The third week began with tension in the air.
There was no announcement. No warning. But Uzo could feel it the moment he walked into the Centre. Conversations paused when he entered the hallway. Two team members who usually greeted him looked away instead. Even Eche, who often mocked him openly, stayed silent.
Adaeze noticed it too.
"Something is stirring," she said quietly.
Uzo nodded. "I feel it."
They did not speak more. They both knew enough to recognize that sometimes battles do not start with shouting. They begin with whispers, with looks, with silence.
That afternoon, Ngozi called Uzo into her office.
Her tone was serious.
"I have received a report," she began, "from one of the board members. It says you altered the structure of the original project without permission. That you are using your position to remove people you do not like."
Uzo was stunned.
"That is not true," he said calmly. "I changed the structure because the original one was not working. And I have not removed anyone. I reassigned roles based on performance and feedback."
Ngozi looked at him steadily.
"I believe you. But not everyone wants this to work, Uzo. Some people were comfortable when things were slow and disorganized. Now you are bringing change, and change threatens comfort."
He sat in silence for a moment.
"Should I step down?" he asked.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"Do you want to?"
"No," he said, his voice steady. "I want to finish what I started."
She leaned back in her chair.
"Then carry on. But carry wisdom too. You will need both."
Later that evening, Uzo sat alone in the Centre garden, notebook on his lap, but no words on the page.
He felt the weight of leadership pressing down in a way he had not felt before. Not from the work. But from the resistance. From the quiet eyes watching, waiting for him to fail.
Adaeze found him there and sat beside him without speaking.
After a while, she said, "There is a story my father told me. About a man who walked through fire and did not burn because he carried peace inside him. Not because the fire was small, but because his spirit was steady."
Uzo listened carefully.
"That is the kind of leader people do not forget," she finished.
He looked at her. "Am I that kind of leader?"
She smiled faintly.
"You are learning."
The next day, Uzo called a full team meeting.
He stood before them, notebook in hand, heart clear.
"I know some of you feel things are moving too fast," he said. "And some of you may feel overlooked. If I have made mistakes, I want to hear about them. Not behind my back. Here. Together. This work will not grow if it is built on silence and division."
No one spoke at first.
Then Eche stood.
"I brought the complaint," he said plainly. "Not because I hate you. But because I do not trust what I do not understand."
Uzo nodded. "Thank you for being honest."
Eche continued. "You work hard. But some of us have been here longer. We have seen plans come and go. We were not sure this one would be different."
Uzo looked around the room.
"It will only be different if we build it together," he said. "If I ever act like this is my work alone, correct me. But please, if we are going to keep going, let us do it with truth between us. Not rumors."
There was silence. Then someone clapped. Then another. Then more.
It was not loud. But it was real.
Uzo took a deep breath.
Another wall had fallen. Not outside. Inside the team.
That evening, he walked home through the quiet streets of Owerri.
Children played with water sachets, kicking them like footballs. A man passed by on a bicycle, whistling an old melody. Uzo walked slowly, letting the wind brush his skin and clear his thoughts.