The universe decided to sprinkle a little irony into my life.
It was a Thursday afternoon, and I was sulking at the café near Sofia's apartment —the kind of place that thought it was too posh to sell Agege bread, so they overcharged you for air-dried sourdough and called it "artisan toast." My entire glow-up budget was already bleeding from the previous disasters, but Sophia had sworn this café was a "wealth magnet." According to her logic, "Any man who buys a ₦5,000 cappuccino is either rich or dangerously stupid, and both are usable."
So there I was, pretending to enjoy a watery latte that tasted like someone whispered "coffee" into hot water, when the door opened.
And he walked in.
Tall. Sharp suit. Watch that screamed, "One semester's tuition fees for your cousin in Canada." His movements were deliberate, confident—like the café belonged to him, or maybe the entire block. No, scratch that. He moved like the entire building bowed whenever he entered.
The barista nearly tripped over himself rushing to serve him, which confirmed what I already suspected: this man wasn't just rich. He was the kind of rich people whispered about in queues.
I tried not to stare, but my eyeballs were traitors.
He scanned the café with a detached calm, and just when I thought he'd pick a corner seat far away, fate decided to test my heartbeat. The place was packed. Every table full. Every seat taken. Except one.
The chair directly across from me.
"Excuse me," he said, in a voice so smooth it could have been a cologne commercial. "Do you mind if I sit here?"
Do I mind? Sir, you could sit on my dreams and I wouldn't complain.
"Sure," I said, casual as ice cream melting in Lagos sun. I sat straighter, dabbing away the latte foam that had clung treacherously to my chin.
He set down a sleek laptop, ordered an espresso without glancing at the menu, and began typing with the focus of a surgeon. Only stopping every few minutes for a quick glance at his phone like someone is messaging him.
For five minutes, I pretended to be deeply invested in my phone screen, but in reality, I was zooming Sophia on WhatsApp like a panicked spy.
Me: Soph, billionaire alert. Sitting. Right. In. Front. Of. Me.
Sophia: Act normal.
Me: Define normal.
Sophia: Not like you're auditioning for Sugar Baby Idol. Just... breathe.
So I breathed. And when he finally looked up, I gave him a polite, mysterious smile—the kind that said: I might own an oil well. I might just be lost. You'll never know.
He raised one eyebrow, almost amused, before returning to his screen.
That was it. No dramatic spark. No grand opening line. Just me, sitting across from my future husband, sipping watery latte while he sipped his billionaire espresso.
But in that quiet, something crystallized. This wasn't a random encounter. This wasn't chance. This was fate. Target acquired.
Sophia and I were buzzing.
After my "café date" with Mr. Billionaire, I gave her a dramatic play-by-play like I was narrating a Nollywood movie.
"He sat right across from me. Suave. Mysterious. Laptop. Espresso. He has the aura, Soph. The aura. Like he's one phone call away from buying Nigeria."
Sophia squealed like a teenager at a boy-band concert. "Ooooh, give me details. What's his name? What's his business?"
I hesitated, chewing my lip. "Um... I don't know yet."
"You didn't ask?"
"What was I supposed to say? 'Hi, sorry to disturb your billion-dollar empire, but are you single?'"
"Madam!" she groaned. "Fine. Next time, strike up conversation. Rich men love confident women."
I took her advice seriously. Till late into the night, I rehearsed conversation starters in the mirror like an unhinged actress.
"Oh, is that the new MacBook? I have one too." (Lie. My laptop wheezed like a dying generator.)
"Oh, you drink espresso? I prefer it black." (Also a lie. I preferred Milo with extra milk.)
"I love men who read financial news." (Lie of all lies. I barely survived secondary school economics.)
By my third café visit, I was armed and ready. Lip gloss on. Edges laid. My outfit screamed "rich aunty in training."
And there he was again. My billionaire. My destiny. My—oh Lord—my future private jet.
Ah God i could just imagine how my aso-ebi would be trending on Instagram.
I smiled. He smiled back. Progress!
This was it. My moment.
"Hi," I said, sliding casually into the seat across from him. "We keep running into each other here. You must really love coffee."
He looked up, surprised. Then chuckled, a low sound that made my heart skip. His voice was smooth, but not quite billionaire-smooth. More like... assistant-to-the-billionaire smooth.
Still, I pressed on.
"Yes," he said. "My boss loves this place. I come here often."
Boss? Did billionaires refer to themselves as "boss" to appear humble? Or was this some new rich-man slang?
""That's... impressive," I said, nodding like I understood. "Running big businesses must be exhausting."
He opened his mouth, hesitated, then gave me a strange look. "Uh, I don't—"
But my brain had already sprinted ahead, building castles in the air with marble floors and private chefs.
The way he held himself. The way his suit looked freshly pressed. Clearly billionaire behavior. Sophia would be proud.
We chatted lightly. He told me he worked long hours, traveled often, barely had a personal life. Classic billionaire problems.
By the time I left, I was convinced. This was it. This was the man.
The next evening, I gave Sophia the full report.
"So?" she asked eagerly, sprawled across her bed. "Did you get his name?"
"Not yet," I admitted. "But I got details. "He works long hours. He travels. He has no social life."
Sophia gasped. "Oh my God, yes! Lonely, overworked billionaires are the easiest to trap. You just have to show them affection and boom — wedding bells."
"Exactly," I said, pacing my room. "He even said something about his boss loving the café. Humble king behavior."
Sophia narrowed her eyes. "Or like a man juggling his boss's calendar."
I waved her off. "No, no. This one is different. He's too smooth, too... expensive. I can feel it in my bones."
Sophia sighed, rubbing her temples like a long-suffering mentor. "Fine. But next time, you must get hard facts. Name, business, LinkedIn profile, tax bracket. No assumptions."
"Deal," I promised.
But little did I know, the universe was already setting me up for the grandest twist.
Because while I spent those café visits rehearsing lines, perfecting smiles, and convincing myself I'd met Lagos's most eligible billionaire, the truth was much less glamorous.
The man I had just anointed "Target Acquired" was not the real deal.
The truth? He wasn't the billionaire. He was Adrian Cole's personal assistant. The man who fetched his coffee, booked his flights, probably even picked up his dry cleaning. The actual billionaire? He hadn't even walked through that café door yet."