The journey from Amaedukwu to Obodo Ike was not only in miles—it was in mindset. The moment Odogwu stepped off the rickety bus that coughed like an old man, he knew he was no longer in the arms of his village. The sky here did not hum. It roared. The ground did not whisper. It grumbled beneath the weight of moving feet, honking horns, and unfinished dreams.
Obodo Ike was not for the faint-hearted. The city did not welcome strangers with open arms—it tested them, bruised them, and asked them if they still wanted to stay.
Odogwu adjusted the thin strap of his duffel bag, looked around at the sea of bodies that moved like ants with phones, and whispered to himself, "The river that frightens the goat gives courage to the crocodile."
He didn't know where he would sleep that night, but he had a number—his uncle's. He was the younger brother of his father, a man called Uncle Ebube who had once sent letters home with words too big for their envelopes. He was supposed to be a success. That was the last Odogwu had heard.
The number rang twice, then disconnected.
He dialed again.
And again.
By the sixth attempt, a tired voice answered. "Who is this?"
"Uncle, it's Odogwu… your brother's son. From Amaedukwu."
A pause.
Then a sigh.
"Where are you?"
"Berger roundabout."
"You came to the city without confirming?"
Odogwu's voice tightened. "I was told to come straight."
Another pause. "Come to 22 Iweanya Street, behind Olodi Market. The gate is black. Don't knock too hard—the hinge is broken."
By the time Odogwu found the house, night had fallen, and the street had turned into a performance of clashing generators, shouting hawkers, and potholes deep enough to hide secrets. His uncle's compound was small, boxed in by zinc walls and suspicion. Three families shared a two-bedroom flat, and a long corridor served as kitchen, living room, and argument zone.
"Sleep here," Ebube said, pointing to a mat near the fridge. "I leave early and return late. Don't expect anything special."
Odogwu thanked him. He lay down and stared at the ceiling where a spider spun its web slowly and deliberately.
"Even the spider knows how to build with nothing but patience and thread," he thought.
The next day, Odogwu was on the street before dawn. He wore his only white shirt, ironed with care using a coal box the night before. He held a plastic file folder with photocopies of his certificates, his handwritten CV, and letters of recommendation that smelled faintly of camphor.
He walked.
And walked.
He entered offices where secretaries looked at him like a question mark in a math exam.
"No vacancies."
"Leave your credentials."
"Come back next month."
Sometimes they didn't speak at all. Just a raised eyebrow, or a look over the top of their glasses like he was both a bother and a joke.
But Odogwu didn't stop.
Each day, he returned to Ebube's house after sunset with dusty shoes, cracked lips, and a heavier silence.
Ebube noticed.
"You'll learn," he said over a plate of eba one evening. "Obodo Ike doesn't reward good intentions. It rewards results."
"But how does one begin?"
"Connections. Luck. Grace. Mostly connections."
Odogwu nodded. Then he went back to reading his old notes, scribbling ideas in a dog-eared jotter, and praying with the quiet intensity of a man who had only the stars and his father's words to hold on to.
It was on a Monday morning, under a peeling billboard that read "Dream Big in Elegosi," that Odogwu saw a sheet of paper flutter down from a second-floor window.
He picked it up.
"Omeuzu Group seeks Research Interns. Passionate about data, curious about people. Apply within."
He looked up.
The building was tall, glass-covered, and intimidating. The kind of building that made you doubt if your slippers were too dusty for the marble floor.
Still, Odogwu walked in.
The receptionist wore a red lipstick that gleamed like danger.
"Yes?"
"I came for the research internship."
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No, but I have something better—evidence of ability."
She stared at him.
Then she smiled, almost mockingly. "Go up. Second floor. Ask for Mr. Tunde."
Mr. Tunde was bald, impatient, and wore glasses that made him look like he was always searching for nonsense.
"You're from where?"
"Amaedukwu, sir."
"University?"
"Elegosi State University."
"What's your work experience?"
"Community-based research. Enumeration. Analysis of market behavior using primary tools."
"You speak English well."
"I read books with my father. He's a farmer."
Mr. Tunde raised his eyebrows slightly. "Alright. There's a test. Ten questions. Thirty minutes."
Odogwu wrote like he had been preparing all his life.
When he handed it in, Mr. Tunde looked over the answers, grunted, and said, "Report here Monday next week. We'll see if you're more than just good at filling papers."
That evening, Odogwu walked home under a setting sun that painted the sky like spilled palm oil.
He had not gotten the job yet, but the door had cracked open.
And in Obodo Ike, even a crack could be enough for a determined man to pass through.
As he entered the compound, he heard his uncle laughing in the backyard with a neighbor, trading banter and dry jokes.
He said nothing.
He simply nodded and entered the room, placed his file under his mat, and knelt to pray.
"Let the ground that received my footsteps today yield fruit," he whispered.
"And let my hands not return empty."