Chapter 5: The Mirror and the Music
When I first saw the footage, I didn't believe it.
The CCTV was grainy—low quality, shaky like someone had taped it with an old Nokia phone. But there I was. On screen. Moving through the backstage hallway of The Underground , laughing. Talking to the lead singer of Red October . Touching his face like he was real. Like he wasn't just some fever dream born from too much Dubic and Bon Jovi lyrics.
And then... me walking into a room alone.
Closing the door behind me.
No one followed.
No one forced me.
I did that to myself.
Bose handed me the phone like she was giving me news about a funeral.
"Here," she said softly. "Watch this part."
I clicked play.
There I was again, this time on a different angle—my back facing the camera as I came out of the room minutes later. Disheveled hair. Lipstick smeared. My eyes wide like I'd just seen something I couldn't explain.
And in my hand?
A piece of torn lace.
My own panties.
I watched myself tuck them under my pillow inside my bag like they were some kind of trophy.
Like I wanted to remember what happened.
Or maybe prove that I hadn't been hurt.
I sat in silence for a long time after that.
Bose didn't speak. She knew better than to fill the space with noise when my mind was already screaming.
It was supposed to feel like relief. Closure. Proof that I hadn't been violated. That I had made choices—even if I didn't remember making them.
But instead, all I felt was shame.
Not because I had done something wrong.
But because I had believed the worst of myself before I even gave myself a chance to understand the truth.
Later that night, I watched another clip.
This one was longer. From the tattoo parlor down the street.
There I was again—still drunk, still loud, still wearing that same leather jacket like it was armor.
I remembered the artist asking me, "You sure you want this?"
And me, slurring my words: "Yes! It's Bon Jovi! He's everything!"
He laughed. I don't think he took me seriously at first. But I pulled out cash and begged him.
"Please," I said. "I need this."
And so he inked Jon Bon Jovi's face onto my left arm, from shoulder to elbow, while I sang "Always" off-key and cried like I was mourning something I couldn't name.
I played the clips over and over again.
Trying to find the moment where I lost control.
But there wasn't one.
I had chosen every step. Every kiss. Every scream. Every tear.
Even the broken pieces of my underwear—they weren't evidence of violence.
They were proof of passion.
Of recklessness.
Of freedom.
And yet, somehow, I still felt broken.
For days, I stayed in bed.
Didn't answer calls.
Didn't go to class.
Just stared at the ceiling and replayed everything in my head.
Why had I assumed the worst?
Why did I immediately jump to the idea that I had been taken advantage of?
Was it because of how drunk I was?
Or was it because somewhere deep inside me, I had been conditioned to believe that any loss of memory meant loss of consent?
That if I woke up confused, it must have been someone else's fault?
I didn't know anymore.
All I knew was that I had let fear win before I even gave myself a chance to heal.
One evening, Bose brought me tea.
She sat beside me on the bed and said, "You're not broken, Folake."
I looked at her.
"I tore my own underwear."
She nodded. "Because you wanted to remember."
I shook my head. "I should've remembered without tearing anything."
She sighed. "You were drunk. You were emotional. You were caught up in the music. In the man. In the moment. That doesn't make you weak. It makes you human."
I started crying.
Not because I was sad.
But because I finally understood.
I hadn't been abused.
I had been alive.
Still, something lingered.
Something dark.
Every time I heard a Bon Jovi song, I flinched.
"Livin' on a Prayer."
"Always."
"Bed of Roses."
They no longer felt like anthems of freedom.
They felt like triggers.
Reminders of a night I couldn't fully remember but couldn't forget either.
So I stopped listening to them.
Deleted them from my playlist.
Unplugged the headphones.
Locked away the CDs.
Bon Jovi became a ghost in my life.
A voice I loved but feared.
A melody that once lifted me—but now reminded me of how easily I could fall.
Months passed.
University ended.
I moved back home for a while before landing a job at a small publishing house in Victoria Island.
Life went on.
But the questions didn't.
How do you reconcile with yourself when your memories betray you?
How do you trust your body when it feels like it made decisions without you?
How do you love something—someone—that reminds you of both joy and pain?
One day, I found myself staring at my tattoo in the mirror.
Bon Jovi's face, inked deep into my skin.
Smiling.
Always smiling.
I touched it gently.
"You gave me strength," I whispered. "But you also scared me."
I didn't know who I was talking to—Jon? The singer? My younger self?
Maybe all of us.
Then I did something I hadn't done in months.
I opened my laptop.
Searched for "These Days."
Hit play.
The opening chords filled the room.
"These days are hard, these days are long…"
I closed my eyes.
Let the music wash over me.
Let the tears come.
Let the memories return—not as monsters, but as moments.
Fragments of a girl who once danced too hard, kissed too fast, and lived too loud.
And survived.
By the end of the song, I was breathing easier.
Still me.
Still whole.
Still scarred.
Still singing.
Now, years later, I carry that night with me.
Not as a wound.
But as a lesson.
I learned that sometimes, we are our own villains.
Sometimes, we imagine the worst before we give ourselves a chance to see the truth.
And sometimes, the music we love—the songs that shaped us—can haunt us just as deeply as they heal us.
But I also learned this:
Fear is powerful.
But healing is stronger.
Sometimes, I still play Bon Jovi.
Not every day.
Not always.
But when I do, I listen carefully.
Not just for the music.
But for the girl I used to be.
The one who screamed into the night.
Who kissed strangers.
Who got tattoos she didn't plan.
Who lived.
Fully.
Wildly.
Bravely.
Even if she didn't remember every second.
And when the final notes fade, I smile.
Because I'm still here.
Still standing.
Still singing.
Still alive.