The Mirror Test
The sun didn't rise gently that morning.
Instead, it pierced through the gray with sharp, blinding shafts of gold—too harsh, too sudden, as if the sky itself had tired of the pretense. The estate seemed to hold its breath. The fountains outside the breakfast hall had been turned off. The staff walked quieter than usual. Even the birdsong had dulled.
Something had shifted.
Each finalist awoke to a knock at their door. No breakfast. No instructions.
Just a folded card slid under the threshold.
"Report to the Reflection Room. One at a time. You will face yourself."
—Mama Iroko
The Room
The Reflection Room had once been a music parlor—now stripped bare. A single high-backed chair sat in the middle of the floor. Across from it, a large antique mirror. Too tall for comfort. Too wide to look past.
Beside the chair: a recorder, a sealed envelope, and a timer.
The rules were simple. Sit. Press record. Open the envelope. Read the question inside aloud. Then answer honestly.
No one else would be present.
But the camera in the corner would capture every pause, every breath, every flicker of discomfort.
This was the Mirror Test.
Joy
She entered first, her footsteps soft but firm. She sat gently, inhaled, and pressed record.
The envelope tore open easily.
"What are you afraid they will find out about you?"
Her voice caught in her throat.
"I'm afraid… they'll find out that sometimes, I don't believe I'm strong. That I cared for my grandmother because no one else would. Not because I'm a saint. Just because I couldn't stand to watch her die alone."
She blinked fast, holding back tears.
"I'm afraid they'll think my kindness is performative. That I cry too easily. That I forgive too quickly."
She paused.
"But I also know this: I'll keep showing up. Even if no one claps."
Remi
He slouched into the room, irritation tucked behind a grin. He didn't bother adjusting the chair. Just hit record and tore open the envelope.
"What would you do for six thousand dollars a month?"
He laughed.
"Almost anything," he said. "I mean… within reason. But let's not lie—we're all here because of the number."
Then he leaned in.
"But money's not evil. It's power. Power to fix things. Power to escape. Power to finally stop begging the world for space."
He pointed at the mirror.
"You don't know what it's like to beg politely for dignity. I do."
He stood quickly after that, as if worried the mirror might reply.
Titi
She entered like a woman entering a chapel. Head bowed. Breathing steady.
She read her question with reverence.
"What line will you not cross?"
Her voice was steady.
"I will not fake love. Not to a patient. Not to a friend. Not even to win."
She paused, hands folded.
"I was once asked to lie for a senior doctor. A small cover-up. Just a signature on a file that said a patient had received proper post-op care when she hadn't. I refused. Got suspended. But she lived."
She raised her eyes to the mirror.
"And I'll wear that suspension as a badge. Because at the end of the day, I can still look myself in the eye."
Chika
She sat straight, legs crossed, eyes sharp.
She opened the envelope with a single pull.
"Who taught you that control was safer than trust?"
The breath she didn't expect to catch—caught.
She said nothing for a while.
Then: "My mother."
She exhaled.
"She trusted my father. He left. She trusted her family. They shamed her. She trusted the system. It failed."
Her voice dropped.
"I watched her rebuild everything with just her spine and silence."
She looked at the mirror like it had dared to pity her.
"Trust is a favor. Control is insurance."
Farouk
He sat gracefully, hands resting in his lap like a monk awaiting a bell.
He opened the envelope.
"What memory do you return to when you're unsure of yourself?"
He smiled faintly.
"A riverbank in Niger. I was sixteen. My father had just died. My uncle came to take me in, but I didn't want to leave. I sat there for hours."
His voice was low, musical.
"There was a woman washing clothes in the river. She looked at me and said, 'Grief is a ghost that will wait until you feed it.' Then she handed me a mango."
He chuckled.
"Sometimes, when I feel small, I taste that mango again. It reminds me I'm still here."
Idowu
He didn't sit. He stood by the chair and stared at the mirror.
Finally, he pressed record.
"What are you hiding?"
A pause.
"I don't like this question," he said.
Another pause.
"I'm hiding that I was once fired. Not for stealing. Not for violence. But for 'emotional distance.' They said I didn't connect with patients. That I was mechanical."
He frowned.
"I grew up in a house where emotion was weakness. Silence was safer than truth."
He finally sat down.
"I'm not hiding because I'm a liar. I'm hiding because sometimes, I don't know what not hiding even looks like."
Baba Kareem
He took his time entering. He didn't sit immediately. Just stared at the mirror for a long while.
Then he pressed record.
"Why are you still here?"
He smiled, teeth like pale ivory.
"Because old people don't retire from love."
He folded his hands.
"I was there when my wife passed. Held her hand through every breath. And when she left, the world got smaller. But care doesn't stop. It just shifts."
He leaned closer.
"Every time I help someone now, I remember her. And that's why I'm still here. Because the dead aren't truly gone when the living still serve in their name."
The Mirror's Verdict
Later that night, the panel watched the footage in silence.
Some cried.
Some wrote furiously.
One—Mrs. Eze—closed her notebook halfway through and whispered, "We're not just judging candidates. We're witnessing confessions."
Kenny nodded once. "Tomorrow, we narrow it to four."
Elsewhere…
In her room, Mama Iroko stared not at a screen but at her old mirror. Cracked in one corner. Faded around the edges.
She remembered the first time she saw herself after her husband died. After her body changed. After her son became a man.
She smiled.
"To face yourself," she whispered, "is the most loyal act of all."
She lit a candle and prayed.
Not for the best to win.
But for the true to remain.