The next morning, Lagos woke up to an unusual headline.
"Governor Tunde Iroko Offers $6,000 Monthly Caregiver Contract But Only the Loyal Will Qualify."
It ran across major print publications, radio stations, and online platforms before the sun had fully risen. Within hours, it was trending on X, Instagram, and even the more discreet political WhatsApp groups where family names carried more weight than university degrees.
The post read like an invitation, but beneath the polished words, there was mystery. It was personal. It was rare.
We are searching for a caregiver for Madam Adebisi Iroko, mother of the sitting Governor. The role is not medical alone. It is human. It demands presence, compassion, discretion, and stability. We seek someone who understands care as a sacred duty, not a transaction.
To be considered, each applicant must undergo a three-day retreat. No eliminations, no drama just observation. At the end, one person will be chosen.
This is not a job. It is a vow.
Beneath that was a digital application portal, an official state seal, and a soft line at the bottom:
"Apply only if your heart is ready."
Inside a modest two-bedroom apartment in Yaba, Nurse Titi Ayeni stared at her cracked phone screen in disbelief.
"Six what?"
Her cousin leaned in from the kitchen. "Six thousand, Titi. Dollars. Every month!"
"That's… almost five million naira." Her voice caught in her throat.
She scrolled through the announcement again, then laughed bitterly. "Is it care they want or a lover for the woman?"
"Abeg, don't play yourself," her cousin said. "You've been taking care of bedridden elders for ten years. This is your shot."
Titi's eyes lingered on the words 'only the loyal will qualify.'
Loyalty.
That word did strange things to her. She'd been loyal to a private client in Lekki for two years, only for the woman's greedy daughter to accuse her of theft after her mother passed. She'd walked away clean, but bitter. Since then, she'd kept her heart armored.
"Apply," her cousin urged.
Titi nodded slowly. "Maybe it's time."
Across the mainland in Surulere, Farouk Olayemi sat beside his younger brother, Kayode, who was non-verbal and autistic. The TV played the news story on loop, showing the Governor speaking briefly at a press conference.
"…we are not looking for qualifications alone. We're looking for someone who can stand by a woman with dignity. This is my mother. Not just a public figure. She deserves more."
Farouk muted the TV and exhaled.
"I could do that," he murmured.
Kayode reached out and touched his hand. Farouk looked at his brother, then smiled. "I have done that. For you. For six years."
He stood and grabbed his laptop. "Let's try, Kay."
In Abuja, Dr. Gerald Etuk threw his phone onto his desk.
"A game?" he scoffed. "A retreat to win a job? What is this Big Brother for nurses?"
His assistant, a thin woman named Clara, glanced at the phone and shrugged. "It's the Governor's mother. You know they're always eccentric down there in Lagos."
Gerald adjusted his Italian tie and leaned back in his ergonomic chair. "I'm a trained neurosurgeon, not a contestant. Let some underpaid home nurse go chase that circus."
Still, later that night, he opened the link on his laptop and stared at it for thirty full minutes.
In Port Harcourt, Joy Obiakor, a single mother of two and former hospice caregiver, saw the announcement just before she clocked out of her night shift.
She was bone tired. Her eyes were red, and her back screamed. But something about that post grabbed her.
Not the money.
The words: "not a transaction."
She saved the page and whispered, "Lord, if this is the door, open it wide."
By the third day, over 4,300 applications had come in.
Tunde sat with Adunni in his private office, reviewing the filtered shortlist.
"I told you it would go viral," she said, scrolling through names and profiles.
"We need a mix," he replied. "Not just polished resumes. Get me people with heart. Real stories. Show me the ones who hesitated before they applied."
Adunni nodded. "I've already begun building psychological profiles. Personality types. Known affiliations. Employment gaps. Social media flags."
"And who's running surveillance?"
"Kenny," she said, smiling. "Your son's more paranoid than you. He's already hiring background checkers."
Tunde chuckled. "Good."
Adunni scrolled again. "You'll like this one. Titi Ayeni. Ten years in private care. Accused once, cleared. No official endorsements, but her patients loved her. Even the ones who died left praise notes."
Tunde leaned in. "Add her to the top twenty."
"And this man Farouk. Works part-time while caring for his disabled brother. Never left Lagos. No scandals. Gentle demeanor."
Tunde pointed. "Shortlist him."
They continued into the night, narrowing down names. By dawn, they had twelve finalists.
Eight would be chosen.
The final number was symbolic. Biblical. Personal.
Eight was Mama's favorite number.
Meanwhile, across the state, the selected candidates had begun receiving encrypted emails marked with a simple header:
"You Have Been Seen. Prepare for the Retreat."
Each email came with three instructions:
Pack only personal items. No aides, no electronics.
Report to a confidential location by 7:00 AM, Saturday.
Come with one item of emotional significance.
The last requirement puzzled many.
Some chose photo frames. Others, prayer books. One candidate brought a scarf her late mother gave her on her hospital bed.
None of them knew they were being watched even before the retreat began.
Their behavior post-notification their online posts, their calls, the way they celebrated or stayed silent was already being logged.
The game had begun long before the gate would open.
Two days before the retreat, Mama Iroko sat in the garden, blanket over her knees. Tunde joined her with a steaming cup of lemon tea.
"Hundreds applied," he said. "We've chosen eight."
"Then bring them," she said softly. "Let me watch them from the shadows."
"You'll be disguised for the first two days."
She smiled. "Perfect."
He studied her face. "You're not afraid?"
"I'm always afraid," she replied. "But I still wake up."
He took her hand.
"We'll find the one who will walk you through the next part of your life, Mama."
"Don't find me a nurse, Tife."
"I won't."
"Find me a witness. To the last stories I haven't told."