The morning sun filtered through the gauze curtains, casting gentle gold lines across the pale walls of the recovery room. For the first time in two days, the estate was quiet too quiet. No servants moving with hurried feet. No whispers trailing in the hallway. Just the steady beeping of Mama Iroko's heart monitor and the occasional creak of age in the house's bones.
Mama was awake, propped up with two pillows behind her, a silk headscarf snugly tied. Her skin, though pale from the stroke, glowed with its natural softness. In her lap sat an old book of Yoruba poetry, open to a page she'd stopped pretending to read.
She didn't look up when she spoke.
"I'm not dead yet, Tife."
Tunde, sitting quietly in the armchair beside her bed, smiled without lifting his eyes from the newspaper.
"I noticed," he replied. "Still scaring the whole house like a Yoruba deity at midnight."
She chuckled softly, then sighed. "Maybe I needed to fall, so you'd all stop pretending I'm made of marble."
Tunde folded the paper and set it aside. "You're not made of marble. You're made of fire and clay."
"Same as you," she murmured. "But fire fades, Tife. Clay cracks."
There was a long pause between them, filled only by the rhythm of machines and distant birdsong.
Tunde shifted. "We're doing something."
"Oh?"
"I spoke with Adunni. We're putting out a call for a new caregiver."
Mama raised an eyebrow. "Another stranger? To smile in my face and report to someone else behind my back?"
"This one will be different. We'll run a retreat. A test. Loyalty. Empathy. Patience. We're not choosing based on degrees."
She turned to face him fully. "You think you can measure compassion with a clipboard?"
"No. But I can design a storm and see who walks through it calmly."
That made her smile. Not because she agreed, but because she knew that tone. Tunde the strategist was awake now. "How many?"
"Dozens will apply. We'll select eight to ten finalists. One will win the contract."
"Six thousand dollars a month?"
Tunde nodded.
Her smile faded. "That's enough money to make liars out of saints."
"I know."
"Then you must look beyond the answers. Look at how they wait. Look at how they sit when no one is watching. That's when truth leaks out."
He leaned forward. "Will you help us choose?"
Mama's eyes softened. "So you're giving me back my voice?"
"You never lost it. I just forgot how sharp it still is."
Silence again. Then she lifted the poetry book from her lap and closed it gently.
"I want someone who can sit through silence with me. Who won't try to fill every space with words or pity. Someone who isn't afraid of my body changing. Or of watching me cry."
"You'll meet them all, Mama. We'll design it around what you want. What you need."
"What I need," she said slowly, "is someone who won't treat this job like a waiting room before death."
Tunde's breath hitched.
"I want someone who talks to me like I have years ahead. Who challenges me. Who reminds me that even the dying are still alive."
He reached over and gently took her hand. "Then we'll wait for that one. Even if it takes time."
Her voice softened to a whisper. "I don't have time, Tife."
"You do. Because I said so. And because I still owe you a daughter."
That earned another chuckle. "Bring me the caregiver first. We'll talk matchmaking later."
A gentle knock came at the door. Adunni stepped in, holding a slim brown folder and a tablet. She paused when she saw Mama awake and alert.
"Ah! Madam, your strength returns like a queen's coronation."
"Stop your flattery and show me what's in your hand," Mama said, gesturing toward the folder.
Adunni smiled. "We've drafted the structure for the retreat. The loyalty challenge. Three days, closed compound. Psychological observation and controlled trials. We'll release the announcement in forty-eight hours."
"And people will come?" Mama asked.
"They already are," Adunni said. "Medical professionals, nurses, therapists. Some see it as a job. Others see it as a calling. A few see it as a goldmine. We'll separate them soon enough."
"Good," Mama said. "And what do they know about me?"
"Only what you want them to know," Tunde said. "They'll meet you… but not immediately."
Mama nodded. "I want to see them when they think no one's watching."
"That's already planned," Adunni added. "We'll stage some interactions. A few actors. Some emotional curveballs. But the real test is in how they treat people they think are 'beneath' them."
Mama tapped the blanket over her lap. "Then add one more test."
Adunni raised an eyebrow.
"Bring me in unannounced. As someone ordinary. Dressed plainly. No jewelry. I want to talk to them in disguise so I can hear their true hearts."
Tunde's eyes lit up. "Yes. Brilliant."
Mama's voice dropped to a whisper. "Let me see who calls me 'Aunty' and who sees me as 'just work.' Let me taste their truth before they know I matter."
Adunni scribbled furiously into her notebook. "We'll make it happen. The moment they enter, we'll begin recording. Every second is data. Every silence is insight."
Mama sighed and closed her eyes again. "Don't look for perfection. Look for presence. Even if they're flawed, find me someone who chooses to stay."
Tunde leaned over and kissed her forehead.
"You always did know what mattered most."