It began with a locked room.
The door was old, made of dark iroko wood, untouched since the Governor's father died years ago. For decades it had remained sealed at the heart of the estate until this morning, when Kenny instructed the staff to open it.
Inside, the walls were covered in memory.
Black-and-white photographs, newspaper clippings, faded notes, and hospital records hung neatly in rows. A long cork board ran along the back wall, covered in strings that tied names to stories, truths to lies.
It wasn't a history wall.
It was a secrets wall.
And today, each finalist would face it.
A New Challenge
Kenny gathered them in the main corridor. His tone was different lower, colder, unblinking.
"What you see behind this door," he said, "is everything we know or think we know about you."
Eyes widened. Breath caught.
Joy instinctively reached for Titi's hand. Remi straightened. Chika's face hardened. Baba Kareem didn't flinch. Farouk folded his arms calmly. Idowu… narrowed his eyes.
"This is not about judging your past," Kenny continued. "But we must know what you hide from us. Because if you'll lie to us, you'll lie to her."
He opened the door.
The Wall
Each candidate had a section of the room. A board with their name. Some boards were fuller than others.
Joy's held a photo of her with an elderly woman her late grandmother. There were letters from a nursing home where Joy had once worked. Glowing reviews. But also, one flagged note: "Left position suddenly. No notice."
Joy's mouth opened slightly. She hadn't expected that to surface.
Titi's board showed her resume, her training certificates but also a brief suspension notice from her previous hospital. "Intervened in a patient case without authorization."
Her jaw tightened.
Remi's board was complex. Photos of public speaking events, LinkedIn achievements… and a quiet lawsuit from five years ago. "Breach of patient confidentiality." Dismissed but it was there.
He hissed under his breath, "This is a witch hunt."
Farouk's section was sparse. A volunteer certificate. A glowing reference. Then an old court record from a protest in Kaduna. "Obstruction of public order."
He only smiled faintly. "They dug deep."
Chika's board included glowing military accolades but also an anonymous complaint: "Excessive force during elderly care."
Idowu's past was almost empty—too empty. One employment history. One photograph. Then a note: "Refused full background check. Cited privacy."
Even Baba Kareem had a section. A worn photograph of a younger man helping an old woman across a Lagos street. A newspaper headline from decades ago: "Retired midwife loses son in fire. No body recovered."
The room was silent.
Confrontation and Confession
Kenny's voice broke the silence. "We aren't here to shame. We're here to see."
Then the twist: "You have one hour to review each other's boards. Afterward, you will be asked two questions."
He wrote them on the blackboard behind him:
Who are you beginning to trust more?
Who are you beginning to trust less?
"And," he added, "this round your answers will be read aloud."
Shock rippled through the group.
No hiding.
The Hour Begins
Titi stood frozen before her board.
Joy approached her. "You never told me you were suspended."
Titi replied, "It wasn't about breaking rules. It was about saving a life. A junior doctor misdiagnosed an elderly patient. I stepped in. The woman lived."
Joy nodded slowly. "You still should've told me."
"And you?" Titi asked. "Why'd you leave that job without notice?"
Joy looked down. "My grandmother died. I needed to grieve, and they wouldn't give me time off. So I just… walked away."
In another corner, Chika confronted Farouk.
"You were arrested?"
"For standing between a bulldozer and an orphanage," he replied calmly.
"And now you want to be a caregiver?"
He smiled. "I always have been."
Remi and the Spiral
Remi paced angrily before his board, muttering. Titi approached him gently.
"You leaked a patient's information?"
"It was dismissed. The patient's family gave consent retroactively. The hospital just wanted a scapegoat."
"But it happened."
"I was trying to raise awareness. The system doesn't change without noise."
Titi held his gaze. "There's a difference between noise and betrayal."
Remi turned away.
The Quiet Ones
Idowu stood before his nearly blank wall. Baba Kareem walked over.
"Why so empty?" he asked.
Idowu shrugged. "I'm a private man."
"Privacy is a wall. We're trying to build bridges."
Idowu's eyes glinted. "Maybe I don't want to be crossed."
The Truth Vote
At the hour's end, the group returned to the circle. Kenny sat beside Mrs. Eze, notebook in hand.
"You may speak honestly, or not at all," he said. "But you will speak."
He pointed to Farouk. "Who do you trust more?"
"Joy," Farouk said. "Because grief didn't break her. It taught her compassion."
"And who do you trust less?"
"Remi. He confuses exposure for care."
Remi rolled his eyes.
Joy's turn.
"I trust Titi more. Because she risked her job for someone else's life."
"And less?"
"Idowu. I want to trust him but I don't know him."
Titi:
"Trust more—Farouk. Quiet strength."
"Trust less—Chika. Her hands are too quick to control."
Remi:
"Trust more—myself."
"Trust less—anyone who thinks moral purity wins."
That earned a few scoffs.
Chika:
"Trust more—Idowu. He doesn't play games."
"Trust less—Joy. Softness isn't strategy."
Idowu:
"Trust more Chika. She sees through facades."
"Trust less Farouk. He speaks in riddles."
Baba Kareem:
"Trust more Joy. Because she lets others see her."
"Trust less Remi. Because he doesn't see anyone else."
After the Truth
That night, no one slept easily.
The trust that had once grown in quiet corners now stood bruised in the open. Every eye carried questions. Every silence held accusation.
But Mama Iroko, watching the recordings in her room, smiled a sad, knowing smile.
"They're becoming," she whispered. "Slowly… but they are."
She placed a rose on Cynthia's old file, then turned to her shortlist.
Only six names remained.
And two would fall in the next trial.