The estate dimmed earlier than usual that night.
No scheduled activities. No group tasks. Just a simple message delivered to each room, handwritten in blue ink:
"Tonight, come as you are. No uniforms. No scripts. Just truth."
Aunty Kike
One by one, the finalists emerged from their rooms some in slippers, others barefoot, one still clutching her prayer beads. The entire estate was unusually quiet, as if the walls themselves were listening.
A soft trail of lanterns had been placed through the corridor and into the back garden. There, beneath the flowering tree called "Olumide" named by Mama Iroko herself a single chair waited beside another.
A small wooden sign read:
"Sit. Speak. Listen."
Each candidate would come alone. And in that garden, Mama Iroko still cloaked in her disguise as "Aunty Kike" would ask one question.
Not to judge. But to understand.
The First to Arrive – Titi
Titi stepped into the garden wearing a plain Ankara wrapper, the kind her grandmother once wore. Her hair was tied back in a modest scarf, her hands clasped in front of her.
Mama sat waiting in her wrapper too, eyes crinkled but sharp behind her glasses.
"Sit, child."
Titi obeyed.
For a long moment, neither said a word.
Then Mama asked, quietly, "What did you lose that made you so quiet?"
Titi blinked.
"My mother. When I was nineteen."
"How did she die?"
"Kidney failure. Took months. She forgot how to laugh before she forgot how to breathe."
Mama closed her eyes briefly.
"And what would you tell her now?"
Titi's voice cracked. "That I forgive her for being afraid."
Mama reached over and touched her hand. "Fear and strength live side by side, my dear. You've inherited both."
Remi
He walked in stiffly, almost too composed.
Mama studied him.
"You are always so tidy," she said. "Why?"
He smirked, sitting. "Because my father believed that mess was a sign of weakness."
"And is it?"
"I don't know anymore. But I do know that order helps me breathe."
She tilted her head. "So if my body becomes unpredictable, messy, and unmanageable… will you be able to breathe then?"
Remi hesitated.
Then nodded, slowly. "I think I've been training for that my whole life."
Joy
Joy entered with trembling fingers.
She didn't sit immediately. She looked at the tree. The wind.
"It's beautiful here."
Mama said nothing.
Then Joy asked, "Will you die soon?"
The question hung heavy.
"I don't know," Mama said honestly.
Joy finally sat. "I don't think I'm afraid of your death. I'm afraid of mine. The kind where you're still breathing, but your heart is already gone."
"And has that happened to you before?"
Joy nodded, silent tears forming. "Too many times."
Mama reached into her wrapper and handed her a small handkerchief.
"The first sign you're still alive is when someone offers you a hand," she whispered.
Farouk
He walked in slowly. His limp more visible tonight.
Mama noticed. "What happened to your leg?"
"An accident. Long time ago."
"Still hurts?"
"Yes. Mostly when I pretend it doesn't."
Mama smiled faintly. "That's when pain is loudest."
Farouk sat.
Then Mama asked, "What's the one thing you wish your brother knew?"
"That I forgive him for needing me."
They sat quietly after that. Words weren't needed.
Cynthia
She walked in guarded. Chin high. Sleeves rolled.
Mama raised an eyebrow.
"Fighting again?"
"Always," Cynthia said.
"Why?"
"Because if I stop, I might fall apart."
Mama looked at her for a long time.
Then asked, "When was the last time someone held you while you cried?"
Cynthia's lip trembled. "I don't remember."
Mama stood, walked around, and pulled her into an embrace.
Cynthia collapsed into her.
Sometimes silence says what mouths can't.
Chika
She walked in with hesitation. Her hair perfectly done. Her perfume subtle. Her eyes wary.
Mama motioned. "Sit."
Chika sat delicately.
"Why are you here?"
Chika swallowed. "Honestly? At first, because my mother told me to."
"And now?"
Chika looked down. "Because I'm tired of performing strength I don't have. Tired of being told to be useful in ways that make me feel disposable."
Mama nodded. "Let go of the performance. That's where the real care begins."
Baba Kareem
He arrived with a cane and a smile.
Before Mama could ask anything, he said, "I don't need this chair. I came to bless it."
She chuckled. "Oh?"
"Yes. Because whoever gets it will need more than wisdom. They'll need stamina. Kindness. And laughter."
"Why laughter?"
"Because dying is too heavy for one heart to carry alone."
Mama laughed softly.
"You've already given so much, Baba. Why not rest?"
He smiled. "Because I still remember what it felt like to be young… and alone."
Idowu
He walked in, stoic as always.
Mama watched him, then asked, "What's the hardest thing you've done?"
He took a deep breath.
"Not scream at God when my sister begged me to save her… and I couldn't."
Mama nodded slowly.
"And the bravest?"
He looked up. "Choosing to keep living anyway."
A moment passed.
"Then you'll know how to sit with someone who's asking God the same thing."
He nodded.
Later That Night
After all had gone, Mama Iroko sat alone under the tree.
Adunni approached quietly.
"Shall I walk you in, Ma?"
"No," Mama said. "Let me sit a little longer. The ground still remembers truth. I want it to settle into me."
Behind the two-way mirror nearby, Kenny turned off the last monitor.
"She saw more in an hour than we did in ten days."
Adunni nodded. "Because she wasn't watching resumes. She was listening to souls."
By dawn, two names would be chosen.
But in truth, something larger had already been revealed.
Not just who was strongest.
But who had let themselves be seen.