Chapter 1: The Poster on the Wall
I was thirteen years old when I first saw Jon Bon Jovi.
Not in person, obviously. I live in Surulere, Lagos, Nigeria—where the traffic honks louder than your mama's morning scolding and the heat clings to you like guilt after stealing money from your dad's wallet. But even in that crowded one-bedroom apartment we called home, with my little brother snoring next to me every night and the neighbor's goat bleating at dawn, I had dreams that stretched wider than our compound walls.
And those dreams came wrapped in leather jackets, long hair, and rock anthems that made my heart race like I'd just sprinted past the okada riders on Agege Motor Road.
It started with a poster.
My older cousin, Bimbo, brought it back from one of his trips to London. He always came bearing gifts: second-hand clothes, foreign DVDs, and once, a broken MP3 player that still played music if you held it just right. That year, he gave me a poster of Bon Jovi, all faded colors now but still taped above my bed like a sacred relic.
Jon Bon Jovi stood front and center, looking like a god in black jeans and a white shirt open just enough to make my teenage heart flutter. Richie Sambora was beside him, guitar slung low, coolness dripping off him like oil off a fried plantain. And behind them, Tico Torres and David Bryan—rock legends who didn't know they were part of a Nigerian girl's fantasy world.
That poster was my escape.
Every night, after finishing my schoolwork, washing the dishes, and helping Mama fold laundry, I'd sit on my bed, pull out my tiny portable speaker (which only worked half the time), and play "Livin' on a Prayer" until the neighbors threatened to call the police.
> "Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world..."
Except I wasn't a small town girl—I was a city girl, born and bred in Lagos, where life moved fast and dreams were sometimes crushed under the weight of reality. But when I closed my eyes and listened to Jon sing about holding on and never letting go, I believed for a moment that maybe I could be more than just another girl trying to survive.
Maybe I could be someone special.
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Music became my therapy. My escape. My rebellion.
In school, I was just Folake—the quiet one with good grades and a permanent case of side-eye whenever someone tried to copy my math homework. At home, I was the responsible daughter, the one who stayed out of trouble, who kept her head down and her books open.
But in my room?
In my room, I was a rockstar.
I wrote lyrics in my notebook during breaks. Mostly terrible ones, full of clichés and bad metaphors, but they were mine. I sang into my toothbrush like it was a microphone. Practiced dance moves in front of the cracked mirror Mama used to fix her hijab.
My best friend, Bose, thought I was crazy.
"You listen to this same song every day," she said one afternoon as I rewound the tape yet again. "Girl, are you sure you not in love with the man?"
I laughed then, but deep down, I knew there was something about Jon Bon Jovi that made me feel seen—even from across the ocean.
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By sixteen, I had memorized most of their songs. I knew the lyrics to "Always," which I played when I was sad. I belted out "It's My Life" when I felt invincible. And when things got too heavy, when my parents argued late into the night or my uncle lost his job and moved in with us, squeezing our already tight space, I turned to "Someday I'll Be Saturday Night."
> "Well I'm no one special, just a kid off the street... But someday I'll be Saturday night."
I clung to those words like they were written just for me.
There was a time when I thought I'd grow up to marry someone like Jon Bon Jovi. Someone tall, handsome, passionate, with a voice that could melt hearts and a soul that refused to give up. Of course, I knew that was impossible. He was American. A legend. Probably married with kids and lives in a mansion somewhere.
Still, I dreamed.
I even started writing letters to him. Not real ones—I couldn't afford stamps or envelopes anyway—but in my journal. Every week, I'd write him a letter telling him how much his music meant to me, how his songs helped me through exams, family drama, and the pain of watching my best friend drop out of school because her parents couldn't afford fees anymore.
Sometimes I'd cry while writing. Sometimes I'd smile. Always, I'd feel lighter afterward.
---
The summer before senior secondary school, everything changed.
Mama got a job at a boutique in Victoria Island. It paid better than her tailoring work, and suddenly, we had a bit more breathing room. No longer did we have to ration Maggi cubes or skip meals to save money.
For my birthday that year, Mama surprised me with a brand-new MP3 player. Real one, not the broken one. It came with a USB cable, a pair of earphones, and—best of all—a memory card already loaded with music.
Including a full Bon Jovi playlist.
I cried when I opened it. Honest-to-goodness tears.
Later that night, I sat alone on the rooftop, headphones on, listening to "Wanted Dead or Alive." The stars above Lagos twinkled like distant spotlights, and I imagined myself standing on a stage, singing those words to a crowd of thousands.
> "I'm a survivor, I'm not gonna give in... I'm wanted, dead or alive."
I whispered the lyrics along with Jon, feeling the fire rise in my chest.
That night, I made a promise to myself.
I would not let life crush me.
I would find my own way.
Even if it meant walking through fire.
---
The next few months flew by.
School became more intense. My teachers pushed us hard, preparing us for the final exams that would determine whether I'd get into university. Mama wanted me to study medicine. I told her I wanted to study English literature.
She frowned. Said that wouldn't put food on the table.
But I didn't care.
Because every time I felt doubt creeping in, I'd listen to "These Days" or "This Ain't a Love Song," and remember that even legends struggled. Even Jon Bon Jovi had faced rejections, failures, heartbreaks.
So why shouldn't I?
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One afternoon, while cleaning the house, I found an old VHS tape labeled *"Bon Jovi – Cross Road"*. I had no idea where it came from, but I begged Bimbo to help me transfer it onto his laptop.
When the video played, I nearly cried.
It was a concert from the '90s. Jon in a black jacket, belting out "Bed of Roses." The crowd screaming. The lights flashing. The raw emotion in his voice.
I watched it over and over.
That night, I wrote in my journal:
Dear Jon,
I don't know if you'll ever read this. Maybe you won't even exist in the form I imagine when I'm older. But right now, in Lagos, Nigeria, your music is keeping me alive. You remind me that dreams are possible. That even when the world feels too big and I feel too small, I can still scream and be heard.
Thank you for being my light.
—Folake.
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Years passed.
I graduated high school. Got into university. Studied English and Theatre Arts. Started writing seriously. Performing poetry at open mics. Singing covers of Bon Jovi songs at talent shows.
People began to notice.
They said I had passion. Fire. A voice that carried stories.
I smiled.
Because I knew where it all came from.
From a poster on a wall.
From a boy with long hair and a voice that reached across oceans.
From a band called Bon Jovi.
And from a girl in Lagos who refused to stop dreaming.