Monday came clothed in clouds and uncertainty. Odogwu stood in front of the mirror nailed to the wall beside his mat, brushing imaginary dust from his shirt. It was the same shirt he had worn for two previous interviews, freshly washed, ironed with a bottle filled with hot water, and perfumed with a few sprays from Uncle Ebube's near-empty cologne.
He ran his palm over his hair, picked up his file, and whispered, "Let this day be the seed. Even if it starts small, let it grow."
By 7:00 a.m., he was already at Omeuzu Group. The security men at the gate looked at him with curious eyes. He smiled, greeted them politely, and walked in with steady steps. Though his heart pounded like a masquerade drum, he remembered his father's words:
"Even if the cock's legs are thin, it still walks like it owns the morning."
He reported to the second floor where Mr. Tunde was already seated, tapping on a keyboard with military discipline.
"You're early," the man said without looking up.
"My village taught me that lateness is the first step toward failure."
Mr. Tunde finally looked at him. "Hmm. Sit down."
A few minutes later, two other interns arrived—a soft-spoken lady named Ngozi, and a tall, fast-talking guy called Sunkanmi who chewed gum like it was his enemy.
Their first task was simple—arrange survey documents by state, demographic, and sector. The files had been dumped in a room that looked like a forgotten storeroom: dusty boxes, stapled reports, torn folders.
Ngozi winced. "This is punishment."
Sunkanmi scoffed. "This is what they give unpaid interns."
But Odogwu smiled. "If they asked us to arrange dirt, I would find a way to shine it."
He knelt, wiped a space on the floor, and began.
Within hours, he had developed a color-coded labeling system. He sorted not only by location and topic, but also flagged missing reports, duplicate records, and unprocessed data. He wrote a one-page summary and stapled it on the wall beside the sorted shelves.
By Friday, Mr. Tunde came to check on their progress.
He walked in, blinked, and looked around.
"Who did all this?"
Odogwu stepped forward. "Sir, we thought it would help if the files were not only sorted but analyzed for use."
Mr. Tunde didn't say anything at first. Then he walked to the cabinet, picked one folder, and flipped through.
He turned to Ngozi and Sunkanmi. "You two can go home. Odogwu, follow me."
Odogwu followed the man through a maze of corridors, passing offices filled with serious faces and serious scents. They arrived at a room with a long glass table. There were four people seated inside, including a man in a grey suit who radiated authority. That was Mr. Adewale, the Director of Innovation.
"This is the intern?" the man asked without looking at him.
"Yes, sir," said Tunde.
Odogwu stood with both hands clasped before him like a respectful son. He did not smile too much. Just enough.
"Sit," Adewale said.
The others in the room were middle managers, clearly curious about this newcomer who had been summoned to their hallowed room.
"Mr. Odogwu," the Director said. "Tell us how you would design a research framework to find out why people in Elegosi prefer imported rice over local brands."
It was a test. A casual, off-the-cuff challenge. A test he had not prepared for.
But Odogwu did not panic.
He leaned forward slightly.
"Sir, first we must segment the consumers—urban vs. rural, income brackets, purchasing frequency. Then understand the taste perceptions, cooking preferences, price sensitivities. I would use focus groups to gather stories and surveys for quantifiable metrics. Finally, I'd visit markets to observe point-of-sale behaviors."
He paused.
"And I would speak to the women. They know more about rice than the men who import it."
The room chuckled.
Mr. Adewale nodded. "Sharp."
By the time Odogwu left the room, the first rung had been climbed.
Later that day, Tunde handed him a visitor's pass with his name written boldly in ink.
"You'll start supporting the real team from Monday. Don't let this get into your head."
Odogwu bowed slightly. "Sir, when the yam grows, it bends. Not the other way round."
That night, he walked back to his uncle's compound with shoulders lifted but steps still measured. He didn't tell Ebube the full story. Just that he was now assisting the innovation team.
Ebube raised an eyebrow. "Hmph. Just make sure they don't use you like firewood. Burn you today, forget you tomorrow."
But Odogwu smiled. He knew better.
"Even firewood leaves behind ash," he said inwardly. "And ash becomes part of the soil that grows the next forest."
At dawn, he woke up before the first cock crowed, sat outside under the neem tree beside the gutter, and wrote in his notebook:
Day 5 at Omeuzu: A file room led to a boardroom. The door did not open itself—I pushed gently, with clean hands and steady feet. This is not yet the journey. But the path has begun to appear. I must not stumble while the light is still faint.