You’re a failure. You can’t lead people. You can’t even motivate them.”

Those words weren’t whispered—they were hurled at me, loud and clear, by someone I once worked under. Someone I respected. I smiled and nodded, but inside, something cracked.For weeks—months—that voice followed me like a shadow. Even when I was accepted into CorpsAfrica, I didn’t feel victorious. I felt afraid. What if they were right?So I arrived quietly. Not to lead. But to listen.

And I listened—to women who had learned to expect little and give everything. To laughter that masked pain. To dreams spoken like secrets. And in that silence, something remarkable happened.We began to dream together. At first, we tried to launch a group business. But the idea collapsed—many of the women didn’t believe in it. Still, I saw something different in eight of them. Determined. Hardworking. Hungry for change. So I focused on them.I organized income-generating training—starting with soap-making. Watching them learn, create, and realize they could earn from their own hands was a powerful moment. But it didn’t stop there.

When I heard of another opportunity—a training with experts from Spain on apiculture and livestock—I knew it wasn’t open to them. But I bargained. I advocated. I negotiated until they had a seat at the table.And they got it.They returned full of knowledge and bigger dreams. But dreams need a spark—a place to begin. I knew just the thing: Boer goats. A hardy, high-value breed perfect for commercial farming.

There were no speeches. No cameras. Just a soft breeze, a few tears, and the quiet birth of something bigger than all of us.This wasn’t charity. It was a legacy.And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t hear that voice saying I couldn’t lead.I just stood there, watching eleven goats graze in the sun—and smiled, knowing this was only the beginning.