Sophia was sipping wine on her bed in Lagos the next time I called, her glass catching the golden light of her ring lamp. Meanwhile, I was in my small-town bedroom, surrounded by peeling pink wallpaper from my teenage years and a ceiling fan that only worked when it felt generous.
The contrast between us was almost insulting.
"So," she began, voice dripping with mischief, "how is my single Pringle best girl today?"
I tossed a pillow across my bed like it had offended me. "Better single than stingy."
Sophia grinned. "We thank God for small mercies. Honestly, that breakup was the cleansing you needed. A deliverance, really. I should have sent you olive oil."
I laughed, then sat up straighter, feeling the surge of drama rising in me. "Listen, Soph. If I ever date again, it's billionaire or nothing."
Her wine nearly spilled as she cackled. "A billionaire? In your town? Where, please? At Mama Nkechi's akara stand? Or maybe the man who sells cement down the road? He's a local big man, oh!"
I pouted theatrically, folding my arms. "Don't mock me. I'm serious. If I'm going to waste my time again, at least let me waste it on a private jet, not in a Corolla with broken AC."
We burst out laughing, the sound bouncing between my bare walls and her polished apartment.
But here's the thing: most life-changing decisions start as jokes. And by the time our laughter died down, a dangerous idea had already taken root.
That was how it began—half joke, half delusion.
By the end of the call, Sophia and I had drafted what we dramatically titled The Billionaire Trap Plan 101.
The manifesto was simple but ambitious:
Glow-up, inside and out.
Infiltrate billionaire zones (somehow).
Identify target.
Deploy charm, wit, and zero tolerance for stinginess.
Sophia raised her glass at the camera like she was christening a new ship. "Step one is the easiest, babe. Glow-up. You already fine, but we're about to elevate. Skin popping, hair laid, wardrobe screaming 'old money.' No more cheap lip gloss. You need lipstick that says I brunch in Dubai."
I arched an eyebrow. "And where exactly am I supposed to get money for this glow-up? I'm still recovering from my last heartbreak-slash-financial-drought."
"Relax," she said, waving me off. "I'll send you a care package. You'll be unrecognizable when I'm done with you."
The way she said it, I almost believed her.
I flopped back on my bed, staring at the cracked ceiling. "Step two is the problem. Where am I going to find billionaires? My town doesn't even have a cinema, let alone billionaire zones. The richest person here is probably the pharmacist who sells malaria drugs in bulk."
Sophia's eyes gleamed with mischief. "Billionaires are everywhere, babe. You just have to know their hunting grounds. Five-star hotels, art galleries, charity events, even airport lounges. Lagos is full of them. And if you're serious—like really serious—you'll come here for a visit."
A jolt of excitement sparked through me. Lagos. The land of hustle, chaos, and endless possibilities. The city where dreams either came true or got run over by danfo buses.
"Don't tempt me," I muttered, but even as I said it, my mind was already racing.
Sophia leaned forward, eyes shining. "Why not? Think about it. You're already turning twenty-five, right? This could be your glow-up year. We'll hit the billionaire circuit together. I'll be your wing-woman. We'll create a strategy. No broke men, no excuses."
It sounded crazy. Ridiculous, even. And yet... I felt the first flicker of possibility.
"Step three," Sophia continued, as though we were writing gospel, "is to identify target. This is where we use research. We don't just go chasing random men. No. We need profiles. Background checks. I'm talking LinkedIn stalking, Instagram location tags, even those society blogs that post about weddings and galas. Knowledge is power."
"Are you hearing yourself right now?" I laughed, hugging my pillow to my chest.
She ignored me. "Step four—deploy charm, wit, and zero tolerance for stinginess. That's where you shine. You're naturally funny, and men love that. Plus, you've been through stingy trauma, so your radar is sharp. One hint of miserliness and block—we move."
She snapped her fingers with finality.
I sat up, narrowing my eyes at her through the screen. "Sophia, are we... actually planning to trap a billionaire? Because this sounds suspiciously like you're serious."
Sophia took a slow sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving mine. "Dead serious. Babe, listen. If regular love stories aren't working, why not upgrade the script? You deserve soft life. Imagine yourself in Santorini, sipping cocktails. Imagine Cartier on your wrist, not heartbreak in your chest. Why not you?"
Her words hit me harder than I expected. Why not me?
I thought of Daniel's Corolla. His endless complaints about prices. His "bad days" that somehow always coincided with special occasions. And then I thought of the life I wanted—one filled with joy, ease, and maybe even a little extravagance.
For the first time in a long while, hope flickered inside me.
"Fine," I said, sitting up straighter, feeling the ridiculousness of it all yet embracing it anyway. "I'm in. Billionaire or nothing."
Sophia whooped so loudly I thought her neighbors might bang on her wall. "That's my girl!"
And just like that, the manifesto was sealed.
The days that followed were a blur of excitement and absurdity.
Sophia immediately became my unofficial billionaire coach. Every morning, my WhatsApp pinged with "homework." One day it was skincare tutorials, the next it was YouTube videos on how to sit, walk, and laugh like old money.
"Soft laughter only," she texted one morning. "None of that cackling you do when you watch memes. Practice your ha-ha-ha in front of the mirror."
I nearly choked. "I'm not practicing billionaire laughter, please."
"Do it, babe," she insisted. "Your laugh should sound like inherited wealth, not stress."
Then came the wardrobe revamp. I had three pairs of jeans, two half-decent dresses, and a pile of clothes that screamed "undergraduate chic." Sophia nearly wept when I showed her.
"This will not do," she declared. "We need silk blouses, tailored trousers, classy heels. You can't be meeting billionaires in outfits that look like you're attending JAMB lessons."
"Again I ask," I said sweetly, "with whose money?"
She rolled her eyes. "Leave it to me. I'll send you thrift links. Just promise me you won't buy another knockoff Gucci belt. Real money men know the difference."
I groaned, covering my face. "This is madness."
But deep down, I was enjoying it. For the first time in months, I had a project. A goal. A ridiculous, possibly delusional goal—but one that made me feel alive.
At night, I'd lie in bed imagining the future. Me, stepping off a private jet in oversized sunglasses. Me, posting soft-life pictures that would make Daniel's eyes bulge. Me, finally celebrated the way I'd always wanted.
And slowly, quietly, an oath formed inside me: I was done settling. Done rationing love and expectations. Done being the girl who accepted half a meat pie as romance.
Sophia was right. If I had to fake it till I made it, then so be it.
After all, how hard could trapping a billionaire be?
By the end of the week Sophia, of course, was thrilled. She created a WhatsApp group called Operation Rich Man Only and sent me a daily affirmations like, You deserve champagne, not chapman.
The glow-up wasn't easy. My salary laughed at me every time I tried to add new outfits to cart. But I reminded myself: this was an investment. Like planting cassava, only the harvest would be a billionaire.
On a beautiful Saturday morning—my 25th birthday—I packed my bags and set off to Sofia's for a short vacation. Something tells me this trip will be anything but ordinary. Little did I know, the real journey was only just beginning.