They didn't shout.
They didn't print flyers or place announcements on radio stations. But by the third successful month of their local business cycle, people had started to notice something Uzo himself hadn't planned for: consistency."
Not perfection. Not miracle. Just small, steady results.
₦200,000 had become ₦280,000.
Then ₦280,000 became ₦340,000.
By the fourth month, some women from nearby tailoring clusters began to send their trainees to volunteer at the center during quiet afternoons.
"Let them learn how to account money," one woman had said.
That same week, a man named Mr. Felix, who ran a poultry feed store at Douglas Road, came to the center unannounced. He carried a carton of eggs and stood at the door like someone unsure of his place.
Uzo opened the door himself.
"Good evening, sir," the man said, shifting the weight of the carton to his other hand. "I just say make I drop this. You fit use am for those boys wey dey help sweep every morning."
Uzo took the carton gently. "We will, sir. Thank you."
Mr. Felix lingered. "I no dey give to everybody. But I dey see una."
The man nodded once, then left.
Inside, the boys had already gathered. Zuby was drawing a chart on the board. It wasn't perfectly straight, but it made sense. He turned when he saw the eggs.
"Ah, protein by this time?" he asked.
Uzo smiled. "Someone who sees."
Ngozi stepped forward and opened the carton, then began counting.
"Who will finish it" she muttered with a smile.
As the eggs were shared that evening, Uzo sat down at his desk and pulled out a folder labeled Uzoma Cooperative — Monthly Review.
Across the center, the room buzzed with small voices: young, eager, and unfiltered. Chima sat with three younger boys, demonstrating how to log expenses with their new cashbook. The same Chima who once hated schoolwork now had a whiteboard marker behind his ear and wrote with confidence.
Uzo tapped the side of the desk lightly and called out, "Chima, come."
The boy came over, dusting chalk off his palms.
"Yes, sir?"
Uzo gestured to the chair beside him. "Sit."
When the boy settled, Uzo looked at him, then opened a drawer and brought out an old, wrinkled notebook.
"You remember this?"
Chima frowned. "Is it what you used to warn me about skipping duty?"
"No. Before that," Uzo smiled. "This is the first list of names we ever wrote. Just names and ₦500 beside each."
Chima leaned forward. "My handwriting was very bad."
"Still bad," Uzo said with a laugh, then turned serious. "But you stayed."
Chima looked down. "I thought you were really going to fire me that year."
"I almost did," Uzo admitted. "But every time you stayed, something told me not to give up."
There was a pause.
Uzo turned the page, revealing an old record where Chima had once messed up a small order and cost the center over ₦5,000.
"You remember what I told you that day?" Uzo asked.
Chima nodded slowly. "You said, 'Don't run. Face it. Mistake is not disgrace.'"
"Exactly," Uzo replied. "That was when I knew you were ready."
He looked at the boy, now not so much a boy. Taller. Clearer eyes. More careful with words.
"Now you lead others," Uzo said quietly.
Chima sat back and exhaled.
Uzo smiled. "That's how things grow."
Later that week, the center hosted a quiet meeting. Ten of the original members. Five new additions. Two elders. It was not a loud gathering. No long speeches. Just reflections and planning.
Zuby raised a suggestion.
"This thing wey we dey do, the rice and oil ; we dey learn well. But we fit diversify small."
Ngozi agreed. "If we enter soap-making, e go balance. Na daily need."
A girl named Sandra, one of the newest volunteers, raised her hand. "I sabi make black soap. My aunty get the recipe."
The group turned to her.
Uzo leaned forward. "Come tomorrow morning. Show us."
She did.
And by the next week, the center was now boiling soap in small batches, molding, drying, and packaging in transparent nylon. Ngozi designed a paper wrap that said: "Made by Uzoma Youth Cooperative — Clean Hands, Clean Heart."
It was Zuby who insisted they add the last part.
"Uzo thought us," he said. "Clean inside, clean outside."
Adaeze had laughed. "You want to turn it into a slogan now?"
Sales started slow.
But two hair salons and a small school picked up samples.
"Do you teach children too?" one teacher asked.
Uzo nodded. "We teach them to build, not beg."
She nodded. "That's why i support you."
In the evenings, when the day slowed and the center grew quiet, Uzo often stepped outside. Sometimes he sat on the low block beside the zobo table. Sometimes he just stood, arms crossed, watching people pass.
One such evening, Ifeoma joined him. She had returned from school a year ago and now oversaw the repackaging team.
"I didn't tell you " she said.
"I'm listening"
"That this place brought a new wave in me."
Uzo looked at her.
"I still remember when you chased me that day because i wanted to fight for zobo ."
"You fight like it's your birthright," he said.
She laughed. "But now, I help others queue properly."
They stood there, two people changed by one space.
A boy ran past, barefooted. His laughter bounced off the cement walls.
Uzo watched. "Joy is moving freely."
Ifeoma turned to him. "Where should we go next?"
He paused.
Then said nothing.
The poster from months ago still hung near the door.
It had faded a little from the sun, but its words remained:
Uzoma: We Rise Together
Uzo walked to it and brushed the corner gently.
The road was still long.
The money was still small.
But something greater had begun. Not just a business. Not even a center.
A system that taught boys and girls how to own their space.
A movement that grew by hands, not claps.
And slowly, like evening sun crawling over Owerri rooftops, their light was beginning to reach places they hadn't even planned to enter.
Oku had not spoken with thunder.
But He had answered.
Through soap wrapped in nylon.
Through envelopes without names.
Through children learning to stay.
Through adults choosing to help.
And through every seed planted in small rooms by people who decided to try again.
Not with noise.
But with purpose.