day in the main hall, the sound of fans rattling above them and distant music floating in from a nearby kiosk.
"I heard you were in Onitsha," Uzo said, sipping water.
"I was," Ebuka answered. "Factory job. Packaging line. Long hours. Low pay. But I learned a lot."
Uzo watched him. "Why come back?"
Ebuka shifted in his seat. "Because I see what this place is becoming. I've followed the updates from Ikenna and Zuby. I saw the community event online. I saw the cooperative. And I remembered when we used to argue about whether people would even come to a meeting."
Uzo chuckled. "We argued plenty."
Ebuka leaned forward. "I have ideas. I didn't come back to look around. I came back to build."
Uzo didn't give a response.
Later that week, Uzo gathered the core team.
Ebuka stood before them, a sketchbook in hand.
"I noticed one thing," he began. "You have great products now. But your reach is still limited. Most people only buy when they pass by. But what if we don't wait for them to come?"
Zuby raised an eyebrow. "You wan say make we dey hawk rice?"
"No," Ebuka smiled. "I'm saying: let's deliver."
Adaeze folded her arms. "Deliver how? We no get van."
"Bikes," Ebuka said. "There are boys here who ride keke and okada. Some of them want to be involved but don't know how. We partner with them. Give them a list of households. Package rice and oil for delivery. Families pay a little extra for convenience."
There was silence in the room.
Ngozi broke it. "And how will we manage payments? What if they deliver and money doesn't come through?"
Ebuka opened his book and flipped to a page of notes.
"Payments will be made before delivery. Simple codes. Even bank transfers. Those without bank apps can pay at pickup points. We assign two volunteers per zone: one to ride, one to track orders."
Uzo sat back, arms folded. "And the boys you want to involve, you trust they'll carry this properly?"
"Not all of them," Ebuka replied. "But some of them I know from way back. They just need someone to give them a role beyond pushing passengers."
Ikenna leaned forward. "So instead of waiting for customers, we carry the goods to them."
"Exactly," Ebuka said. "This is what I saw in Onitsha. People are busy. But if you make life easier for them, they'll pay."
Adaeze looked thoughtful. "This could also help the cooperative grow faster. If more sales come in…"
Zuby added, "Then more youths will be involved. No one will remain idle."
Uzo remained quiet for a while. Then he asked, "What do you need to test this idea?"
Ebuka smiled, hopeful now. "Just two bikes. And trust."
That Sunday, two volunteers: Chidi and Favour, were assigned to test the plan. They had both worked part-time as keke riders and knew the city streets by memory. Their job was simple: deliver ten packages each within one week.
Ngozi handled the coordination. She collected customer names and payment proofs, mapped out routes, and made sure each parcel was sealed and labeled. Adaeze checked in with each household after delivery to ask if they were satisfied.
By Thursday, the center received its first review from a woman in Ikenegbu.
"I used to send my son to buy oil from the shop. Sometimes they cheat him. But now, they bring it straight to my door, measured and sealed."
Others followed. One teacher asked for ten bags of rice to be delivered to her school. A caterer asked if they could deliver every Friday morning.
The trial run ended with thirty-seven successful deliveries.
Uzo called the team together.
"This was not my idea," he said. "It was one of ours who left, learned, and returned."
He turned to Ebuka. "You didn't just come back. You brought something with you."
Ebuka nodded, humbled. "I just remembered that progress means nothing if it does not return home."
The following month, they formally launched the delivery unit. It was called Ụzọ Ọma Dispatch. Boys who had once loitered near the junctions now carried branded sacks of rice on their motorbikes, moving through Owerri with purpose.
Each delivery earned them a small profit, and part of that went back into the cooperative.
Chidi once said, laughing, "I dey ride now with pride. I no dey carry gossip, I dey carry progress."
The center bought a whiteboard and updated it weekly with delivery numbers. It became a quiet race:not for reward, but for impact.
Ebuka was placed in charge of logistics and training. He taught them about customer etiquette, packaging integrity, and the power of returning receipts.
Uzo watched from the sidelines. He wasn't the one driving this change, but he was its soil; the ground from which these things could grow.
That evening, as the sun dropped behind the orange roofs of Aladinma, Uzo walked to the back of the center. Ebuka was there, repairing the handle of a weighing scale.
"You've changed," Uzo said.
Ebuka smiled without looking up. "Time changed me. But this place rooted me."
Uzo nodded. "I'm proud of you."
Ebuka stood, dusted his trousers. "You shouldn't be proud. You should be ready. Because this is only the beginning. The system works. But it can grow bigger."
Uzo looked at him, then out at the compound where boys moved goods with purpose.
Ebuka grinned. "That's the point."
And so, the center stepped into a new season, one with wheels and routes, with packages and purpose.
Not every day brought big numbers. But each delivery carried something more valuable than rice or oil. It carried proof.
Proof that boys could become men with responsibility.
Proof that movement wasn't just noise, but growth.
Proof that someone who left could return, and not just return but rebuild.
Oku had not stopped speaking.
He had only changed His method.
And the center, like Uzo, like Ebuka, like every name once doubted, had learned to listen.