The Iroko family didn't grow quietly they branched.
From Mama Iroko's late husband's lineage alone, over forty blood relatives scattered across Nigeria and beyond bore the Iroko name in their resumes, their LinkedIn bios, and in whispered connections used to get contracts and appointments.
So when the Governor's caregiver call went public, it didn't take long before the extended family came knocking not out of concern, but with recommendations, opinions, and expectations.
Tunde regretted inviting them to the house the moment the third SUV pulled into the driveway.
In the drawing room, the air thickened with perfume, cologne, and posturing. The couch creaked under Uncle Bankole's weight as he leaned forward dramatically.
"My daughter, Ronke, just returned from England," he said, puffing out his chest. "Mental health and geriatric care. She's calm, cultured, and of our blood. You can't trust outsiders with Mama's condition."
Beside him, Ronke smiled thinly, her iPad tucked under her arm like a badge. She wore beige scrubs she clearly hadn't worked a real shift in. Tunde offered a polite nod but didn't write her name down.
Across from them, Aunty Funmilayo—Mama Iroko's cousin cut in. "If it's about loyalty, why not someone raised within us? My house girl, Esther, has cared for my father since his prostate surgery. Humble girl. Devout. And no British accent to hide a lack of heart."
Ronke glared. "This isn't about prayer warriors, Aunty. It's professional care."
"And prayer is not professional?"
Tunde rubbed his temple. "Ladies please."
Another uncle stood up, wagging his finger. "The moment money entered it, the entire thing changed. $6,000 a month? You think your cousins won't fight for that? We know politics, Tunde. That 'application form' is just window dressing. Just pick one of us and end this."
Tunde raised his eyes slowly. "If you believe that, you don't know me at all."
"Don't be naive," Bankole snapped. "You want your mother to be watched by strangers? Someone from Mushin that you found on Facebook?"
"She could be from Mushin, Canada, or Ife," Tunde replied evenly. "What matters is whether she's right for Mama not whether she's our blood."
A heavy silence fell.
Ronke broke it. "So what's the criteria, then? What are you really looking for?"
Tunde didn't answer right away. He stood, walked to the fireplace, and pulled out a slim envelope from a drawer. Inside were the eight names chosen already. The names none of the room would see.
He returned it to the drawer.
"If you want to help," he said quietly, "don't bring me a résumé. Bring me someone who won't flinch when Mama cries. Someone who stays in the room even when there's nothing left to fix."
That night, after the guests left in a storm of perfume and disappointment, Tunde joined Mama in her quiet sitting room. The storm had passed, but the air still buzzed with the residue of family tension.
Mama sipped her pap slowly, then looked at him over the rim of the cup.
"They've come, haven't they?"
He smiled faintly. "In their Sunday best. With candidates who probably practiced how to smile before coming in."
She chuckled. "Did they suggest Ronke?"
"Of course."
"She treats her own grandmother like a voicemail heard but never answered."
Tunde laughed. "You've been watching."
"I always watch," Mama said softly. "Even when no one thinks I'm looking."
She grew quiet. "Family is not always the safest place to heal. Sometimes, they mistake proximity for love."
"I know."
"You'll be tempted to protect me with names you know. But don't. Protect me with presence. With depth. With someone who sees me as more than your mother."
Tunde sat beside her. "I've already chosen the eight, Mama. They're coming in two days."
She touched his hand.
"Then let the house become a mirror. Let it show each of them to themselves."
Across town, in a sleek apartment in Lekki Phase 1, Ronke poured herself a glass of wine and dropped onto her cream leather couch.
She wasn't used to rejection.
Not by family. Not by governors. Not by life.
She had expected her presentation to work. Her qualifications were impeccable. Her accent polished. Her demeanor composed.
And yet Tunde hadn't written her name down.
Which meant she was not one of the eight.
She sipped the wine, narrowed her eyes, and picked up her phone.
If she couldn't get in the front door, she'd find a side entrance.
She tapped into one of the forums quietly circulating around the recruitment buzz a private Telegram channel where whispers flowed freely.
Someone had leaked that the finalists would be arriving at a compound outside Epe by Saturday morning.
Ronke smiled coldly.
Let the game begin.
Meanwhile, Adunni sat in her apartment, finalizing the roles for the "loyalty retreat." Every candidate would be placed in rooms watched by hidden cameras. They'd encounter scripted but emotionally authentic situations:
A staged conflict with a stubborn housemaid.
A confused elderly guest (played by an actor) wandering into their space at midnight.
A scenario involving a falsely accused theft.
But the hardest test?
Day two.
They would each be approached by Mama herself but dressed as a cleaner named "Aunty Kike," in plain Ankara, no makeup, no jewelry, and a limp.
No one would know she was the true matriarch.
Their treatment of her in this state would decide more than any CV could.
Adunni paused and whispered to herself: "Let them reveal themselves."
She clicked SEND on the retreat schedule.
It had begun.
By Friday night, the final eight had been contacted. They each received a nondescript envelope at their door delivered by hand, with no return address.
Inside: A printed letter, a set of packing instructions, and one message:
"Bring an object that matters to your soul. You will be seen."
In Yaba, Titi Ayeni opened hers and stared at the line. Her eyes drifted toward the photo frame on her desk her late grandmother, holding Titi as a baby.
She reached for it.
In Port Harcourt, Joy Obiakor packed a scarf her mother's last gift.
In Surulere, Farouk hesitated, then tucked in a tiny origami bird one his brother had folded years ago with surprising clarity.
Eight people. Eight lives.
Each about to enter the test of truth not for medicine, but for meaning.
And in the shadows, Mama Iroko smiled softly as she folded her disguise into a plain cloth bag.
Let the loyalty game begin.