The rain had come without warning.
Governor Tunde Iroko stood by the glass-paneled veranda of the ancestral house in Ikoyi, his arms folded tightly across his chest, watching as the first droplets stained the garden path. Behind him, the chatter of the household staff had faded into the background, replaced by the eerie rhythm of the rain tapping against the tiled roof. He had always loved the rain. It calmed his nerves. Until today.
A voice screamed from inside.
"Tiiiife! Mama don fall o!"
He didn't remember how he dropped his cup. He didn't hear it shatter. All he knew was the sudden blood rush in his ears and his legs moving before thought caught up with them.
He sprinted through the corridor, colliding into Auntie Yemisi by the kitchen entrance. Her eyes were wide and glassy with panic. "She was going to the bathroom she didn't call for help she just collapsed!"
Tunde's heart banged against his ribs.
Inside the sitting room, Mama Iroko lay on her side, her wrapper tangled around her legs, her white scarf loosened. A housemaid hovered uselessly nearby, her hand over her mouth.
"Mama? Mama!" Tunde knelt beside her, his breath ragged. Her eyes were open thank God but distant, like her mind hadn't caught up with her body yet. Her lips moved, but only a wheeze came out.
"She's breathing," Auntie Yemisi said quickly, crouching beside him. "But her pulse feels faint."
Tunde pressed his palm to his mother's forehead. Cold. Sweaty.
"Call Dr. Ifedayo," he snapped. "Now."
Three hours later, Mama Iroko lay in her bedroom upstairs, propped against pillows, an oxygen tube in her nose. Her silver-gray hair was wrapped tightly now, her expression calm but tired. Tunde sat by her bedside, not as a governor this time, but as a son stripped bare.
Dr. Ifedayo, the family physician of fifteen years, was folding his stethoscope back into its case. He straightened his back with a sigh and turned toward Tunde.
"She had a transient ischemic attack," he said quietly.
Tunde frowned. "A stroke?"
"A mini-stroke. The kind that warns you a bigger one is coming. We got lucky, Tunde. She'll recover with time, but the warning is loud and clear."
Tunde looked at his mother. Her eyes were closed again, her lips gently parted. She looked peaceful but fragile. Too fragile.
"What triggered it?"
Dr. Ifedayo hesitated. "She's old, yes, but that's not all. The stress. The loneliness. The emotional disconnection. It's everything, Governor. Physical health and emotional health they're tied like twins."
"I've given her everything. This house. A full staff. A private nurse."
"And none of them have her heart," the doctor said pointedly.
Tunde glanced up, caught off-guard.
Dr. Ifedayo sighed. "Your mother isn't just aging. She's grieving. She's withering. She needs someone who will not just check her vitals but check her spirit. Someone present, attentive. Loyal."
"You mean a therapist?"
"I mean a caregiver. A real one. Not just paid hands. Someone with soul, with time. Someone she trusts. Someone who won't treat her like a duty."
Tunde was quiet.
"I know what you're thinking," the doctor continued. "How can someone care enough if money is involved, right? But it's not about the salary. It's about why they take the job."
Tunde's jaw tightened. "So what do you suggest?"
"You find someone different. Not just medically trained. Not just clean on paper. You find someone who sees her. Who'll wake up every morning and remember that her life still has meaning."
He looked back at Mama Iroko.
"Someone who treats her like she matters."
By the time Dr. Ifedayo left, the rain had stopped, but a storm had begun inside Tunde's mind.
He sat in the lounge alone, staring at the fireless hearth. Outside, dusk crawled over Lagos, painting the streets a melancholy shade of gold.
He had risen through the ranks of politics by always having a plan. A backup to the backup. And yet here he was Governor of Lagos State, leader of innovation reforms, builder of healthcare programs and he couldn't keep his mother from slipping through his fingers.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
He picked up the landline.
"Get me Adunni," he told his aide. "Now."
Adunni Balogun was his cousin, but she was also his unofficial gatekeeper, trusted with matters too sensitive for public ears. She arrived within the hour, her laptop under her arm, her expression curious but calm.
"What's happened?" she asked, slipping into the seat across from him.
"Mama collapsed. Mini-stroke. She's stable now, but Dr. Ifedayo says she's emotionally vulnerable. Needs someone with presence. Someone she can lean on."
Adunni's brows pinched.
"She doesn't like staff," she said. "They're too formal. Too clinical."
"I know. That's why I want something else."
"What are you thinking?"
Tunde leaned forward.
"I want to create a contract. A $6,000 monthly care position. Full housing, medical, security clearance. But they can't just apply and walk in. They have to earn it."
Adunni raised a brow.
"How?"
He exhaled slowly.
"A loyalty game. A test."
She tilted her head.
"Not just tests of skill. Tests of heart. We watch them. Study them. Give them choices, temptations, trials. We'll know who's in it for more than money."
Adunni stared at him. "You want to run an emotional survival competition for a nurse?"
"No," Tunde said. "For her nurse. Her companion. Her protector."
"And if no one passes?"
"Then we keep searching. Or I do it myself."
Adunni looked at him. Really looked. "She'd never want that. You're already cracking under the weight of everything."
"I owe her more than comfort," Tunde said. "I owe her the right person."
He stood up, crossing to the fireplace. His father had died ten years ago. Mama Iroko had never remarried, never even looked twice at another man. All she had loved, she'd buried. And now time was threatening to bury her, too.
"No politics. No spotlight," he continued. "We'll invite a few reputable families privately. Ask them to send in candidates. And also post the call publicly. Anyone can apply."
Adunni nodded slowly. "And the game?"
"I want a retreat. Three days. Cameras in place. Psych evaluation. Empathy tests. Stress tests. Loyalty scenarios. Mama will be the final judge."
"She'll be involved?"
He turned and met her eyes. "This is her story too. I won't choose someone for her. She'll see who's worthy."
Adunni opened her laptop.
"Then let's build a challenge they'll never forget."
That night, Mama Iroko awoke with a soft moan. The nurse rushed to her side, checking the monitors.
Tunde came in quietly, still in his day clothes. He took her hand gently.
"Don't go anywhere, Mama," he whispered. "Your story isn't done. I'll find the one who's meant to walk you through the rest."
Her eyelids fluttered, and just before closing again, she whispered back:
"Don't bring me someone who pities me, Tife. Bring me someone who sees me."