Chapter 11: Born to Be in Jovi Heaven
I don't remember the moment I collapsed.
Only what came after.
Darkness. Silence. Then—music.
Soft at first. Like a whisper from another life.
Then louder.
Familiar.
"WHOAAAAA!"
Jon Bon Jovi's voice echoed through my mind like it had always been there, waiting for me.
I opened my eyes.
But I wasn't in Lagos anymore.
The Other Side
I stood in a city that didn't exist.
Tall buildings shimmered under a sky painted with neon lights and stardust. The air smelled like leather jackets, rain-soaked pavement, and freedom. Music played everywhere—not just from speakers, but from the wind itself.
People danced in the streets. Some wore leather. Others glitter. Some were young. Some old. All of them smiled.
And then I saw him.
Jon Bon Jovi.
Standing on a rooftop, microphone in hand, singing "Always" like he'd never stopped.
He turned.
Looked at me.
Smiled.
"Welcome home," he said.
I blinked.
"What is this place?"
He chuckled.
"You tell me."
I wandered through the city like I was dreaming.
There were no clocks. No phones. No pain.
Just music. Endless music.
I passed by familiar faces—Richie Sambora strumming his guitar beside a streetlamp. Tico Torres drumming on a set made of clouds. David Bryan playing keys on a piano that floated above a river of light.
Everywhere I went, songs followed.
"Livin' on a Prayer."
"Bed of Roses."
"This Ain't a Love Song."
They weren't just songs.
They were memories.
Pieces of my life stitched together into a soundtrack only I could hear.
----
After days—or maybe hours—I found myself standing before a massive stage.
On it sat a throne.
Not of gold.
Of microphones.
A figure stepped forward.
It looked like Jon.
But older. Wiser. Almost godlike.
He studied me.
"You're not ready yet," he said.
I frowned. "What do you mean?"
"You died," he said simply. "But your heart isn't finished."
"I had a heart attack," I whispered.
He nodded. "Yes. But death doesn't always mean the end. Sometimes… it means a pause."
I shook my head. "I don't understand."
He smiled gently. "You will."
Suddenly, the world around me changed.
The city faded.
Replaced by fire.
Smoke.
Screaming.
Hell.
I stood in a place where music was twisted into noise. Where people screamed lyrics without meaning. Where dreams shattered against concrete walls.
I heard Bose's voice crying out.
My mother's.
David's.
All of them trapped in a version of Lagos that had never truly existed.
Pain.
Loss.
Regret.
That was hell.
Being separated from those you love.
Living with choices you couldn't undo.
Hearing silence when all you ever wanted was music.
Then everything shifted again.
Back to the city.
To the light.
To the music.
Jon stood beside me.
"This is heaven," he said. "For you."
I looked around.
"But why here?"
He smiled. "Because this is where your soul lives."
I understood then.
Heaven is a place.
It wasn't a feeling.
Of being seen.
Of being loved.
Of being remembered.
Of being free.
----
In real time, I had been in a coma for seven days.
Doctors said my heart had almost given up.
But something kept me alive.
The nurses told David I would moan softly every time they played Bon Jovi in my room.
Sometimes I cried.
Other times, I smiled.
As if I was dreaming.
Or dying.
Or both.
On the seventh day, I woke up.
Blinking against the hospital lights.
Gasping for breath.
David was there.
Crying.
Holding my hand.
"You came back," he whispered.
I tried to speak.
Couldn't.
He placed a phone to my ear.
Played "Born to Be My Baby."
I closed my eyes.
Let the tears come.
Because I knew now.
I had seen my own version of heaven.
And I had seen my own version of hell.
And I chose to live.
----
When I returned home, everything felt different.
The city still pulsed.
The heat still clung.
But I walked differently.
Spoke softer.
Listened more.
I started writing again.
Not poems.
Not memoirs.
Letters.
To Jon Bon Jovi.
To God.
To my daughter.
To myself.
I told everyone about my experience.
Some called it a near-death vision.
Others said it was a dream.
But I knew better.
I had felt eternity.
And it sang.
David stayed with me.
He held me when I cried.
He kissed my forehead when I couldn't sleep.
We took things slow.
No pressure.
No rush.
Just two souls learning how to love in the time we had left.
One night, as we sat on the balcony, watching the stars blink like spotlights, I whispered:
"My own version of heaven was different. Not what I was taught in Sunday school."
He looked at me.
"Please don't go to heaven yet. Please stay with me"
I smiled.
"In Lagos."
He laughed.
"But also…"
I paused.
"…in a city built from Bon Jovi songs."
He kissed me gently.
"That sounds like a good place to be."
----
I don't know if what I saw was real.
Maybe it was just my brain trying to make sense of chaos.
But I believe in something bigger than fear.
Something deeper than pain.
And I believe in music.
In its power to heal.
To transform.
To resurrect.
Even when your body gives out…
Your soul can still sing.
And yes there is a place called heaven.
With great songs.
With guitars.
Drums.
And a voice that says:
"Welcome home but in the next One Hundred years."