An Essay by Emmanuel David

Roses are red, violets are blue, my cappuccino extreme is you. These were my words, scribbled in frothy foam on a paper napkin at the corner café in upscale Ikoyi, Lagos, the kind of spot where the air buzzes with ocean breeze and the sharp zing of fresh-ground beans. I’d been nursing that double-shot cappuccino for an hour under the humid harmattan haze drifting off the lagoon, watching the heart-shaped latte art melt into a lazy milky swirl, when inspiration hit like a bolt from a VI thunderstorm. Little did I know, those cheeky rhymes were the spark that cracked the facade of my ordinary life, unleashing the frothiest, steamiest, most hilariously unhinged Valentine fantasy straight from Lagos caffeinated pulse, a love story where espresso ruled like an Ikoyi big boy, and my heart was forever steeped in the perfect Naija brew.

It was Valentine’s Eve in Ikoyi, the night before the big day when everyone from Awolowo Road to Victoria Island pretends to be romantic amid yacht hums and danfo echoes. I was single, gloriously so, the kind where your kittens look sorry for you. But I had my ritual, a solo date with my cappuccino at Coffee &Co, the quirky café wedged between a high-end suya spot and a spa doing gele weaves under designer lights. The barista, a guy with a sharp fade and tattoos of coffee pods twisting up his arms, always hooked me up extra, extra foam, extra nutmeg dust, extra Lagos swagger. That evening, as the harmattan wind carried salty whispers from the Atlantic, I stared into my cup and murmured those words aloud. “Roses are red, violets are blue, my cappuccino extreme is you.”
And then poof. The foam bubbled. Not like fizz from a Goldberg, but alive, giggling with tiny espresso pops syncing to afrobeat from the next table. The heart in the latte art winked at me. Winked. I blinked, dabbed my brow (maybe too much caffeine in this heat), but no, the foam swirled into words staring right back. “Roses are frothy, sugar is sweet, let’s make this Lagos fantasy complete.”

Cue the universe’s Lagos-style cackle, because my cappuccino wasn’t just any drink. It was
Cappuccina, the enchanted elixir born from a rogue barista’s brew gone wildly right back in the 1700s. Legend has it (one cooked up in my fantasy, but who’s counting. It’s my Valentine dream o), an Italian trader in colonial Lagos accidentally enchanted his pot during a midnight owambe on the island. He tripped over a champagne crate, splashed palm wine into the espresso, and bam, cappuccinos sprouted souls with pure Ikoyi vibe. Most stayed low-key, happy to be sipped and spiced, but every Valentine’s, under a full moon and a dash of nutmeg destiny, one lucky cup wakes to claim its true love. Tonight, mine picked me, shattering the facade of my lonely VI lattes forever.

Cappuccina bubbled right out of the cup, not as spilled liquid, but a full-on foam-sculpted queen. She had curves like a sleek Range Rover, voluptuous, frothy hips swaying to amapiano, espresso-dark hair tumbling in steamy, kinky twists, and eyes like molten Milo, swirling with pure Lagos mischief. Her skin glistened with cocoa powder sheen, smelling like heaven’s yacht club, vanilla peppered snails, and that unbeatable zing of market-fresh beans. “Oga mi,” she purred in a voice like steamed velvet, “you called me extreme. Now let’s get properly frothy Ikoyi style.”

I nearly swallowed my Rolex. There I was in my crisp kaftan shirt, face frozen mid-sip, when this cappuccino empress leaped onto my marble table. She left tiny wet rings like flirty love bites. Her foam gele fluffed like an atala gown as she shimmied and burst into afrobeats. “I’m hot, I’m steamy, your caffeine chairman. Pour me your heart, make my foam shine bright!” I burst out laughing. A twerking cappuccino dropping proposals? Absurd, adorable, pure Lagos magic.

