By Tuesday morning, the Centre had given Uzo a small shared office space and permission to begin implementing the first part of his plan.
It was a plain room with two desks and a metal cabinet that creaked every time he opened it. The fan worked only when the generator was on. But Uzo felt grateful for every detail. He knew that real strength often begins in small places.
He did not waste time.
He wrote out a calendar for the next four weeks. He assigned each community their own listening post and marked out which team members would be placed there. He drafted guidelines for how to record conversations, how to ask questions without pressuring, and how to stay respectful in every interaction.
On Wednesday, he gathered the team.
"This is not just about finishing tasks," he said. "It is about how we show up."
Some nodded quietly. A few still seemed unsure. But no one interrupted.
Only one voice spoke up sharply.
Eche.
He stood up with a paper in hand and said, "What makes you sure this plan will work? You have no background in this kind of work. You just showed up here last week."
Uzo did not flinch.
He looked at him and answered plainly, "I am not sure it will work. But I am sure it is worth trying with everything we have. Because the people we serve deserve more than theories. They deserve action. And that action starts now."
There was silence.
Then Adaeze said, "He listened. He walked the streets. That is more than anyone has done in months."
That day, a few team members stayed back after the meeting to ask how they could help. One offered to design a form for the community interviews. Another said she had connections with local artisans who might offer training sessions once the trust was built.
The work had begun.
The following week moved fast.
Every morning, Uzo visited one of the listening posts to observe. He never interrupted the process. He sat, watched, asked quiet questions, and took notes. Sometimes he walked entire neighborhoods just to shake hands and explain what they were doing. His shoes wore out quickly, but he did not complain.
On Thursday, he returned to the shop where he used to work.
Pascal barely looked up. "You disappeared. Thought you got tired."
Uzo smiled. "No. Something opened up."
Pascal grunted. "Hope it pays."
Uzo nodded. "It already is. Just not with money yet."
He picked up a package he had left there weeks ago and walked out.
As he passed by the stalls along the road, one of the welders from Eziama shouted, "Coordinator! You dey try oh."
Uzo laughed and waved. It felt strange to hear that word. But also right. Like it had been waiting for him to grow into it.
On Friday, trouble came.
One of the team members assigned to a listening post had collected information but failed to return any records. Uzo asked him calmly why nothing was submitted.
The young man shrugged. "People are tired of talking. It is a waste of time."
Uzo replied softly, "If we treat it like a waste, it becomes one. But if we value it, even the silence can teach us something."
The young man laughed. "You talk like a preacher."
Uzo said nothing. He simply took out a spare form and said, "Try again. Go back. This time, listen without trying to look smart. Just be present."
That moment changed something. The young man returned the next day with six full pages of handwritten feedback. He did not speak much. But he looked Uzo in the eyes and nodded once.
Uzo understood. No long speeches. Just growth.
By the end of the second week, the first report was ready.
They had gathered over two hundred direct conversations. Patterns were already emerging. Youth needed access to simple tools. Not laptops and theories. They needed space to practice what they already knew. And more than anything, they needed people who would not disappear after one event.
Uzo wrote all this in his weekly update and submitted it to Ngozi.
Later that afternoon, she called him into her office.
"You have done well," she said. "You are restoring something that many of us had already given up on."
He did not reply. He just bowed his head gently.
"But be careful," she added. "Not everyone is happy to see the work moving forward."
He looked up slowly.
"You will need to keep walking," she said. "Even when the road gets rough."
That evening, Uzo returned home late again.
He removed his shoes at the door, washed his face, and sat with his aunt in the courtyard.
She passed him a plate of boiled yam and garden egg sauce without asking any questions. He ate slowly, his body sore, but his spirit clear.
"You are learning how to lead," she said after a while.
He looked at her. "How can you tell?"
"You are tired. But not bitter. You are stretched. But not broken. That is how."
He smiled faintly.
"Leadership is not a stage," she added. "It is a journey. And some of us only find the road by walking through what we once feared."
He nodded.
He knew now that the people were not the problem. The pressure was not the enemy. The real wall had always been within him.
But each day of courage chipped away at it.
Brick by brick.