"Bitchhh!!! I almost couldn't recognize my bestie anymore. Look at you in that outfit, damn!"
Sophia screamed from behind the steering wheel, honking twice for emphasis, as soon as she spotted me standing by the entrance of the transit station.
I turned, and there she was: my best friend in the flesh. Queen Sophia of Lagos—oversized sunglasses, hoop earrings, and a white crop top that declared, Rich Vibes Only.
"Lord help me," I muttered, grinning so wide my cheeks hurt. I waved like an idiot, jumping up and down, then grabbed my suitcase and ran toward her car.
When I slid into the passenger seat, she pulled me into a hug so tight it cracked my back.
'My baby girl is hereee! Happy birthday, girl!' she grinned, flashing all her teeth. 'Ah! Lagos is about to scatter.'
'You're so dramatic,' I laughed, clinging to her like I hadn't been counting down the days. 'I missed you so much.'"
"Abeg, stop before I start crying," she sniffed, fanning her face like she was on stage. Then, true to Sophia fashion, she whipped out her phone.
"Wait, let me snap you. Look at this glow-up! My hard work is working."
I rolled my eyes, but posed anyway while she took three selfies and a full-body shot.
The drive out of the station was Lagos chaos: hawkers thrusting pure water sachets at our windows, conductors yelling destinations, horns blaring like one giant, uncoordinated orchestra. But with Sophia at the wheel, none of that mattered. She blasted our favorite throwback playlist, and soon we were screaming lyrics like teenagers. Every few songs she'd lower the volume to spill Lagos gossip, complete with exaggerated hand gestures.
By the time we pulled into her neighborhood, we had already dissected three mutual frenemies, argued about the hottest Afrobeats artist alive, and placed a pizza order.
Her apartment was classic Sophia: chaos but make it chic. Piles of shoes by the door, throw pillows scattered across the couch, a giant Beyoncé poster glaring down like a motivational coach.
We kicked off our shoes, sat cross-legged on the rug, and tore into hot slices straight from the box. Lagos outside was a riot of horns, laughter, and humming generators. Inside, it was just us and melted-cheese heaven.
"So," Sophia said, licking pizza sauce off her finger, "what's next in our billionaire manifesto?"
I shrugged, chewing slowly. "Honestly? I don't know."
She narrowed her eyes like a general unimpressed with her soldier.
"Madam. You cannot come to Lagos without a battle plan. Do you think billionaires just fall from the sky into your lap?"
"Technically they could," I said. "Like if Jeff Bezos was flying over Lagos and—"
"Abeg!" She threw a pillow at me. "Focus. It's simple, we acquire a target and focus on him. One at a time. No distractions."
Her words buzzed in my head. Acquire a target. Focus. This wasn't just banter anymore—Sophia had turned billionaire-hunting into a mission.
"Okay," I said finally, sipping my Coke. "So how do we acquire one? Where's step one?"
Her smile spread like wildfire.
"Don't worry. I have just the place."
The next evening, Sophia dragged me to a lounge tucked inside one of Lagos's fanciest hotels. The kind of place with velvet couches, cocktails that cost rent money, and chandeliers that probably had their own insurance policies.
I tugged nervously at my borrowed silk blouse as we walked in. My whole outfit was Sophia's styling: cream blouse, tailored black trousers, strappy heels that made me wobble like a baby giraffe.
"Relax," she whispered, linking her arm through mine. "You look like a million dollars. Or at least five hundred thousand."
"That's so comforting," I muttered.
We slid into a booth near the bar. Sophia ordered wine like she owned the place, while I sipped slowly, scanning the room. The air buzzed with laughter, clinking glasses, and the scent of cologne that screamed money. Men in suits and Rolexes mingled confidently, their wallets probably heavier than my entire future.
"This is it," Sophia whispered excitedly. "The billionaire zone. Can you feel it? Money in the air!"
I wanted to roll my eyes, but she wasn't entirely wrong. There was an energy here that made me sit straighter, laugh softer, and pretend my granny cotton underwear was Victoria secret.
"Okay," she continued like a coach before a big game, "remember the plan: eye contact, confidence, no broke energy. You're a prize. Act like it."
I nodded, heart racing.
And then—I saw him.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Sharp suit. The kind of smile that could disarm traffic wardens. He strolled in with an ease that made heads turn. My stomach flipped.
"There!" I hissed, nudging Sophia. "Target acquired."
She followed my gaze, then gasped. "Ohhh, he's fine. Go, babe, go!"
I stood, smoothed my blouse, and made my way toward the bar where he was ordering a drink. My heels clicked against the floor, each step a pep talk: You can do this. You are the prize. You deserve champagne, not chapman.
Five minutes later, I was back at our booth. My lips were in a pout, my shoulders slumped.
"What happened?" Sophia demanded, leaning forward.
"He asked for a one-night stand," I said flatly.
Her eyes widened. "Ahh! He's mad." She rolled her eyes, pulling me close and sliding a fresh drink into my hand. "Don't mind him. Forget this one. We'll find someone with sense."
I sighed, leaning back into the booth as the wine warmed my chest. Billionaire hunting, it turned out, was not for the faint-hearted.
But one thing was certain—this was only the beginning.