The night air was heavy with quiet.
After the theft accusation and its unsettling resolution, tension hung in the retreat like perfume no one had asked for. Conversations dropped to whispers. Eyes scanned one another with new calculations. Even the koi pond seemed still, as if waiting to see who would crack first.
And then the announcement came.
Adunni appeared in the common area, holding a single sheet of paper.
"There will be no group activities tonight," she said. "Instead, each of you will meet one-on-one with a special guest. There is no interview. No test. Simply, a chair, a question, and a moment of truth."
Some blinked in confusion.
"Each of you will be led individually to the garden," she continued. "There, you will meet a woman. You may speak with her for up to fifteen minutes. What you share is up to you. But remember: silence can be as loud as confession."
With that, she turned and left.
One by one, the guests were called. No one knew what the others were saying. No one was told who the guest really was.
But each met her Aunty Kike, seated in a plain wooden chair beneath the massive Iroko tree, her limp subtly exaggerated, her eyes soft and deceptively ordinary.
Mama Iroko listened as the truth spilled, in fragments and in floods.
1. Joy Obiakor
She arrived with shoulders tight, hands clasped, scarf tucked securely into her collar.
"I never planned to be here," Joy admitted, voice calm. "I wanted to be a gospel singer. But my mother fell ill and there was no one else."
She paused, then smiled slightly.
"I learned to bathe her hands before I learned to drive. I cleaned her bedsores while my friends were dating bankers. When she died, I stayed in that world. Not because I love the smell of Dettol, but because I know what it means to be seen as an inconvenience."
She looked at Aunty Kike, eyes softening.
"So if I'm here, it's because I believe some people deserve more than 'just care.' They deserve to be witnessed."
Mama Iroko nodded once. "Thank you."
Joy left quietly.
2. Remi Alade
He sat cross-legged again, arms resting on his thighs.
"I come from a family where men don't cry. But I wept when my first patient died."
He chuckled.
"She was a poet. Eighty-three. Could barely speak. But she'd hum, soft little Yoruba lullabies. I started writing them down. I still have the notebook."
He looked around at the garden.
"People think care is about competence. But it's really about rhythm. Can you breathe at someone else's pace for long enough to make them feel like they're not a burden?"
Mama tilted her head. "And have you?"
"Not always," he said quietly. "But I try."
She smiled. "Keep trying."
3. Titi Ayeni
She stepped carefully, holding her photo frame under her arm.
"My grandmother raised me. She was the kind of woman who believed punishment was a form of love. Until she got sick."
She sat, voice low.
"I took care of her for three years. She died in my arms. Not thanking me. Not smiling. Just… tired."
She swallowed.
"Sometimes I wonder if she ever forgave me for being too slow. Or too sad. Or for not being enough."
She met Aunty Kike's eyes.
"This job… if I get it… maybe it's my way of asking for forgiveness from a ghost who never said goodbye."
Mama reached out, touched her hand briefly.
"You are enough."
Titi cried, just a little.
4. Farouk Olayemi
He was hesitant, but honest.
"I take care of my brother," he said. "Kayode. He doesn't speak, but he sees everything. One day, he looked at me just looked and I knew I couldn't leave him behind again."
He smiled faintly.
"I applied for this because I need the money. But I stayed through all this because I know what it feels like to be afraid to sleep, in case the one you're caring for disappears in the night."
He looked down.
"I won't lie. I don't know if I'm the best. But I know I'll never walk out on someone who needs me."
Mama listened. Then she whispered: "That may be all anyone really wants."
5. Cynthia Umeh
She sat stiffly, arms crossed.
"I don't like tests."
Mama said nothing.
Cynthia shifted.
"I came from a home where everyone lied. About love. About loyalty. So I learned early never show too much."
She exhaled.
"But the truth is… I'm scared. Of getting close. Of failing someone fragile. Of being told I'm not warm enough. Or worse, being too warm and being betrayed for it."
Silence.
"And yet… here I am."
Aunty Kike reached for the scarf on her lap and folded it again. Cynthia watched her.
"That means something, right?" Cynthia asked, voice barely audible.
"Yes," Mama said. "You stayed."
6. Baba Kareem
He walked slowly but with dignity, resting in the seat as if it were a familiar throne.
"I buried my wife five years ago. I cared for her through breast cancer. Every day. Every mood. Every scream. Every silence."
He looked up at the sky.
"People think age makes you tired. No. It's loss that bends the spine."
Mama nodded, silent.
He smiled.
"I came here not to work. But to help one of these young ones see that patience is not weakness. It is courage stretched over time."
He stood again.
"And if I'm not chosen, that's alright. But may the one who is… walk gently."
7. Chika Mbanefo
She arrived with perfume trailing her like a business card.
"I know what people think," she said quickly. "That I'm fake. Or too pretty. Or not serious."
Mama said nothing.
Chika leaned forward.
"But they don't know that I slept on the floor of a hospital ward for two weeks caring for a dying aunt. They don't know I used to read to my cousin until he fell asleep, and only stopped when he couldn't hear me anymore."
She sniffed.
"I act big so people don't look too close. Because when they do, they find a scared girl who just wants to mean something."
Mama didn't speak for a while.
Then: "Let someone see her. Not the girl you invented but the one you buried."
Chika wiped her eyes.
8. Idowu Benson
He sat without speaking for almost a full minute.
Then he looked straight ahead.
"I've seen death."
Pause.
"Combat nurse. Northern frontlines. I stitched children who looked like my own niece. I held the hands of strangers with half a face left."
He clenched his fist.
"So now, I care… differently. Not loudly. Not gently. But wholly. If I show too much, I lose control."
He turned to her.
"But I stay. Even when it breaks me. I stay."
Mama touched his shoulder.
"Even silent men need rest."
He bowed his head.
At midnight, the final meeting ended.
The candidates returned to their rooms. Some cried. Some journaled. Some lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
And in her room, Mama Iroko removed her disguise, washed her face, and sat beside her window.
She had heard their fears.
She had tasted their truths.
Tomorrow, they would be tested one last time.
But tonight, they had already revealed who they truly were.