The estate staff had been given strict instructions: Tonight's dinner would be quiet, intimate, and private. No formal announcements, no cameras at least none the candidates could see. Just soft music, candlelight, and one unexpected guest.
Unbeknownst to them, Mama Iroko had chosen tonight to meet each finalist alone. Not as the revered matriarch of the Iroko family, but in disguise as a curious, humble guest. Her aim: to see who truly saw her beyond the name, the wealth, the power.
She dressed simply in a plain iro and buba, her headscarf tied without extravagance. The years had been gentle on her face, but her eyes intelligent, discerning missed nothing.
The First Dinner – Remi
Remi was the first to be summoned to the private lounge just off the west wing garden. He entered with perfect posture, dressed in a sleek navy suit, his smile polished.
The woman before him didn't look like the formidable Mama Iroko from the newspapers.
"Good evening," she said kindly, pouring him water. "Let's eat, shall we?"
Remi faltered slightly but recovered. "Of course, ma'am. May I ask your name?"
"You may call me Mojisola," she said, "a friend of the family."
Remi's charm flickered on. He spoke of his accomplishments, his education, the hospitals he had served, and his vision for transforming caregiving with structure and efficiency.
She listened silently, nodding. But something in her eyes dimmed when he spoke of the elderly as "clients," and of loyalty as "a performance metric."
At the end of the meal, she smiled warmly. "You're very capable, Remi. But I wonder do you ever serve without being seen?"
He blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Never mind," she said, already waving for the next guest.
The Second Dinner – Cynthia
Cynthia approached the lounge with hesitant steps. Her hair was tied back loosely, and her nerves were clear in the way she clutched the hem of her blouse.
Mojisola greeted her gently and invited her to sit.
The first ten minutes were mostly silence. Cynthia sipped water and studied the tablecloth.
"You're afraid," Mojisola finally said.
Cynthia nodded. "I don't know how to pretend I belong here. Not like the others."
"But you came anyway."
"I had to," Cynthia whispered. "I've made mistakes, but… I want a second chance at meaning something. To someone."
Tears slipped down her cheeks, and she quickly wiped them. Mojisola reached across the table and squeezed her hand.
"That's not weakness," she said. "That's honesty."
Cynthia exhaled, a long, painful breath. For the first time, she didn't feel like she was failing.
The Third Dinner – Chika
Chika entered with confident strides, dressed in white. She took her seat briskly and folded her hands.
Mojisola observed her with interest. "You carry yourself like a soldier."
Chika nodded. "I was raised to be efficient. I don't like excuses or delays."
"And do you make room for softness?"
Chika's jaw tensed. "Softness gets people hurt."
They ate in near silence, and when the meal ended, Mojisola offered a single observation:
"You'd make an excellent protector. But a caregiver must know how to bend so they don't break."
Chika said nothing as she stood and left.
The Fourth Dinner – Joy
Joy arrived quietly. Her eyes met Mojisola's with warm curiosity, not calculation. She thanked her for the food before even sitting down.
They talked of gardens, of rain, of loss. Not once did Joy mention the contest, the prize, or even her own skills.
"I cared for my grandmother when she was forgetting who we were," Joy said, smiling faintly. "And even when she forgot my name, she remembered how I made her feel."
Mojisola nodded, eyes misting. "That's a powerful memory."
By the end of dinner, they sat in silence, a peaceful kind of silence.
Joy had passed no test. She had simply been present.
The Fifth Dinner – Farouk
Farouk bowed slightly when he entered, his robe loose, prayer beads wrapped around his wrist.
"You walk softly," Mojisola said.
"I try to disturb no ground unnecessarily," he replied.
Their dinner was contemplative. Farouk spoke of balance, of spirit and body, of the quiet rebellion of kindness.
"I believe the elderly are the final pages of a long poem," he said. "We must read them slowly, or we lose the meaning."
Mojisola's hand paused over her fork. "You speak like a healer, not just a caregiver."
He smiled. "Healing begins in how we listen."
The Sixth Dinner – Idowu
Idowu entered without smiling, sat stiffly, and barely touched his food.
"I'm not here to charm anyone," he said early on. "I'm here to work."
Mojisola appreciated his honesty, but she pressed gently.
"And when work fails? When the heart suffers?"
"I compartmentalize," he said bluntly. "Emotion clouds decisions."
They ate in silence.
Before he left, she said, "A mother's heart doesn't live in compartments. It's whole, messy, and loud. Can you live in that space?"
He didn't answer. The door closed behind him with quiet finality.
The Seventh Dinner – Baba Kareem
The old man entered with a walking stick and eyes that twinkled.
"Ah," he said. "Finally, a table without speeches."
Mojisola laughed. They shared fufu and egusi soup and talked about their youth.
"You know," he said, "when I was a boy, we didn't ask who could do the job. We asked who could stay awake when the pain came."
She grew quiet.
"You remind me of someone," he added. "Someone I loved once. She never left anyone's side, even when they had nothing left to say."
By the end of dinner, Mojisola was no longer testing. She was remembering.
The Eighth Dinner – Titi
Titi entered gracefully, neither overly confident nor too meek. She greeted Mojisola with a small bow and sat down with quiet composure.
They spoke little at first.
But when Mojisola asked, "Why do you care so much about this job?" Titi didn't hesitate.
"Because the world forgets old women," she said. "And I won't."
Mojisola's breath caught. She looked into Titi's eyes and saw no ambition, no desperation just promise.
Not of success, but of presence.
"You've already won something," Mojisola said softly. "Whether they see it or not."
After the Dinners
Late that night, Mojisola returned to her private chambers, her heart heavy yet full.
She pulled a notepad from her bag and wrote eight names. Then, next to each, a symbol: a flame, a stone, a wave, a thorn, a well, a shield, a candle, a mirror.
Each name, each soul, had shown her something.
But only one or perhaps two could remain when the Loyalty Game ended.
She folded the paper and placed it beside her bed.
And whispered:
"Let the heart decide what the rules cannot."