The harmattan came early that year. Dry winds swept through Owerri with unusual sharpness, dust settling on rooftops and tree leaves curling in silent protest. Inside the youth center, there was more movement than usual; not louder, just steadier. Business was steady. Orders came in and went out. Volunteers arrived early and left late. The cooperative books were balanced, the dispatch logs updated. But something else was missing.
Uzo had not come in that week.
On the third day of his absence, Adaeze gathered the core team inside the planning room. The air was warm despite the fan rotating overhead.
"I saw him yesterday," she said, laying her notebook on the table. "He's not well."
Ngozi paused from arranging the cooperative reports. "What kind of not well? Cold or something worse?"
"His breathing is tight. He's not coughing much, but he says he needs rest. The nurse near Umuguma told him to stay off his feet. At least for now."
Zuby leaned back in his chair. "So, what do we do? Pause?"
Adaeze shook her head. "We don't pause. He didn't ask us to pause. He told me, 'Don't wait for me to return before you move.'"
Ngozi nodded slowly. "Then we continue. One step at a time. But this week, we carry it."
That evening, Adaeze looked around the room where ten young leaders waited for direction. Her voice was calm.
"We're not here to replace him. We're here to prove that he planted well."
The center moved forward.
Adaeze led the weekly planning meeting. She divided tasks like Uzo had taught her: with fairness, not favor.
Ngozi worked deep into the night, closing last month's books. She double-checked receipts, flagged inconsistencies, and taped the updated balance sheet to the noticeboard by morning.
Zuby had just returned from meeting a new supplier on behalf of the cooperative. He walked into the center with a new price sheet in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.
"They wan charge us extra," he said. "Say because demand don increase. I tell am say na lie. We go look another place."
"Zuby," Ngozi asked, looking up from her ledger. "Did you check his storage?"
That night, he called a contact in Owerri Market. By morning, the center had secured the same product at a lower rate. Two boys went with a borrowed tricycle to pick up the goods. Zuby stood beside them, inspecting every bag before it was placed.
The week unfolded slowly. Every system Uzo had built: every ledger, schedule, dispatch list, volunteer log was tested.
There were small mistakes. One delivery was late by two hours. A volunteer misplaced the repackaging labels. A customer complained about the seal on a bottle of oil. But no part of the center fell apart.
Each mistake became a meeting. Not to shame, but to correct.
"Do not rush to defend your error," Adaeze told a new volunteer. "Learn to hold it. That's how we grow."
On the sixth day, Uzo sat on a cemented seat just outside his compound and a flask of warm tea beside him. His skin was pale with tiredness, his eyes dull from rest that had not yet restored him. But his ears were sharp.
Ikenna came to visit.
"They're doing fine," he said, sitting beside him.
Uzo nodded slowly. "What did they do when the supplier raised the price?"
"Zuby refused. Found another option. Delivered the goods himself."
"And the books?"
"Ngozi has already balanced last month's records. She even added a summary note."
Uzo sighed, a gentle sound. "They didn't need me."
Ikenna frowned. "Don't say that."
"It's not sadness," Uzo said. "It's the sign of good soil."
He looked toward the sky. "You know, I've always feared what would happen if I had to step back. Not because I wanted to be the center. But because I wanted to be sure the roots would hold."
"And now?" Ikenna asked.
"They are not only holding," Uzo whispered. "They are growing."
The next morning, Uzo returned to the center. He came quietly, just before noon, wearing a plain shirt and sandals.