The Final Four

The day the list was posted, no one spoke for a long while.

The hallway just outside the breakfast parlor

where sunlight usually poured across the woven rug was heavy with silence. A gold-trimmed envelope was pinned to the corkboard, sealed with the family crest of the Irokos. No fanfare. No meeting. Just a single sheet of folded paper.

Kenny's voice had echoed earlier:

"You will find your names, or you won't. No ceremony. No debate. From here forward, this is not a competition. It is a calling."

And so they gathered.

Titi stood with her arms crossed. Joy stood back, afraid to hope. Chika stared ahead, unreadable. Baba Kareem watched the others instead of the list.

One by one, they approached.

The envelope had been opened.

The list read:

Final Four Candidates – The Loyalty Game

Joy Esan

Titi Ogunleye

Baba Kareem Olatunji

Chika Madueke

Farouk was gone.

Remi was gone.

Idowu vanished without a word.

The Departures

Farouk left quietly that afternoon. No scene. No speech. He packed with graceful hands, wrote no goodbye note, but left his prayer beads folded on the garden bench where Joy often sat.

Titi found them and pressed them to her lips.

Remi's room had already been cleared before dawn. Kenny didn't speak of it. But a file slipped beneath Mama Iroko's door contained two lines in Remi's handwriting:

"I knew I wouldn't win. But I thought I could control the outcome. Loyalty isn't a chessboard. I see that now."

Idowu was never officially eliminated. But his bed remained untouched. His key was left on the estate gate.

No one asked.

Some truths retreat without drama.

The Shift

By evening, the estate felt different.

With only four candidates remaining, the silence became intimate.

Joy no longer needed to look over her shoulder. Titi walked slower, less guarded. Baba Kareem hummed more often. Even Chika, though still sharp-edged, seemed less coiled until she noticed Mama Iroko walking again.

Unaided.

Down the southern hall.

Leaning gently on the wall but walking. Observing.

Watching.

The Garden

That night, Mama Iroko invited the final four to join her in the garden.

She wore a simple teal wrapper and shawl, her face glowing in the soft light of the solar lanterns strung overhead.

"Sit," she said warmly. "All of you. Let's talk like people. Not contenders."

They obeyed.

Joy sat nearest to her. Titi took a spot near the rose bush. Chika remained standing for a while, then finally sat across from the group. Baba Kareem leaned against the stone bench, his cane beside him.

Mama Iroko studied them.

"You've all carried something heavy to reach this far," she said. "Not just your credentials. But your histories."

They said nothing. But their silences were now comfortable. Familiar.

"I want to ask each of you one question," she said, "and I want only the truth. No performances. No professional charm. If I were your mother… how would you stay loyal to me?"

One by One

Joy spoke first.

"I would sit by your bed, even when you slept. I would write down your dreams and read them back to you. I would remind you of who you are on the days you forget. And I wouldn't need a job title to do any of it."

Mama Iroko nodded.

Titi cleared her throat.

"I would fight your doctors if they gave you pills before answers. I'd argue with your family if they talked about you like you weren't in the room. And if you screamed at me one day, I'd still come back the next because I'd know it wasn't really you screaming."

A pause.

Mama Iroko smiled gently.

Baba Kareem chuckled before answering.

"I wouldn't treat you like a client. I'd treat you like history. I'd ask you questions I know you've already answered. I'd sit beside you and let your silence speak. Loyalty means presence. Even in the quietest hour."

She nodded again, eyes shining.

Then she turned to Chika.

For a long moment, Chika didn't speak.

Then, slowly, she said:

"I wouldn't promise to love you."

The others stiffened.

"But I would learn you. Your routine. Your moods. Your ways. I would become the armor you no longer have. You wouldn't need to trust me because I wouldn't allow anyone to hurt you, even if it cost me the job. Or my name."

Silence.

Then Mama Iroko whispered, "You remind me of my sister. The one who never said 'I love you' but once took a bullet meant for me."

The Letter

Later that night, after they had gone to bed, a sealed box was placed on the common room table. No name. Just a single note taped to it.

"To the Final Four: One of you will be chosen. The others will be changed. Do not mourn the outcome. Prepare for the final test."

Mama Iroko

Inside the box?

A key for each of them.

To the North Wing.

A part of the estate no one had entered in weeks.

A Storm Builds

In the panel room, Kenny stood at the window, arms crossed.

"You still haven't told me which one you're leaning toward," he said to his mother.

Mama Iroko didn't look up from her knitting.

"Because it isn't my decision yet."

He turned. "It's your legacy. Your care."

"No," she said calmly. "It's their story. I'm only the test."

Kenny didn't respond. His jaw tightened. The storm in his eyes rising.

"You're willing to trust strangers over your own son?"

She looked up then. Slowly. Sharply.

"No, Kenny. I'm willing to let strangers become family. Because sometimes, our bloodline only teaches us who not to become."

He left without a word.