In Elegosi, some mountains are not made of stone. They are made of silence, of secrets buried beneath power, of words spoken only behind mahogany doors. Mount Akabọ was such a mountain.
To the casual eye, it was merely a plateau wrapped in mist and crowned with a retreat lodge. But for those who knew, Akabọ was where Omeuzu held its most sacred meetings. It was on this mountain that careers were made or murdered. It was here, two years ago, that Odogwu's fate had been sealed with polished pens and perfumed silence.
And now, the mountain was ready to sing.
Dr. Amaka Ojeh returned to Akabọ on a Saturday afternoon, accompanied by a skeleton crew of senior managers. Her face was well-painted, but the bags beneath her eyes betrayed weeks of unrest. Omeuzu was bleeding. Public image had cracked. Internally, staff were exiting in waves, whispering the same name like a psalm—Odogwu.
She stepped out of the black SUV and inhaled.
"I need answers," she said.
No one replied.
Because everyone already knew the answer.
They had gambled a man's legacy for convenience. And now, their empire had termites in the walls.
Inside the summit chamber, the past echoed off the bamboo walls. The same room where they had sat in leather chairs, sipping herbal tea, casually discussing who to keep and who to cut.
"His ideas are too 'rootsy,'" Felix had said back then, brushing lint off his suit. "We need people who speak boardroom, not backyard."
Zainab, VP of Strategic Growth, had agreed. "He's respected, but not indispensable. No one man is."
Obasuyi, the board chair, had said nothing. He didn't need to. His silence was a stamp.
That day, Odogwu's name was crossed off the ledger.
And that day, the mountain remembered.
Now, that silence had returned—but with teeth.
Felix paced the veranda, reading off the latest internal attrition report. "We've lost another nine staff to Oru. Two from communications, three from programs, and—get this—our innovation team lead."
Zainab looked up from her phone. "And? We've poached before. The cycle goes both ways."
"Not like this," Felix muttered. "This is different."
Because it wasn't just staff leaving.
It was partners, funders, and now even beneficiaries who were turning away from Omeuzu.
They were citing "disconnection from roots," "lack of authenticity," and one phrase that stung worst of all:
"No longer trusted to hold African futures."
Across town, Odogwu stood in the atrium of The Remembering Place, speaking to a quiet circle of young social entrepreneurs.
"When they let me go," he began, "I thought I'd failed. I begged God not to let me become the laughingstock of Amaedukwu. But what I didn't know was this: being broken was a kind of enrollment. I was being signed up for something bigger."
They listened, eyes wide.
"I was not fired," he said. "I was freed."
Back on Akabọ, Dr. Ojeh's voice cut through the room like a whip.
"We are not here to cry over spilled palm oil," she snapped. "We're here to clean the floor. What is the recovery strategy?"
No one spoke.
Because no one knew.
Everything they'd built was now being measured against a man they had deemed irrelevant.
Obasuyi finally spoke.
"We will need to consider reconciliation."
Felix scoffed. "You want us to invite him back? After everything?"
Zainab added, "He has his own empire now. What would we offer that he doesn't already have?"
Dr. Ojeh was silent.
She was remembering a speech Odogwu once gave—six years ago, during the launch of the rural literacy initiative.
"Don't build tables that only your voice can sit at," he'd said.
"Build circles wide enough for the people you forgot. Because one day, the one you dismissed might be the one you'll need to remember you."
She had smiled politely then.
But now, the words felt like prophecy.
Later that evening, a letter arrived on her desk. It had no signature.
Just a sentence, typed in bold:
"You taught us to believe in community. Then you abandoned its loudest believer."
And attached to the bottom?
A copy of Odogwu's termination letter, circled in red.
Word on the street was that a staff whistleblower had leaked it to several partner organizations—complete with commentary about how Omeuzu had silenced his proposals for indigenous innovation, only to adopt watered-down versions years later.
The shame spread fast.
Meanwhile, Odogwu was hosting regional leaders in Oru's new Eastern Hub.
He walked them through a forest retreat center powered by solar and rainwater, built entirely by local masons.
A local king leaned over and whispered, "This is not a hotel, my son. This is heritage."
Odogwu smiled.
Because he knew that Omeuzu would see the feature in the coming Sunday paper—complete with glossy photos and footnotes on how Odogwu had hired dozens of ex-Omeuzu interns to build the site.
He didn't need revenge.
He only needed them to know.
Back on Akabọ, the mountain grew cold.
Felix opened a fresh email from a major donor.
They were pausing their funding until "integrity issues" were reviewed.
Felix clenched his jaw.
"Do you know what this means?" he asked.
Obasuyi nodded grimly.
"It means the bell we rang for his exit… is now ringing us awake."