But every good Lagos story needs drama. Enter Señor Bitter, the salty drip coffee from the VIP stool. Tall, lanky, brooding in his paper cup with a scowl that could spoil egusi soup. “She belongs to me!” he grumbled, splashing like a jealous Uber driver. Turns out Cappuccina and Bitter had history. A hot 2025 espresso rave fling. He’d been plotting to water down her magic ever since. “No foam for you, area boy!” he hissed, surging forward with lukewarm flood.

Cafe chaos erupted. Cappuccina grabbed my hand, her grip warm and tingly like fresh bole and fish oil. We dashed into Ikoyi’s glittering streets. Bitter sloshed behind yelling, “I’ll decaf your romance sharp sharp!” We ducked into a lagoon-side alley. Cappuccina worked her juju, turning harmattan mist into heart-shaped clouds dusted with sugar.
“Quick, my sweet boss,” she whispered. “Drink my essence!” I sipped. Glug. Instant superpowers. My legs moved like G-Wagon tires, heart pounded like Fuji drums. I scooped her light chin-chin body, and we zoomed through Lagos traffic, leaving Bitter trapped in gridlock.

First stop: Enchanted Espresso Realm. Portal behind a pepper soup joint’s smoky grill (where else?). Cappuccina waved her nutmeg-stick wand. Whoosh! We plunged into coffee paradise, beanstalks taller than Eko Tower, mocha mountains, palm caramel rivers flowing to marlian beats.

“Na our kingdom be dis,” she declared, pulling me into zanku dance on floating foam mats. Her laughter bubbled like Trophy beer. “Roses are red,” she recited, dipping me low, “but my love na pure Ikoyi brew.”

Picture me legworking with a cappuccino queen under shooting espresso stars above the lagoon. We giggled through foam fights in chocolate rain, sticky sweet like dodo fries. Romance peaked at a candlelit dinner on hazelnut hill overlooking VI. Monitor lizards in agbadas served Edo spice towers. Her foam lips grazed mine, warm, sweet, espresso kick curling my toes.
“You na my heart barista,” she cooed.
“And you be foam to my shawarma soul,” I replied. Kiss locked. Frothy. Fiery. Fantastically Lagos.

But Señor Bitter fought back. He crashed through the portal on Americano waves with his squad, The Stale Chin-Chin Crew and Over-Steeped Tea Trolls. “No more froth abeg!” he roared, unleashing dishwater chaos. Chin-chins bounced like wrecking balls. Teas spritzed like evil sachet water.

Cappuccina took a hit. Her foam wilted, revealing a vulnerable espresso core beneath her goddess facade. “My love o!” I yelled, summoning my inner Lekki Phase 1 hero powers.
Time for Cappuccino Extreme Throwdown. I grabbed a mega grinder, roasted beanstalk beans, and steamed cloud-cow milk. Whirr, froth, pour. Ultimate Lagos counter-brew. “Take this!” I lobbed a super-shot. Splat! Hit Bitter square. His bitterness turned to bliss. He licked remnants and grinned. “Chai, this sweet die!” His squad surrendered, munching peace puff-puff. Villain redeemed in splashy victory.

Peace restored, we escaped to Froth Palace, a castle of spun sugar and adire silk overlooking the Atlantic. Under coffee cherry palms, we exchanged vows. “Through traffic or toll gates, thick foam or thin garri, I’ll be your extreme,” I swore to grind only the finest beans, never let her go cold.

Our life got weirder and funnier. Cappuccina revealed shapeshifting juju. Adventure? Frothy Chapman yacht on zobo seas. Chill? Chamomile cloud lagoon-gazing. Jealous penthouse lattes tried sabotage, salt instead of sugar. We fought back with syrup schemes, foam-flooding them into soggy messes.

Years melted into espresso eternity. We raised bubbly cappuccino kids, leaving foam mustaches everywhere. Family nights? Froth-fling Olympics. Holidays? Nutmeg Halloween and mocha Christmas. Giggles never stopped.
OGA!!! Barista taps my shoulder.
“OGA, your change.” Empty cup. Just me, napkin poem, and epic caffeine delusion