Chapter 12: Livin' on Love
They say when you survive death, life feels different.
Like someone rewired your soul while you were gone.
When I came back from the coma, everything felt… lighter. Even my heartbeat seemed to carry a new rhythm—not just survival, but celebration.
I started seeing the world through softer eyes. The way sunlight hit the rooftops of Surulere suddenly looked like poetry. The smell of fried plantain reminded me of home. And every time I heard "Always" playing from my phone, I didn't cry anymore—I smiled.
Because now, I knew.
Love was stronger than fear.
Music was stronger than silence.
And life?
Life was stronger than death.
Jon called me one evening.
Her voice cracked with excitement.
"Mama," she said, "we're coming home."
I sat up straight.
"What do you mean?"
"I'm pregnant."
Silence.
Then tears.
"Oh my God," I whispered. "Are you serious?"
She laughed. "Yes! Twins!"
I nearly dropped the phone.
My daughter—my firecracker, my Bon Jovi girl—was going to be a mother herself.
To twins.
Two grandbabies.
At once.
God had blessed me twice over.
David held me as I cried that night.
He kissed my forehead and whispered, "You're going to be an amazing grandmother."
I sniffled. "Do you think they'll call me 'Nanny Folake' or 'Grandma Rockstar'?"
He laughed. "Only if you wear leather pants to pick them up from school."
I smacked his arm playfully.
But inside, my heart was full.
So full.
It felt like it might burst.
Jon arrived six months later, belly round, cheeks glowing, and spirit even brighter.
She moved into the spare room upstairs—the one I'd turned into a cozy nursery filled with soft blankets, baby books, and yes—a tiny Bon Jovi poster taped above the crib.
Just for tradition.
"You're not seriously putting Bon Jovi in their room before they're even born," she teased.
I grinned. "They need good taste in music from day one."
She rolled her eyes—but secretly loved it.
We spent days baking cookies, painting onesies, and listening to playlists we made together.
"Livin' on a Prayer" became our go-to lullaby.
Sometimes, I would rub her belly and whisper, "Your grandma used to scream this song at the top of her lungs while crying over a boy who bit her tongue."
Jon would laugh until she snorted.
And then, one rainy morning in March, the moment came.
The contractions started.
The pain kicked in.
The hospital lights flickered.
And after hours of pushing, screaming, crying, and one dramatic shout of "Oh my God, I hate you!" directed at David (who wasn't even involved), the first baby was born.
A girl.
Tiny.
Perfect.
Beautiful.
With a head full of hair and a cry that could wake the dead.
And ten minutes later, the second.
Another girl.
Just as loud.
Just as fierce.
Twins.
Two miracles.
Two gifts.
Two little girls who now owned my entire heart.
We named them Bukky and Bonnie .
Bukky—after my late cousin who taught me how to dream big and live boldly.
Bonnie—because Jon insisted we needed a Bon Jovi name in there somewhere.
And honestly?
I couldn't have been prouder.
Life changed again.
In the best way possible.
I traded long nights writing poetry for longer nights rocking babies.
I swapped out concert playlists for lullabies sung softly in the dark.
And somehow, in the middle of all the chaos—diapers, bottles, sleepless nights—I found peace.
Real peace.
Not the kind you find in silence.
But the kind you find in love.
In family.
In legacy.
David stayed by my side through it all.
He held the babies when they wouldn't stop crying.
He cooked jollof rice when I forgot how to use the stove.
He danced with me in the kitchen while Jon napped.
And sometimes, he'd look at me and say, "You know… we could have one of our own."
I blinked.
"You mean… another baby?"
He smirked. "No. I mean… maybe we should get married."
I stared at him.
Then burst into laughter.
"You want to marry me because I've already survived a heart attack and raised a rockstar daughter? That's your pitch?"
He pulled me close.
"No. I want to marry you because you make my life feel legendary."
I kissed him.
Hard.
And said, "Let's do it."
We got married under the stars.
On my balcony.
With Jon and the twins watching from their stroller.
Bose officiated.
David wore a black suit and a Bon Jovi pin on his lapel.
I wore a white dress and red lipstick.
As we exchanged vows, the wind carried the sound of "Who Says You Can't Go Home" from my speaker.
Jon sang along.
So did Bose.
Even the babies cooed like they understood.
And I thought—
This is it.
This is heaven.
Not the one I saw after death.
But the one I built after surviving it.
Now, years later, I sit on the porch, holding both of my granddaughters in my arms.
They giggle.
They babble.
They reach for my face like I'm the only world they need.
Behind me, Jon and David argue about whose turn it is to wash the bottles.
Bose sits beside me, sipping tea and humming "Livin' on a Prayer."
And I smile.
Because I finally understand what it means to live fully.
Not just for yourself.
But for those who love you.
For those you've loved.
For those you will love.
And for the music that never stopped playing.
"WHOAAAAA!"
The twins squeal as the speakers blast "Livin' on a Prayer" again.
Jon groans. "Mama…"
I grin.
"They're ready."
And so am I.