If building dreams was easy, everyone would be sleeping in mansions. But dreams, true ones, attract both builders and shadows.
As the land at Ifelo rumbled with the sound of clearing and foundation work, Odogwu found himself walking deeper into a forest of unseen eyes and quiet enemies.
The builders had arrived—bare-chested young men with cracked heels and hard laughter. The lead mason, Baba Jibola, was an old man with skin like cowhide and hands that measured bricks by feel. Every morning, he knelt at the edge of the soil, poured libation from a kola-stained gourd, and whispered, "May these hands not raise what will collapse our names."
To Odogwu, this was the kind of faith he believed in—earth-rooted and deeply felt.
The project took shape like a song composed in clay. The rooms began to rise, each bearing a proverb etched in its lintel:
"A traveler who remembers home never gets lost.""The mat that welcomes the stranger gathers many blessings.""Even the snail reaches the forest—eventually."
The workers ate lunch under palm trees, discussing the spirits of the land. Every tile laid was a prayer. Every nail hammered, a heartbeat.
But for every stone placed, a new whisper emerged from the shadows.
One morning, as Odogwu arrived with a fresh batch of blueprints, he found the entrance gate smeared with ashes and charcoal—an old Elegosi curse.
It wasn't meant to destroy. It was meant to warn.
Baba Jibola, upon seeing it, grunted. "It is not always the spirits. Sometimes it is jealous men pretending to be spirits."
Odogwu didn't flinch. He only asked for soap and water, and washed the gate himself.
"I am not afraid of ghosts," he said. "I've dined with living men more dangerous."
But privately, he grew cautious.
His uncle Ebube began locking the gate earlier at night.
Ngozi called from Abuja. "I'm hearing rumors, Odu. Some people think your platform is disrupting 'traditional channels.' They say you're too noisy. Too clean. Too loud."
"Too clean?" Odogwu asked.
"Yes. You're making them look like shadows."
He paused.
"Then let them step into the light," he said.
A few days later, Odogwu received a letter from the Local Government Authority, marked URGENT.
It accused him of building on ancestral land without proper permits.
But Odogwu had the receipts.
He visited the council office the next morning, clutching maps, receipts, stamped documents.
The officer behind the desk didn't even look up.
"Ah, Mr. Oru. There's a small processing error. Very small. But to correct it, we'll need a facilitation."
"How much?"
The man smiled. "Two million."
Odogwu didn't blink.
"I will not pay a bribe. My documents are clean. And if this project dies, the community will come for your head before they come for mine."
The officer's smile faded.
"You are bold."
"No. I am tired."
That evening, the officer called.
"Your papers have been verified. You may proceed."
Odogwu said thank you. But inside, he noted a new truth: boldness is its own currency.
As the pilot site neared roofing, journalists came calling.
One of them, a young woman named Aisha Bey, requested a documentary-style interview.
She was fresh from film school in Nairobi and had heard about Ọdịmma through an Instagram reel that Zuru—the bird-speaking guide—had posted.
"We want to tell the story of Oru from the soil up," she said. "From Amaedukwu to Elegosi."
Odogwu smiled.
"Then you must speak to my father."
They traveled together to Amaedukwu that weekend.
Orie was now older, slower, but still sharp as a machete on new yam festival day. He met Aisha with a firm handshake and a quiet warning.
"Young lady, you want to tell a story? Then listen, don't just record. Our stories are shy. You must coax them."
She did.
They sat under the udala tree, and Orie spoke.
"My son was not always strong. But he was always stubborn. He asked more questions than a village elder's council. Sometimes we had to beg him to sleep."
He pointed at Odogwu and said, "He does not fear suffering. But I pray he does not suffer fools."
That evening, Aisha said to Odogwu, "You are not just building hotels. You are building mirrors."
But while praise came from near and far, the shadows did not stop.
One of the construction trucks delivering eco-friendly insulation materials was hijacked and looted.
The driver returned bruised, ashamed.
"I tried, oga," he said. "They said I was delivering the future. And they didn't want that future to arrive."
Odogwu thanked him, gave him three weeks' pay, and arranged security for future deliveries.
In a private meeting with Madam Bolade, he shared his worries.
"This city is not just hard—it's haunted."
She leaned forward. "Then make sure your foundation holds. The winds will come, Odogwu. But if your roots are deep, you'll survive."
She handed him a folder.
"Use this. A contact at the Central Bank. They're looking into heritage-aligned ventures. Don't just build a hotel chain. Build an ecosystem."
Inspired, Odogwu began the next phase: the Oru Guild—a network of local artisans, tour guides, chefs, and historians who would form the operating heart of each Oru hotel.
He drafted a charter: fair pay, profit-sharing, free training, and cultural recognition.
He announced it at a small gathering in Elegosi's National Museum.
"To those who build with their hands, who create with their tongues, who pass down fire through stories—we welcome you. Not as staff. But as shareholders in pride."
The applause shook the walls.
But just as the roof of the Ifelo site was being set, Baba Jibola collapsed.
The workers said it was exhaustion. Others whispered that the spirits had been offended. Still, Odogwu took no chances. He brought in herbalists, priests, even a medical team.
Jibola recovered. But his words were haunting.
"I saw a tree in my dream. Its roots were being chewed by rats in suits."
Odogwu understood.
The next day, he sent letters to three whistleblowers still working in Omeuzu—anonymously inviting them to help him build a new code of ethics for Oru's internal governance.
Each one accepted.
By the end of that quarter, the pilot Oru Hotel in Ifelo stood tall.
Not fancy. Not flamboyant.
But honest.
At the soft launch, Odogwu wore a plain native and stood beside his father.
As guests arrived—from bloggers to cultural icons—he said to them:
"This is not the finish line. This is the beginning of a longer walk. You are welcome, not just to sleep. But to remember."
From the shadows, a tall man in black suit observed. His eyes narrow. His phone camera recording.
Back at his office, he uploaded the footage to an encrypted server.
The subject line read:
"Oru Phase One Completed. Prepare Counter Move."