In Elegosi, a handshake could mean anything. It could bless a man or bind him. It could launch a business or bury a future. That was the lesson Odogwu learned not from books or strategy briefs—but from the slow, burning betrayal of trust.
It started innocently, as many dangerous things do.
The Innovation Unit was preparing a pilot program—a public-private partnership to roll out a mobile health solution in the semi-urban districts of Northern Elegosi. The idea was brilliant: a solar-powered mobile app for maternal health tracking, linking women in underserved areas to clinics and trained volunteers. The praise was loud. The donors were eager. The headlines were warming up.
And in the middle of it all stood Mr. Olumide Bankole, a slick-talking, always-smiling consultant hired to "oversee implementation."
From the first day Olumide walked into the office, Odogwu felt uneasy. His suit was too perfect. His words too smooth. He had the smile of someone who had studied human behavior like a map and now knew which roads to take and which ones to set on fire.
He greeted everyone with a firm handshake and a laugh that ended in a half-smirk.
When he reached Odogwu's desk, he said, "So this is the boy wonder I've heard about."
"I'm Odogwu," he replied, simply.
"Ah, strong name. But don't carry the world on your head, eh? Let some of us help you."
Odogwu smiled politely, but inside, his father's voice stirred:
"When a man's tongue is sweeter than honey, look to see if his pocket isn't full of ants."
Over the next few weeks, Odogwu and Olumide worked closely on field data from the pilot zones. Odogwu led the analytics and local community strategy. Olumide handled "external relations," which usually meant meetings, dinners, and closed-door conversations Odogwu wasn't invited to.
But whenever questions arose about numbers, outcomes, or deliverables, it was always Odogwu they called. He built the dashboards. He verified the baseline reports. He even trained field agents on data integrity.
One evening, while preparing a slide deck for a high-level donor presentation, Odogwu noticed something strange. The budget line for "community mobilization" had doubled—but the activity log remained the same.
He frowned.
He cross-checked. The figures were altered. Not in obvious ways, but subtly—entries reworded, timestamps reshuffled. It was like someone was trying to blur the fingerprints.
He raised the issue with Tunde.
"These numbers don't match the approved field logs," Odogwu said. "It looks like someone duplicated entries to inflate impact."
Tunde scratched his head. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, sir."
Tunde sighed. "Leave it alone, Odogwu. This thing is bigger than us. Olumide's people are close to the board. Just… close your eyes."
Odogwu stared at him. "But sir—"
"Do you want to stay here or not? Do you want your name in the next round of promotions or forgotten entirely?"
That night, Odogwu could not sleep.
The light from the corridor flickered as mosquitoes danced above his mat. He stared at the ceiling and thought:
"The lizard that nods its head too long may forget it was never a crocodile."
A few days later, Olumide handed Odogwu a brown envelope. Nothing heavy—just a token, he called it. Inside were two notes: a fifty-thousand naira bill and a handwritten line that read, "Thanks for smoothing the data curve. Your effort is gold."
Odogwu felt the fire in his chest instantly.
He did not open his mouth.
He simply returned the envelope the next day, placed it gently on Olumide's desk, and said, "I don't eat with hands that cook with soot."
Olumide laughed. "Odogwu, relax. You're in the big leagues now."
"I play my own game," he said, walking away.
It was not long before the whispers began.
He noticed the sudden coolness in meetings. Invitations to strategy sessions vanished. Tasks were assigned without his name. His work was used—but his presence was erased.
Then came the final handshake—the one that burned.
He was called in by HR. The head of personnel wore a forced smile and held a white envelope.
"We regret to inform you…"
Just like that.
No thank you. No meeting. No explanation.
The very project he had birthed now bore someone else's name. His effort had become their ladder. His truth had become their inconvenience.
Back home that night, Odogwu sat outside alone. The moon was high. The children's laughter had faded. Even Uncle Ebube said nothing—he had seen it before. The rise. The fall. The silence.
"Will you return to Amaedukwu?" his uncle finally asked.
Odogwu shook his head.
"My father once told me," he said quietly, "when the axe forgets, the tree remembers."
Ebube nodded.
"And what will you do now?"
Odogwu looked at his calloused hands. The hands that once held files, typed truths, trained workers, fed dreams. Then he looked at the sky.
"I will plant something of my own," he said.
"This time, I will hold the root."