There is a proverb in Amaedukwu that says, "The bird that perches quietly on the fence may not sing, but it sees everything." That was how Odogwu lived in his early weeks inside the hallowed halls of Omeuzu Group. Not loud, not boastful—but always watching, always learning.
The office was a machine, one with many gears and strange levers. There were protocols wrapped in layers of procedure. There were meetings about meetings. There were people who talked to impress, and others who worked in silence while the praise passed them by.
Odogwu quickly discovered that the engine room of Omeuzu was not the boardroom—it was the corridors. Gossip flowed faster than memos, and reputations were made or marred over cups of vending machine coffee.
He moved like a shadow—quiet, present, alert.
One morning, a manager in the Research & Strategy Department—Madam Onome—rushed in, red scarf flailing, files falling out of her handbag.
"Tunde!" she barked, breathless. "Where is the Q2 report on rural education impact?"
Tunde stammered. "I— I think it's still being edited. Ngozi is…"
Odogwu stepped forward. "Ma, I worked on the preliminary data two weeks ago. I can pull it up and summarize the findings in ten minutes."
She squinted at him. "You? The intern?"
"Yes, ma. I cross-referenced the surveys and updated the baseline projections last week."
Onome stared. "Follow me."
He followed her into the boardroom where a meeting was already in session. Around the table sat seven people, all with laptops open and expressions of mild annoyance.
"Everyone," Onome announced, "this is… what's your name again?"
"Odogwu Orie, ma."
"He has the updated impact numbers. Continue."
Without stumbling, Odogwu broke down the report using only a whiteboard marker, five bullet points, and a metaphor about planting yam seedlings in flood season. He made them laugh, then made them nod. Then silence followed.
When he finished, Onome simply said, "You're done. You can go."
Back at his desk, Tunde hovered near him.
"You took a big risk," he said.
"I only did what needed doing," Odogwu replied. "Reports are not decorations. They are compasses."
Tunde chuckled. "You talk like an old man."
"I was raised by one."
That afternoon, his name began to spread beyond his floor. In the hallway, someone whispered, "That's the intern who handled the Q2 numbers." In the elevator, a woman looked at him and said, "You're Odogwu, right? Nice work."
But praise did not distract him. Instead, he doubled down—arriving earlier, reading harder, staying later.
He used lunch breaks not to eat, but to observe. He watched the way executives argued and how assistants navigated office politics. He listened to the pulse of the company and began to understand what mattered and what was noise.
That week, he noticed something strange.
A report marked "CONFIDENTIAL" had been mistakenly left on the printer tray. It detailed upcoming staff restructuring—a silent retrenchment program affecting the lowest-ranking contract staff.
Odogwu's eyes scanned the names.
Ngozi's name was there. Sunkanmi's too.
He folded the paper and returned it to the tray. Then he walked to the back staircase and sat, his head in his hands.
"The antelope may run fast," he muttered, "but if the hunter changes direction, the speed means nothing."
He waited till evening, then approached Tunde cautiously.
"Sir," he said, "may I ask—are interns covered by staff protections?"
Tunde raised his brow. "Why?"
"Just wondering. We contribute, but I noticed... some lists circulating."
Tunde said nothing. Then he frowned. "Let me worry about that."
The next morning, an email went out: "Due to strong performance, selected interns will be retained until further notice."
Ngozi's name was included.
So was Odogwu's.
Later that day, Ngozi found him in the stairwell.
"You knew, didn't you?" she asked.
He shrugged.
She shook her head. "You're quiet, but you're not blind."
He smiled. "The drum does not announce itself. But the dancers still follow its rhythm."
By the end of the month, Odogwu was moved to a formal seat in the Innovation Unit. It came with an official email address, a project title, and access to internal data dashboards.
To him, it felt like being handed the village shrine's key.
Here, in the beating heart of Omeuzu, he saw the big picture—how problems became opportunities, how proposals turned into funding streams, how internal power games shaped the future of communities they claimed to serve.
He started taking notes. Not just about work—but about people, patterns, motives.
He was still a shadow. But now, he cast one too.
At home, Uncle Ebube grew curious.
"You dey progress," he said one evening over a bowl of okra soup. "Dem dey talk your name now. Wetin be your secret?"
Odogwu smiled. "I mind my work, not other people's shadows."
Ebube laughed. "Ehn? Big grammar now?"
But Odogwu simply dipped his fufu and whispered inwardly:
"The wind has not yet become a storm. I must stay planted."