The garden was quiet again.
Weeks had passed since the loyalty game ended, but the air still held whispers of it soft, like a lingering perfume or a half-remembered song. The hibiscus tree had bloomed fully now, its petals dark and wide as waiting palms. Beneath its flowering shade, the woman who had been at the center of it all sat in a cushioned cane chair, draped in a peach wrapper, her silver hair unwrapped and flowing freely for the first time in years.
Mama Iroko.
Her eyes were closed, not from sleep, but from deep listening.
She could hear the soft rhythm of water being poured into a clay jug. The distant rustle of newspapers. A voice humming off-key Joy, in the inner courtyard, tending to the morning glories with a watering can that leaked at the base. The rhythm was off, but the heart was there.
Inside, Titi was folding clean towels, organizing them into labeled baskets: Evening Wraps, Therapy Cloths, Extra Sheets. Her movements were quiet and certain, as though her hands had memorized not just the items, but the peace they needed to provide.
This, Mama thought, is not just survival.
This is sanctuary.
She reached for her walking stick, then paused. Not because she needed it, but because some habits were harder to unlearn than others.
She rose slowly.
The Living Room Journal
On the center table of the Iroko family sitting room sat a thick, cloth-bound journal. Its pages were uneven, its margins filled with tiny notes and uneven sketches of leaves, teacups, even a loose sketch of Baba Kareem's cane.
At the top of the first page, written in Joy's neat handwriting, was a simple inscription:
"Moments with Mama"
The entries that followed read like poetry and confession stitched together.
Tuesday: Mama refused therapy but demanded orange juice with real pulp. She said it keeps her "bitterness in check." I made a double batch.
Thursday: She called me "Morenike," her late sister's name. I didn't correct her. Just held her hand tighter.
Sunday: I read Psalm 121 aloud. She interrupted midway to correct my pronunciation. Still correcting. Still here.
Monday: Joy left me a note in the kitchen "Don't forget to let light in." I didn't. Opened all six windows today.
Mama had read these entries many times. Sometimes she added her own.
Today she picked up the pen and wrote:
"Even the silence here is kind. I am not alone. Not anymore."
A Visit from the Past
Later that afternoon, a black Prado SUV rolled to a gentle stop at the retreat gate. The driver wore no official badge, but the tinted windows and bulletproof frame gave away the identity.
Tunde Iroko stepped out.
He wore no suit. Just a simple buba and slippers. His face looked lighter now, though still shaded by responsibility.
Joy met him halfway, bowing slightly.
"She's on the back porch," she said.
He walked slowly to where his mother sat, cradling a bowl of freshly sliced pawpaw.
She didn't look up immediately.
"You've come," she said.
He smiled. "Always."
She handed him a slice.
"Sit," she said. "Eat. And stop wearing the weight of everyone's decisions like it's part of your inheritance."
He chuckled softly. "You always did talk better than most preachers."
"And yet none of you listened when I said I was fine."
He looked down. "I'm sorry."
She nodded. "I'm not angry. I'm grateful. You gave me company that sees me… not just my illness."
He looked toward the kitchen window, where Titi stood, half-watching, half-pretending not to.
"She's steady," he said.
"She's healing," Mama replied. "And healing me, too."
A Letter from Baba Kareem
That evening, Titi entered Mama's room with a freshly brewed cup of zobo. Tucked beneath the saucer was an envelope. She placed it on the side table, then stepped out.
Mama took her time opening it.
Inside was a small handwritten note and a faded black-and-white photograph of a much younger Kareem standing beside a pregnant woman, both smiling shyly at the camera.
"Ma,
It's been a blessing watching a house become a home again.
I have returned to my grandchildren now, but I carry your garden with me.
And should the winds change again… I will come.
K."
She held the photo to her chest and whispered something the wind carried gently through the blinds.
Growth in the Garden
The weeks became months.
Joy began to keep a separate journal for herself. Not one to share, but one to track her own emotions the quiet swell of confidence, the way she no longer jumped at the sound of a raised voice.
Titi, on the other hand, had started a side project with Adunni: a local outreach program called Silent Rooms, offering pop-up rest spaces and listening circles for caregivers. "People forget the ones who hold the dying," she had said. "We must remember them too."
Farouk sent a voice note every other week, usually with small prayers and check-ins.
Cynthia sent a painting bold brush strokes of hands holding fire and water.
Chika mailed a box of handmade soaps with a note: "This isn't for Mama. It's for the girls. You're not only caretakers. You're women too."
Idowu sent no letters.
But one morning, a single package arrived: a wood carving of the hibiscus tree, smooth and tall, with a tiny inscription in Yoruba at its base:
*"Bi a ko ba mo itumo Ire, a le ju u s'ile."
(If we don't recognize grace, we may throw it away.)
The Night Light
One night, as rain tapped gently against the windowpanes, Joy sat beside Mama, massaging her feet. Titi prepared the oil blend from the herbs Adunni had left behind.
The three sat in silence.
Mama broke it softly.
"I'm not afraid of dying anymore," she said.
Titi looked up.
Joy didn't flinch.
"Why?" Joy asked.
"Because if what comes after is anything like what you've made this feel like… then it is not an end. It is a return."
She looked at both girls and added:
"You were not just the result of a loyalty game.
You were the answer to a lifetime prayer I forgot I made."
Final Lines in the Journal
Wednesday: Mama told me to write in the journal again. I told her I was tired. She said, "Then write about that." I did.
Friday: I found her outside watching birds. She said they reminded her of the friends who left too early. I held her hand. We watched together.
Monday: The garden keeps blooming. And somehow, so do we.