Chapter 4: Black Nail Polish and Broken Memories
University was the first time I truly became myself.
No more pretending to be the quiet daughter of a tailor. No more hiding behind books because I was afraid to let people see how loud my soul really was. At the University of Lagos, I found freedom wrapped in rebellion, eyeliner, and rock music.
I dyed my hair jet black and streaked it with red. I wore thick, winged eyeliner that could cut glass and painted my nails midnight purple—almost black, just like my mood some days. I traded in my school uniforms for leather jackets I bought at Allen Avenue, ripped jeans from Balogun Market, and Converses that made me feel like I could stomp through life without apology.
I wasn't just Folake anymore.
I was Goth Folake.
Or as Bose put it:
"You look like you about to summon demons after exams."
I didn't care what anyone said. For the first time, I felt like I fit into my own skin—even if it was covered in paint-splattered poetry notebooks and cheap incense smoke.
It was during my second year that I discovered The Underground , a tiny but legendary live music spot tucked behind a mechanic workshop near Lekki Toll Gate. It wasn't easy to find unless someone showed you the way—and even then, you had to knock twice and say the phrase: "We're here for the noise."
Inside smelled like sweat, beer, and dreams being screamed into microphones. Every weekend, underground bands played there—rock, punk, alternative, metal. If you wanted raw sound and real emotion, The Underground was your church.
And one Monday night—the same day I'd flunked my Philosophy test—I went.
Alone.
With nothing but a bottle of Dubic in my bag and a heart full of Bon Jovi lyrics.
The band that night was called Red October .
They were new. Unknown. Rumored to have formed only six months prior. But something pulled me toward them. Maybe it was the flyer on campus with the tagline:
"Hear the voice that sounds like Bon Jovi walked straight out of Jersey and into Lagos."
Sounded like a lie. But I believed it anyway.
Because when you're a Bon Jovi girl, you chase ghosts of his voice like they might save you.
They came on stage like gods dressed in denim and confidence. The drummer had tribal markings across his cheeks. The guitarist looked like he could've been a Nollywood villain. And the bassist? A girl with pink hair and combat boots who owned the mic like she was born on a stage.
But it was the singer who stopped my breath.
He was tall. Built like a warrior. Skin the color of Nigerian night sky. He stepped forward with a mic in hand and began to sing.
And I swear to every line Jon Bon Jovi ever wrote—
He sounded exactly like him.
Not like an imitation. Not like a cover artist trying to mimic magic.
He was the real thing.
"WHOAAAAA!" he belted into the mic.
My knees buckled.
"Take me down to paradise city..."
I screamed.
Tears ran down my face.
This man—this dark-skinned, dreadlocked, Yoruba prince of a man—was channeling the spirit of Jon Bon Jovi himself.
And I lost my damn mind.
I danced like Lagos was burning.
I drank like I needed to forget something.
I screamed the lyrics like they were prayers.
And somewhere between "Livin' on a Prayer" and "Always," I disappeared.
The next morning, I woke up with a splitting headache, a cotton mouth that could start a drought, and a strange warmth on my left arm.
I rolled over.
Looked down.
And screamed.
There, inked deep into my skin, was a massive tattoo.
Bon Jovi's face.
In full color.
From his forehead to his jaw.
Smiling at me like he knew everything I'd done the night before.
I blinked.
Then I checked under the blanket.
No panties.
Just a pair of shredded lace remains tucked under my pillow, like a trophy someone forgot to take.
I sat up slowly, heart pounding.
What. Had. Happened?
I spent the entire day piecing together bits and pieces.
I remembered dancing hard.
I remembered kissing someone backstage.
I remembered laughing so hard I cried.
I remembered someone asking me if I wanted to get inked.
And me slurring, "Yes. Give me Bon Jovi."
But everything else?
Blank.
Like someone hit delete on my brain.
Bose came by later that afternoon, holding her nose like I smelled like regret.
"Girl," she said, "you made headlines last night."
"What do you mean?"
She tossed me her phone.
A video was playing.
Me. On stage. Singing "Bed of Roses" with the lead singer.
Our duet.
His voice. My voice. Tears. Screams. Passion.
And then… us kissing.
Hard.
Hungry.
Desperate.
Then fade to black.
I stared at the screen in horror.
"Oh my God," I whispered. "Did we…"
She nodded solemnly.
"Yes, ma'am. You two vanished into the back room like you going to war and never coming back."
I buried my face in my hands.
"I got a tattoo of Bon Jovi."
"You did."
"I don't remember paying for it."
"Nope. Signed the receipt with a lipstick kiss."
"And I'm missing underwear."
She smirked. "That part… everyone saw."
I groaned.
Later that week, I tried to find him again.
Went back to The Underground.
No Red October.
No singer.
No record of them ever existing.
Even the bartender shrugged and said, "Never heard of 'em."
Like the whole night had been a dream.
Or a fever-induced hallucination brought on by too much alcohol and Bon Jovi worship.
Now, years later, I still have the tattoo.
Some days, I hate it.
Some days, I love it.
It reminds me not just of music—but of the wild, reckless part of me that once believed in love songs and lived for the moments that made me feel alive.
Even if I couldn't remember them clearly.
Even if they left scars.
Sometimes I wonder if that voice was real.
If the man who sang like Bon Jovi actually existed—or if he was just another dream clinging to my heart like a lyric I couldn't forget.
But maybe it doesn't matter.
Maybe the point is this:
In university, during those wild nights of self-discovery and black nail polish,
I found something.
Not just music.
But myself .
Broken. Inked. Drunk.
Alive.