Chapter 7: The Dream I Gave Her
It started with a phone call.
Jon was sixteen—already taller than me, already louder than the radio, already more confident than half the adults I knew. She had inherited my stubbornness and her father's blue eyes, but also something else.
A fire for music that burned brighter than anything I'd ever seen.
She wasn't just a fan of Bon Jovi.
She was Bon Jovi.
Or at least, she wanted to be.
She wore leather jackets like they were second skin, dyed her hair electric red, and learned to play every single one of their songs on guitar—even the rare ones most people didn't know existed.
And now, out of the blue, she called me from America.
"I got us tickets," she said.
I blinked. "To what?"
"To the Bon Jovi tour."
I dropped my cup.
"WHAT?!"
"You heard me, Mama," she said, voice full of that reckless joy I used to carry myself. "We're going. You and me. To see Bon Jovi live."
I sat down slowly.
The world tilted a little.
Bon Jovi.
Live.
In person.
After everything.
After all these years.
I should've been excited.
But instead, I felt... scared.
Not because I didn't still love Bon Jovi.
I did.
But Bon Jovi had always meant something more to me than just music.
He was the soundtrack of my youth.
Of my rebellion.
Of my heartbreak.
Of the night I lost myself and found myself all at once.
Seeing him in person again felt like opening a book I had long since closed.
But Jon wouldn't take no for an answer.
She sent me a plane ticket.
Then a hotel reservation.
Then a screenshot of two VIP passes.
"You owe this to yourself," she said when I hesitated. "You gave me my name because of him. Now let me give you your moment."
How do you say no to that?
You don't.
So I boarded a plane.
For the first time in over ten years.
This time, not alone.
This time, with my daughter.
As we flew across the Atlantic, I watched her sleep beside me, earbuds in, humming "Bed of Roses" under her breath.
She looked so much like me back then.
Before the heartbreak.
Before the tattoo.
Before the tears.
Before the lessons.
And I realized—
Maybe this wasn't just about Bon Jovi.
Maybe it was about passing on a piece of myself.
A dream I had once chased.
That she now ran toward.
When we landed in New York, the city felt like a song waiting to be played.
Lights everywhere.
Noise.
Energy.
Life.
Jon dragged me through Times Square, Brooklyn, Queens—every place she thought might have a connection to Bon Jovi. We visited record shops, listened to cover bands, even stood outside the studio where some of his albums were recorded.
But nothing compared to the night of the concert.
The venue was massive. Thousands of fans packed the stadium, waving glow sticks and singing along before the band even came on stage.
I held my breath as the lights dimmed.
Then the drums hit.
Then the guitar.
Then the voice.
"WHOAAAAAA!"
And there he was.
Jon Bon Jovi.
Still tall.
Still golden.
Still wearing that same spark that made me scream into the Lagos night all those years ago.
I couldn't breathe.
I couldn't move.
I just stared.
Because standing there, under the spotlight, was not just a man.
He was a memory.
A symbol.
A ghost.
And somehow… he was real.
During the encore, Jon tugged at my sleeve.
"Mama," she whispered, eyes wide with excitement. "We got backstage passes."
I turned to her. "What?!"
She grinned. "I told them who you were."
"What does that mean?!"
She laughed. "I told them your story. About how you wrote poetry inspired by Bon Jovi. How you named me after him. How you lived your life dancing to his songs. They said someone wants to meet you."
My heart stopped.
Then raced.
Then broke.
Then healed.
All in one breath.
Backstage was chaos.
Crew members running. Security shouting. Guitar techs tuning instruments. And somewhere in the middle of it all, I stood frozen, clutching Jon's hand like I was about to meet God.
Then he walked in.
Bon Jovi himself.
No entourage.
Just him.
He saw me.
Smiled.
Walked straight up to me.
"Folake?" he asked.
I nodded, unable to speak.
He extended his hand.
I shook it.
Then he hugged me.
Like he already knew my whole story.
Like he had been part of it all along.
Later, we sat in a quiet corner of the green room.
He asked me questions.
About Nigeria.
About my writing.
About Jon.
I told him everything.
About the poster on my wall.
About the CD almost getting me kidnapped.
About the boy who bit my tongue.
About the tattoo.
About the man I loved and lost.
About the daughter I raised alone.
And when I finished, he just smiled.
Then he said something I'll never forget:
"You gave your daughter a dream. That's the greatest gift any parent can give."
I cried.
Not because I was overwhelmed.
But because I finally understood.
This wasn't just about Bon Jovi.
It was about the power of dreams.
About how a girl in Lagos could fall in love with a sound.
How she could chase it across oceans.
How she could lose herself in it.
And find herself again.
And how she could pass that fire on to her child.
The next day, we went back to the hotel.
Jon lay on the bed, strumming her guitar, humming "Always."
I sat beside her.
"Thank you," I whispered.
She looked at me. "For what?"
"For bringing me here."
She smiled. "You brought yourself here. I just handed you the mic."
I kissed her forehead.
And then I said the words I hadn't said in years:
"Who says you can't go home…"
She sang the next line.
"This is your life, this is your song…"
Together, we finished:
"And every road leads back to where you belong."
Years later, I look back on that night not as the end of a dream.
But as the beginning of another.
Because dreams don't die.
They change shape.
They grow.
They become daughters.
They become songs.
They become legacies.
And sometimes, if you're lucky…
…they come true.