The center roof still leaked when it rained. Two of the wooden tables had finally collapsed. One printer remained, and even that one coughed instead of printing. But the spirit inside the Nkwo Nwaorie Youth Center had never been stronger.
After rejecting the cheque, the team braced for struggle. Uzo had expected criticism. What he did not expect was silence. A quiet wave that began without noise.
It was Zuby who first noticed it.
"Guy," he said one morning, dropping a brown envelope on Uzo's desk, "person just drop this thing say make I no mention name."
Inside it was fifty thousand naira. No note. Just crisp bills folded neatly.
That same week, Adaeze returned from a visit to a local tailoring shop with two new uniforms for the center's volunteers.
"She said we helped her son stop hanging around parks," Adaeze explained. "She insisted on giving these."
Then came the bags of rice from a retired teacher.
"I no get much," she told Ikenna, "but I see what you do."
One morning, Uzo arrived to find a group of women scrubbing the veranda and repainting the walls.
"Who asked you?" he said, half confused.
One of the women straightened and wiped her forehead. "Nobody asked. We just dey look since. E good make we do our part."
Another added, "This center help our children see hope. Na everybody work be this."
Uzo could barely speak.
The youth center was not just surviving. It was being claimed. Not by foreign donors or foundations. But by the people whose lives it touched.
One afternoon, Adaeze gathered the team. "I think it's time we do something different. Not another seminar. I mean something that shows we see what the community is doing."
"Like what?" Ngozi asked.
"A thanksgiving. Just a community event. Free haircuts. Music. Share food. Let them know we see them too."
Uzo leaned back in his chair. "I like it. But we must be clear. This is not a campaign or a performance. It is gratitude."
"And we call it?" Ikenna asked.
"'Ụlọ Anyị'," Adaeze said. "'Our Home.' Because that is what this has become."
Preparations began immediately. Volunteers offered music equipment. A local butcher promised chicken. Even the woman who sold zobo near the market gate said, "I go bring cooler full."
Uzo walked around the center one evening and paused as he watched three boys hanging a hand-painted banner that read: Ụlọ Anyị: A Celebration of Us.
He smiled. "Make sure you use strong rope o."
One of the boys laughed. "No worry. E no go fall."
On the day of the event, the center looked transformed. Colorful cloth hung across the entrance. Mats were spread under the mango tree for elders. A stage made of borrowed benches and wooden planks stood at the corner. Children ran barefooted between music speakers.
Zuby manned the grill like it was a sacred calling. Ngozi handled logistics with surprising calm. Adaeze moved from group to group like a host at her own wedding.
Then the music stopped.
Uzo stepped forward.
He wore a simple senator. Not the white shirt. Not the blue one. Just fabric someone's mother had sewn for him.
He raised no mic. He simply raised his hand.
And the place went quiet.
"Many people talk about change," he began. "But change is not noise. It is movement. It is one neighbor painting a wall. One mother giving rice. One boy choosing to stay in school."
He pointed at the banner. "This is not my home. This is our home. And if we keep building like this, then no matter who opposes us, they cannot stop us. Because they will not be fighting me. They will be fighting us."
A pause.
"Let this place remind you that even small people can plant something great. And when we water it together, it grows."
He stepped back.
The applause was not loud. It was steady. Strong. Real.
Later that evening, as the crowd thinned out and stars took their place in the sky, a woman walked up to Uzo with tears in her eyes.
"You helped my son," she said. "He was almost lost. But now he wants to teach others. I do not have money. But I sell snacks. From next week, I will bring snacks for your volunteers every Thursday."
Uzo held her hand. "That is bigger than any cheque."
Oku had spoken again. Not with lightning. But with quiet hands lifting, cleaning, giving. The community had answered without being asked.
And this was only the beginning.