Chapter 7: Who Says You Can't Go Home
Ten years later, I sat on the balcony of my flat in Lekki, watching the sun dip into the Atlantic like it was tired of chasing time.
My daughter, Jon , played with her toy guitar inside, strumming imaginary chords and belting out whatever tune she could remember from the Bon Jovi playlist I still kept on my phone. She had her father's blue eyes and my wild curls—like thunderclouds wrapped in sunlight.
She was three now. Full of fire. And already asking questions about the man whose name she carried but had only seen in photos.
"Mama," she said one afternoon, holding up a torn poster of Jon Bon Jovi that she found tucked between my old notebooks, "is this my daddy?"
I smiled, even though my heart cracked a little.
"No, baby," I said, tucking a curl behind her ear. "That's just the other Jon."
The real one—the American one—was a ghost now. A memory wrapped in leather jackets, neon lights, and reckless love songs.
But once upon a time… he was everything.
It started at a Bon Jovi concert in Chicago.
I was twenty-three, fresh off the plane from Nigeria, living my wildest dream. My poetry had been published in an international journal. A small press wanted to turn my spoken word pieces into a book. So I packed a suitcase, kissed my mother goodbye, and flew across the ocean with nothing but a backpack full of poems and a heart wide open.
And then I saw them live.
Bon Jovi.
Red October wasn't there that night, but the energy was electric. The crowd screamed. The lights flashed. Jon stood on stage like he owned the world.
And somewhere in the front row, I met him .
His name was Jonathan Miller —but everyone called him Jon . He was tall, lean, with those piercing blue eyes and a voice that cracked when he laughed too hard. He worked in music production and had been to dozens of concerts, but he told me mine was the loudest scream he'd ever heard during "Livin' on a Prayer."
We talked after the show.
Then we went for drinks.
Then we didn't sleep for three days.
Because we were in love.
Or maybe just drunk on each other.
Either way, it felt like magic.
We got married in Vegas.
Not because we planned to.
Because we couldn't stop kissing long enough to say no.
One minute we were dancing outside Caesar's Palace to a street band playing "Always," and the next we were signing a marriage license in a tiny chapel with glitter walls and a Elvis impersonator officiating.
We honeymooned in New York, San Francisco, Austin. We rented a beat-up van and drove through America, letting the radio guide us. Every new Bon Jovi song felt like our soundtrack.
"Who says you can't go home…"
We sang it together every time it came on.
We believed we were invincible.
We believed we were forever.
For a while, we were.
We lived in LA. I wrote. He produced. We made love under studio lights and danced in empty sound rooms like we were filming our own movie.
And then came the call.
From Nigeria.
A publishing house wanted to adapt my memoir into a film. They needed me back home to consult. To help shape the story.
I told Jon.
He smiled.
And said, "Why don't I come with you?"
I did a happy dance. Kissed him until his lips turned red.
But when the time came…
He backed out.
"I don't know if I can live there," he said. "It's not just about the work. It's the lifestyle. The pace. The heat. The noise."
I tried to understand.
But deep down, I knew what he meant.
America was his home.
Nigeria was mine.
And suddenly, we were two people standing on opposite sides of a song we used to sing together.
I didn't tell him I was pregnant.
Not at first.
I waited until I was certain. Until the morning sickness hit. Until I held the test in my hand and cried because I realized—I was going to be a mama.
But when I called him?
He didn't answer.
When I texted?
No reply.
When I finally reached him?
He sounded distant.
Tired.
"I just don't know if I'm ready for this, Folake," he said. "You know how I feel about Nigeria. About starting a family there."
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
"And what about us?" I asked.
There was silence.
Then—
"I think… maybe we need some space."
And just like that, it was over.
No screaming. No drama. Just quiet surrender.
Like the end of a ballad.
So I boarded the plane alone.
With a belly I hadn't shown him yet.
With a ring I hadn't returned.
With a heart that hurt more than I let on.
As the plane touched down in Lagos, I pressed my forehead against the window and whispered, "Who says you can't go home…"
And then I played the track.
Loud.
Let the lyrics fill the cabin like a prayer:
"This is your life, this is your song...
And every road leads back to where you belong..."
I cried.
Not because I was sad.
But because I was finally home.
Now, ten years later, I live a quieter life.
I write children's books. Poetry. Memoirs. I teach writing workshops at a youth center in Ajah. I raise Jon by myself, with Mama's help and Bose's constant advice.
Sometimes, I wonder what would've happened if Jon had come with me.
Would we still be together?
Would we have raised our daughter under the same roof?
Or would we have broken apart anyway?
I'll never know.
But I do know this:
Love doesn't always last.
But strength does.
And sometimes, the most beautiful stories aren't the ones we plan.
They're the ones we survive.
I still listen to Bon Jovi.
Not every day.
But when I do, I smile.
Because the music reminds me of who I was.
And who I've become.
A girl who chased dreams across oceans.
A woman who built a life from heartbreak.
A mother who gave birth to her own kind of miracle.
And a survivor who learned that home isn't always a place.
Sometimes, it's a person.
Sometimes, it's a song.
Sometimes, it's the sound of your daughter laughing as she strums her plastic guitar and sings:
"WHOAAAAA! WE'RE LIVIN' ON A PRAYER!"
And I laugh.
Because even now, after everything...
…I'm still singing.
Still dreaming.
Still alive.