The center was alive with late-afternoon sunlight spilling through open windows. Uzo stood by the old chalkboard, tracing his finger along a faint sketch of a map. Lines led from this center to others across Owerri. The plan to expand was taking form, a network of safe spaces grounded in courage and discipline.
He heard Adaeze's footsteps behind him and turned with a small smile.
"You found me before everyone else," he said.
She glanced at the map. "We wanted to start in Umuguma this weekend. The boys cleared the land, but they need instruction. We need to train them well."
He nodded. "I will lead the session, but not with words. With presence."
Adaeze raised an eyebrow. "Presence?"
"Yes." Uzo stepped back from the board. "I want them to learn what silence can teach. What roots feel."
Adaeze pressed her lips together, thinking. Then she nodded slowly.
"You're not going alone," she said softly.
He closed his eyes briefly. "Okay." After a beat, he added, "But not for show."
They walked outside into the courtyard. The air smelled of dust and fresh paint. Voices drifted in from the painting class under the mango tree, and the smell of cassava roasting rose from a nearby vendor's stall.
Ikenna approached, wiping sweat from his brow. "We're ready," he said. "Boys are lined up at the gate."
"Blessing and Samuel are here too," Adaeze added. "Ngozi will bring water, Zuby the tools."
Uzo nodded, then paused as he felt a breeze touch his neck, a warmth that had nothing to do with the sun. It reminded him of His presence. He bowed his head for just a moment.
"Ọkụ is with us," he whispered. "Steady."
Ikenna glanced at him oddly, but said nothing.
An hour later, they stood on the cleared land at Umuguma. The boys had gathered around, curious and alert. None carried heavy words. They waited for something.
Uzo stepped forward and motioned with his hand.
"This land is not empty anymore," he said. "Because we are here."
He handed the first boy a hoe. The boy examined it, uncertain.
"Dig for a moment. Not with force. With attention."
The boy lowered the hoe, paused, then lifted it slowly and began cutting into the soil.
Uzo walked among them.
"Feel the ground," he said. "Feel its resistance. This is where we begin."
He stopped by Blessing, who was sweeping dried branches.
"You're quiet," he said.
She smiled. "I dey learn small small."
His eyes warmed. "That is how you grow."
He then turned to each of them.
"The land will tell you what it needs. Prepare your hands before you judge its value."
They worked in silence, shifting from clearing to planting cassava stems Adaeze had brought earlier. Uzo moved from person to person, guiding with light words, firm touch, but mostly with calm presence.
Halfway through, Blessing approached him.
"Sir, this land belongs to the government, right?"
"Yes," he said.
"And we are planting anyway?"
"Yes."
She looked confused. "Will they mind?"
Uzo kneeled next to her. "Maybe. Or maybe they will see what grows. We don't plant because we are allowed. We plant because we believe."
She smiled, comforted.
He stood and looked at the wide field. The boys were planting evenly now, their movements quiet but determined.
Perhaps this was the kind of warfare He meant; no swords, but seeds. Not walls, but wilderness.
Hours later, they returned to the center, covered in dust and sweat. Ngozi handed bottled water around. The laughter that rose was easy, pure—victory without applause.
As they cooled off, Uzo gathered them in a circle.
"Tell me," he said, "what did you learn today?"
One teenage boy, Emeka, spoke first.
"I learned that fear is loud," he said. "It makes you think the land is too hard. But when you start slowly, the land listens."
Adaeze nodded. "That is wisdom over fear."
Samuel, who was usually loud, remained quiet. Blessing nudged him.
Samuel cleared his throat. "I learned that I have to be patient. I chop up the earth, but I must wait for what will grow."
"Patience," Uzo said. "Even when it looks like nothing will."
The girls who joined smiled shyly, each holding a small stick of cassava.
"We learned that we can make a difference," one said. "Even in small places."
The circle held quiet energy, rooted in soil and sweat.
That evening, Uzo and Adaeze returned late. The sunset cast long shadows. They paused outside the center.
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
He looked at the sky where one star had begun to shine. "He is near," he said softly.
Adaeze crossed her arms. "Ọkụ?"
He nodded. "He stayed with us today. In their work, their quiet, their care."
She took his hand. "You trust Him now?"
He looked at their joined hands. "I trust myself more when I trust Him."
Later that night, Uzo sat before the candle in his office, notebook open in his lap. He wrote slowly:
They felt the ground speak today. The land did not shift, but their hearts did. Quiet courage. Discipline. Unity. These are the things He honors.
He paused, pen hovering.
Then wrote again:
Next week we begin the next center. We do not rush. We listen. We heal. We hold.
He closed the book.
Outside, the center was dark. But inside, the flame of something new glowed, soft, steady, ancient.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges. New attempts to bend or break what they were building. But tonight they planted roots that would reach deep before they rose tall.
And He, the flame of their ancestors, watched.