Chapter 4: The Bon Jovi Boy Who Broke My Heart
I met him at the worst possible time.
Right after the tongue-biting incident, when I was still walking around school with a slight lisp and a permanent scowl. People had stopped laughing—at least to my face—but Bose wouldn't stop teasing me.
"Girl," she said one afternoon as we sat under the baobab tree during lunch break, "you need a real man. Not just any man. A Bon Jovi man. "
I groaned. "You mean someone who will kiss me without biting off half my tongue?"
She nodded. "Exactly. And I think I found one."
She pointed across the courtyard.
There he was.
Standing by the music club table like he belonged on a poster.
Tall. Lean. Wavy hair that caught the sunlight like it was meant to be admired. He wore a faded black leather jacket—probably fake, but still cool—and had a guitar slung over his back like he was about to start a solo at any second.
He looked like Jon Bon Jovi's younger, Nigerian-Canadian cousin.
And yes, I knew that sounded ridiculous.
But trust me—he was that kind of cute.
His name was Emeka , and he was mixed heritage—half Nigerian, half American. His dad was from Port Harcourt, and his mom was from Chicago. He had grown up in the States but came back to Nigeria every few years to visit family.
When I first approached him, he was flipping through a stack of CDs outside the music club tent.
I saw what he was holding.
Bon Jovi.
"Crush."
My heart did a drum roll.
I tapped him on the shoulder.
"You like Bon Jovi?" I asked.
He turned, smiled, and said, "Duh. They're the reason I picked up a guitar."
That was it.
Game over.
Heart won.
We became fast friends.
Or something more. I wasn't sure.
Emeka had all the albums. Every single one—from "Slippery When Wet" to "The Circle." He even had bootlegs of live concerts I'd never seen before.
One afternoon, he invited me to his house to listen to them.
His parents were out. The gate was open. The air smelled like fried plantains and possibility.
He put on "Always," handed me a pair of headphones, and said, "Close your eyes."
I did.
And for the next hour, I floated.
He played guitar while the song looped in the background. His fingers danced over the strings like they were made for this. I could feel the vibrations in my chest, in my soul.
When the song ended, he leaned in and whispered, "You have the voice of an angel."
I melted.
Literally.
I felt like I was in one of those romantic movie scenes where the girl looks up at the guy and says, "What now?"
Except in real life, things are never that simple.
We started spending more time together.
Going to music shows. Trading lyrics. Talking until late into the night on WhatsApp.
He called me his "Bon Jovi girl." Said I reminded him of the women in their videos—strong, emotional, passionate.
I loved hearing that.
But then came the question.
"Do you ever think about leaving Nigeria?" he asked one day.
I frowned. "Why would I leave? This is home."
He hesitated. "I'm just saying… there's so much more out there. Music festivals. Big studios. Touring. I want to be part of that world."
I smiled. "Maybe I can come with you."
He didn't smile back.
Instead, he looked at me like I'd just asked him to marry me.
"I like you, Folake," he said softly. "A lot. But… I don't see us being forever."
I blinked.
"What do you mean?"
He sighed. "You're amazing. You've got talent. You're beautiful. But…"
He paused.
"You're not like one of those Bon Jovi girls."
I stared at him.
"What does that even mean?"
He rubbed the back of his neck. "You know… the ones who travel with the band. The models. The dancers. The girls who belong backstage. You're too… grounded."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
"So because I'm not some wild, high-maintenance, runway model type—you don't think we could work?"
He shrugged. "It's not just that. It's just… I see myself living in LA. Touring. Making music. You seem like the kind of girl who'll stay here. Build a life. Get married. Have kids."
I stood up.
"And what's wrong with that?"
He didn't answer.
Because he couldn't.
I walked out of his house that day with tears in my eyes and a broken heart wrapped in leather and lace.
I cried all the way home.
Not because he rejected me.
But because he thought I wasn't enough.
Not glamorous. Not flashy. Not a "Bon Jovi girl."
As if beauty only came in sequins and stilettos.
As if love only happened backstage at sold-out arenas.
But here's the thing.
Even though he hurt me…
…I still listened to Bon Jovi.
Every time "Bed of Roses" came on, I remembered how he sang it to me with his eyes closed, lost in the music.
Every time "These Days" played, I remembered the way he laughed when I tried to harmonize with Jon's voice.
And every time "Thank You for Loving Me" echoed through my tiny room, I remembered how he kissed me once—softly, gently—like I was something precious.
Like I mattered.
Weeks passed.
He moved back to the U.S.
Left no note. No goodbye.
Just a message that said:
"You'll always be my favorite Bon Jovi song."
Cute.
So cliché.
So him.
But you know what?
Despite everything…
…I still missed him.
Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I imagine him somewhere in America, playing guitar in a studio, singing songs he wrote about me.
Songs about a Nigerian girl who loved Bon Jovi more than life itself.
Who kissed in the middle of a seizure.
Who believed in dreams bigger than her reality.
And who, even after heartbreak, still believed in love.
Years later, I realized something important.
He wasn't the real Bon Jovi.
He was just a knockoff.
A cheap imitation wearing a leather jacket and pretending to understand art.
But me?
I was the real thing.
Loud. Unapologetic. Scarred by love but still standing.
Still dancing to the beat of my own Bon Jovi playlist.
Still singing.
Still dreaming.
Still alive.