Chapter 2: The CD That Almost Killed Me
I should've known better than to chase dreams with my heart wide open and my head full of rock 'n' roll.
But that's exactly what I did.
It all started with a whisper—a rumor floating through the market stalls like smoke from a burnt jiko. Someone said there was a vendor near Oshodi who sold rare Bon Jovi CDs—originals, not the cheap bootlegs you find tucked between pirated DVDs and used phone chargers.
At first, I didn't believe it. I mean, come on. In Nigeria? Real Bon Jovi CDs? From the 80s? Please.
But then Bose confirmed it.
"Girl," she said one afternoon, chewing gum like she was trying to kill it, "my cousin bought Slippery When Wet last week. She even played it for me. Sounded real."
That was all I needed.
I had been saving up for months—selling homemade hair clips, tutoring kids in English, even doing extra chores for Mama just to earn a few extra naira here and there. My dream was to own every Bon Jovi album ever released. Not just the ones everyone knew—like These Days or Crush —but the deep cuts. The live albums. The rarities.
So when Bose told me where to go, I packed my little money pouch, wrapped my scarf around my head, and hopped onto an okada headed toward Oshodi.
Big mistake.
The vendor was easy to spot. He sat under a blue tent made of old banners stitched together, surrounded by stacks of dusty CDs, scratched DVDs, and faded posters of musicians long forgotten. I scanned the titles—Beyoncé, Whitney Houston, Bob Marley, Michael Jackson—but I wasn't interested in them. I was looking for only one name.
And there it was.
Right at the bottom of a stack.
Bon Jovi – New Jersey.
My hands trembled as I reached for it. It was still sealed. No cracks. No smudges. Just pristine plastic and a sticker that read "Original Import – USA."
"How much?" I asked, trying to sound cool.
The man gave me a toothy grin. "Five thousand naira."
I almost choked.
Five thousand?
That was more than half my savings.
But something inside me whispered, this is fate. So I handed over the cash, grabbed the CD, and tucked it into my bag like it was gold.
I barely noticed the men watching me from across the street.
They followed me from the market.
At first, I thought it was just traffic noise—the usual chaos of Oshodi, where people shouted, cars honked, and hawkers weaved through buses like they were born to dodge death. But as I walked toward the bus stop, I felt eyes on me.
Then footsteps.
Fast. Deliberate.
I quickened my pace.
So did they.
I turned left into a narrow alley, hoping to lose them. Instead, I found myself in a dead-end. A wall of crumbling bricks stood before me. Behind me, two men emerged from the shadows.
One was tall, wearing a torn shirt and sunglasses despite the gloomy sky. The other was shorter, his teeth stained with kola nut.
"You have something we want," the taller one said in broken English.
I clutched my bag tighter.
"Please," I said, voice shaking. "I don't have anything valuable."
He smiled. "Yes, you do."
He pointed to my bag.
I realized in that moment—they weren't after my money.
They were after the CD.
I don't know how I ran so fast. Maybe adrenaline. Maybe sheer terror. But I bolted past them, knocking the shorter one down, and sprinted toward the main road.
Behind me, shouts echoed.
"Get her!"
"She has the disc!"
Cars swerved. People screamed. I dodged a cart stacked with yam sacks, nearly slipped on oil spilled from a mechanic's shop, and finally reached the crowded bus park.
I ducked behind a minibus, breathing hard, heart pounding like a snare drum solo. I peeked around the corner.
The men were gone.
For now.
I looked down at my bag.
Still had the CD.
I should've thrown it away. Should've left it in the gutter and never looked back.
But I couldn't.
Because I knew this wasn't just a CD anymore.
It was a mystery.
And I wanted answers.
Back home, I locked my door and examined the CD again.
Something about it felt… off.
The seal was too clean. Too perfect. Like it had been tampered with.
I popped it into my laptop, unsure if it would even play.
To my surprise, it worked.
But it wasn't music.
It was a video file.
Black screen. Then static.
A voice crackled through the speakers.
"Do not trust anyone."
I froze.
Then another line:
"They're watching you."
The screen went dark.
I stared at it, heart hammering.
What the hell had I just bought?
The next day, I tried to find the vendor again.
He was gone.
No tent. No CDs. No sign he had ever existed.
I asked around. Nobody remembered him.
Even Bose got spooked.
"Folake," she whispered, "maybe you should just delete whatever you saw and forget this ever happened."
But I couldn't.
Because that night, someone knocked on my window.
Three short taps.
Then silence.
I opened it slowly.
There was no one outside.
Just a small envelope taped to the frame.
Inside was a single sentence:
"You're closer to the truth than you think. Be careful who you trust."
I didn't sleep that night.
Instead, I stared at the ceiling, clutching the CD like it held the key to everything.
Who were those men?
Why did they want this disc?
And why did the video say not to trust anyone?
As the morning sun rose over Surulere, I made a decision.
I wouldn't stop until I found out.
Even if it meant risking everything.
Even if it meant chasing a legend across oceans.
Even if it meant facing the darkness hidden behind a rockstar's smile.