Two days had passed since the last meeting when Uzo sat again among the elders who had quietly offered to guide them ; not with noise, but with wisdom collected over decades. The late afternoon breeze swirled dust across the empty yard, but in the center, the wooden bench held firm beneath the weight of something heavier than age: responsibility.
Aunty Obioma looked directly at him. Her voice was calm, but her tone was precise. "Start small. You do not need a hundred people. Ten committed youths, saving steadily and recording it properly, is better than seventy who only shout ideas."
The silence that followed was not empty ; it was space for truth to settle.
Another elder, a retired teacher named Papa Ekene, added thoughtfully, "Also, make sure no one sees it as 'Uzo's money.' That kind of thinking poisons even the purest effort. From day one, it must be clear. The cooperative must have a name, a book, rules, and multiple signatories. That is how trust is built."
Uzo sat with his knees pulled close. He did not argue. He took notes. He asked follow-up questions about what had failed in past efforts, and what had quietly endured. He was not just hearing their advice ,he was allowing it to become part of the foundation.
That week, he returned to the youth team with a full page of notes and a quiet fire in his eyes. No grand speeches. Just clear direction.
They sat on the cement floor of the center, papers spread around them, as they planned their next step.
The cooperative would be called "Uzoma" meaning A Good Path.
It was more than a name. It was what they were now walking toward.
They agreed on the following:
• A registered youth cooperative, beginning from their own community.
• Weekly contributions, starting with just ₦500 per member.
• Monthly general meetings, with one elder invited to observe and guide.
• A small rotating loan scheme for trusted micro-projects, capped at small amounts.
• Public accounting, printed and pasted on their noticeboard each month.
• Profits would be split: part to grow the business, and part to sustain their community center.
There was no need for a committee of experts. The first ten contributors stepped forward without pressure.
Adaeze was the first. Then Zuby. Then Ngozi. Ikenna. And six others ; some who had never led anything before but believed in what was starting.
Even a boy named Chisom, who washed keke every morning for small pay, came forward. He brought just ₦200 the first week, apologizing for not meeting the minimum.
They laughed, clapped for him, and pasted his name with joy on the wall.
"It's not how much you bring," Uzo said that day, "it's what you believe you're building."
Then came the envelope.
Mama Olumma, who never came out during meetings, sent one of her daughters quietly to the center. Inside the white envelope was ₦200,000, wrapped carefully with a note:
"This is not a gift. Let them buy something that multiplies. Let them learn how to hold money with purpose, not with pride."
The room went silent.
Adaeze was the first to speak. "It's time."
They debated well into the night, printer or business venture? Tools or trade?
Eventually, they agreed: the Ember season was approaching, and food prices would rise. They would use the money to buy bags of rice and oil, repackage them, and resell in smaller quantities to families who couldn't afford full bags but needed to prepare for visitors.
Ikenna was put in charge of procurement.
Ngozi did the repackaging calculations down to the last plastic measure.
Zuby handled the logistics from buying packaging bags to securing a place to store the goods overnight.
The rest formed teams: weighing, sealing, labeling, and recording sales.
The first month, every single repackaged unit was sold.