The Loyalty Game

The Iroko family garden had never looked more alive.

The roses had returned after a dormant season. The water lilies in the small pond opened slowly in the mid-morning sun, their petals catching the light like gentle flames. But it wasn't just nature reviving — something in the household had shifted too.

Governor Tunde Iroko was learning to let go.

A Father Alone

Tunde sat on the stone bench near the garden's edge, away from the estate's noise, holding a photo album. Its pages were worn. He flipped through them slowly—his mother in her younger years, his late father standing proud behind her, himself as a child in oversized shorts beside his cousins.

Each photo whispered: You've carried this family long enough.

Kenny found him there, unannounced, and sat down beside him.

"You never look at those," Kenny said.

"I never had time," Tunde replied. "Or maybe I was afraid I'd remember too much."

The Son Speaks

Kenny reached out and closed the album gently. "You've done more than enough, Dad. But you don't always have to be the one holding the roof up."

Tunde chuckled dryly. "If I don't, who will?"

"We will," Kenny said. "All of us. Titi. Me. Even Mama."

There was a long pause. The birds sang overhead.

"And if we fail?" Tunde asked.

"Then we learn. But you've taught us enough to try."

Mama's Unexpected Visit

Later that afternoon, Mama Iroko requested her wheelchair be brought to the garden.

"I want to feel the soil," she told Titi. "I've been breathing filtered air and watching people argue over legacies. I need the earth again."

Titi and a young housekeeper helped her down to the roots of the old Iroko tree. She placed a trembling hand on the trunk, closed her eyes, and whispered a prayer.

When she opened her eyes, she found her son watching her from the pathway.

"You came," she said.

"Of course."

A Conversation 20 Years Overdue

Tunde sat beside her, placing a hand gently on hers. For a moment, they were not public figures, not icons or leaders. Just a mother and her grown son.

"You've been everything to us," she said. "And I've let you carry too much. I kept quiet when you needed comfort. I gave you responsibility when you still needed permission to be weak."

Tunde swallowed the lump in his throat. "I never saw you as unkind."

"You didn't need unkind to feel neglected."

They sat in silence. Then Mama reached into the pocket of her shawl and pulled out an old beaded bracelet.

"Your father gave this to me when we married. I want you to give it to someone you trust to build something new."

He nodded slowly, a tear finally slipping free.

"I think I already know who."

The Garden's Wisdom

As the sun set, casting long shadows through the fronds, Mama looked up at the tree and said,

"Even the strongest trees shed leaves when it's time. They let go, not to weaken, but to grow again."

And Tunde finally understood.

Letting go wasn't failure.

It was faith.

A Quiet Celebration

That night, no press gathered. No formal speech. Just family—Mama, Tunde, Kenny, and Titi—eating egusi soup under the stars on the garden patio, with laughter instead of protocol.

The power, for once, wasn't in the position.

It was in the peace.