Kelvin blinked slowly. “Good morning to you too, Ma.”

“Don’t ‘good morning’ me. You are 34.”

“34 is still young.”

“In America,” she snapped. “In Nigeria, your mates have three children and back pain.”

Kelvin coughed. “Ma, I’m building global investments.”

She leaned closer to the camera. “Investment will not cook soup for you.”

He tried not to laugh. “Ma, I have chefs.”

She gasped as if he had insulted her ancestors. “You want chef to give me grandchildren?”

Kelvin nearly choked on his coffee.

His mother adjusted her wrapper dramatically. “Kelvin, listen carefully. I have found a good girl.”

Kelvin stiffened. “Ma—”

“She is humble.”

Dangerous word.

“She is respectful.”

Very dangerous word.

“She visits me every week.”

Extremely dangerous word.

Kelvin pinched the bridge of his nose. “What is her name?”

“Linda.”

He had heard that name once or twice in passing. Something about the Lagos branch office.

“Ma, I’ve barely spoken to her.”

“That is why I’m speaking for you,” she replied proudly.

Kelvin leaned back in his leather chair overlooking Manhattan. “Ma, I want someone who loves me, not my money.”

She squinted at him suspiciously. Then she said, “Then hide your money.”

Kelvin froze. “What?”

She waved her hand. “Yes, hide it. Dress like a poor man. See who will follow you.”

He stared at her. “Are you serious?”

“Very serious. Even in the Bible they disguised themselves.”

“Who disguised themselves in the Bible, Ma?”

She paused. “Somebody.”

Kelvin burst into laughter. But she was not joking.

“Come home,” she continued. “Come to Nigeria. Stop sending dollars and come and find a wife with your own two legs.”

He sighed deeply. Business deals he could negotiate. Boardrooms he could dominate. But Nigerian mother pressure—there was no MBA for that.

After the call ended, Kelvin remained seated for a long moment. He stared at the skyline of New York City. Women had dated him before, but it always felt like an interview for CEO of his bank account. Luxury dinners, private yachts, subtle hints about joint accounts. He was tired.

Maybe his mother was right.

Maybe he needed to return to Lagos, feel the sun, hear the noise, meet someone real.

He picked up his phone and called his assistant.

“Prepare my jet. We’re going to Nigeria.”

“Sir, for how long?”

He smiled. “Until I find a wife.”

Meanwhile, in Lagos, Linda was glowing as if she had won the lottery. She adjusted her designer wig in the mirror.

“Kelvin is coming,” she told herself dramatically.

She had been working overtime—not in the office, but in Kelvin’s mother’s house. She carried fruits, organized the house staff, paid bonuses, smiled sweetly.

“Auntie,” she would say softly to Kelvin’s mother, “don’t worry. When Kelvin marries me, I will take care of you like my own mother.”

His mother would nod approvingly.

Inside, Linda was calculating like a human calculator: Range Rover, Banana Island house, unlimited card access, soft life activated.

She had even practiced how she would faint when Kelvin proposed.

Back in America, Kelvin stood before his mirror. Perfect haircut. Sharp navy suit. Luxury watch. He looked every inch the billionaire.

But inside he was nervous.

“Please, God,” he muttered with a small smile, “let me not marry a professional shopper.”

He didn’t know that in Lagos, one particular professional shopper was already warming up, and she had no intention of failing her own gold-digger Olympics.

Little did Kelvin know, chapter one was just the calm before the storm.

And somewhere in Lagos, fate was already laughing.

His mother and Linda waited for him at the airport.

The first thing Kelvin noticed about Lagos wasn’t the heat.

It was Linda’s volume.

From the moment they left Murtala Muhammed International Airport, she had been talking nonstop inside his luxury SUV like she was hosting a live radio show.

“Kelvin, you’ve lost weight. America