The next morning came heavy and slow.
Uzo sat outside on the steps with a cup of lukewarm tea in his hands. The street was just beginning to wake. A woman passed with a basin of oranges balanced on her head. A child kicked a flat football through the dust. Far off, a generator coughed into life.
He had slept only a few hours. All night, his mind had been full of noise. Doubt. Pressure. Fear. But also something else. Something that felt like the beginning of a push.
He took the letter out of his backpack and read it again. The words had not changed, but something in him had. The man who read it this morning was not exactly the same as the one who had read it yesterday.
He did not feel braver. But he felt more awake.
His phone vibrated. It was a message from an unknown number.
Good morning, Uzo. This is Mr Ibe. Just reminding you the orientation is still set for Tuesday. We hope to see you there.
Uzo stared at the message for a long time.
He could still say no. He could delete the message. Burn the letter. Walk back to the shop and pretend none of this had ever happened.
But if he did that, a question would follow him for the rest of his life.
What if I had tried?
He stood up, dusted off his trousers, and went inside.
"I am going," he said quietly to his aunt, who was stirring garri in a small metal pot.
She looked at him without surprise, as if she had known all along. She nodded once.
"Good," she said.
No long speech. No emotional speech. Just good.
Because saying yes was the beginning. The real work had not even started.
On Tuesday, Uzo arrived at the Youth Development Centre twenty minutes early.
He wore his cleanest shirt, navy blue with slightly frayed cuffs, and his best trousers. They were both a little too big, but he wore them like armor. It was the first time in a long while that he was walking into something completely unknown.
The Centre was a low building painted cream, with glass doors that needed to be pushed hard before they opened. Inside, there were posters on the wall about community growth and youth leadership. A few people were already there. Some looked like they belonged. Others looked unsure, like him.
Mr Ibe spotted him and waved him over.
"You came," he said.
Uzo nodded. "I almost didn't."
"But you did," Mr Ibe replied. "That matters."
He handed Uzo a folder with the label Recovery Team Coordinator printed on the front.
Uzo's chest tightened.
"That is your seat," Mr Ibe said, pointing to a round table near the window. "We start soon."
Uzo sat down slowly. A few people at the table looked up and gave small nods. One of them, a girl with short hair and a serious face, barely acknowledged him.
Another, a broad-shouldered guy with a loud voice, immediately leaned back in his chair.
"You are the new coordinator?" the guy asked.
Uzo nodded. "For now."
"Hmm." The guy smirked. "We will see how long that lasts."
Uzo did not reply. He looked down at the folder.
Already, he could feel the tension. Some people were not happy to see someone like him in charge. Some probably felt they deserved the position. Some were just waiting to see him mess up.
But he had not come to impress anyone. He had come because something in him refused to stay small.
The orientation began with a few introductions. Then a woman named Ngozi, who was part of the board, stepped up to speak.
"The Eziama Youth Project was launched with high expectations," she said. "But so far, things have not gone as planned. There has been poor planning, poor teamwork, and very little follow through. We have one more chance to get this right."
She paused and looked around the room.
"If this fails, we shut it down. Completely."
Uzo felt the weight of that sentence land on his shoulders.
Ngozi continued. "Your job as Recovery Coordinator is to listen, build a plan, and lead this team into actual results. Not talk. Not empty forms. Results."
All eyes shifted to Uzo for a moment.
He nodded slowly, even though his stomach felt like it was turning inside out.
Ngozi handed him a small booklet. "You have five days to review the work so far and come up with a plan of your own. By Monday, we expect a clear presentation. No pressure for perfection, just direction.
Uzo took the booklet.
Direction. That word scared him more than anything.