Chapter 13: Love Ain't Just for the Young
I turned sixty with more energy than most twenty-year-olds.
Okay, fine—I took three ibuprofen before dancing at my birthday party.
But still.
I danced.
And I danced hard.
David and I had our first official wedding anniversary just six months ago. We celebrated it like we do everything else—loudly, passionately, and preferably while someone played Bon Jovi in the background.
We held the party at our new place—a cozy two-story house in Lekki that Jon helped us fix up. She painted the living room in neon pink and added fairy lights everywhere like she was trying to turn our home into a music video.
Bose brought the cake.
A massive chocolate one shaped like a microphone.
"I thought you should have your award," she said proudly.
"For what?" I asked.
"For being the only Nigerian woman I know who came back from the dead, had grandkids, and started dating again like nothing happened."
Everyone laughed.
Even David.
Because it was true.
----
People always say love fades with age.
That passion dies once your body starts creaking louder than your front door.
But they're wrong.
So damn wrong.
Because love doesn't stop just because your knees ache or your memory gets foggy.
It evolves.
It deepens.
It becomes something sacred.
Something worth fighting for.
Sometimes, when I look at David, I remember that moment outside my house when I collapsed.
The way he held my hand in the hospital.
The way he whispered lyrics into my ear when I couldn't speak.
The way he kissed me like I was still beautiful even when I had tubes in my nose and looked like I belonged in a soap opera ICU scene.
He didn't run.
He stayed.
And now?
Now we were building a life together.
In our sixties.
With two granddaughters who screamed louder than any concert crowd.
And a playlist that could bring the house down.
----
To celebrate our first year of marriage, David surprised me with a road trip.
"No flights," he said. "Just us. Lagos to Abuja. Music, food, and no diapers."
I nearly cried.
Not because I was sad—but because I was overwhelmed by how much I loved him.
We rented a beat-up Toyota (he insisted it gave the journey character), packed snacks, water, and a speaker that blasted "Crush" on loop, and drove through Nigeria like two teenagers running away from responsibility.
We stopped in Benin City to eat moimoi and dance under a mango tree.
We sang "Always" in Onitsha while watching the sun dip into the Niger River.
And in Abuja, we checked into a tiny hotel with bad Wi-Fi and great bed springs and made love like we were writing our own ballad.
Afterward, he looked at me and said, "You know… we might be old."
I smacked his chest playfully.
"But?"
He smiled. "But we are so alive."
I kissed him.
Hard.
And whispered, "Don't ever stop loving me like this."
He laughed.
"Not a chance."
----
Meanwhile, Jon was thriving.
She published her first album—Afro-rock fused with Bon Jovi-style ballads—and it went viral.
Her debut single?
"Mama's Man."
A song about me.
"She wore leather jackets and red lipstick,
Sang me to sleep with 'Livin' on a Prayer,'
Survived heartbreaks and heart attacks,
And taught me how to love without fear…"
I cried when I heard it.
So did Bose.
Even the twins babbled along like they understood every word.
Jon performed it live during her Lagos concert.
I sat in the front row, wearing sunglasses so nobody saw me cry.
When she finished, she pointed at me and said, "This one's for the legends—the women who raised us, survived men who bit their tongues, and still found time to raise rockstars."
The crowd cheered.
I stood up.
Waved like I was Beyoncé.
Then tripped over my own feet.
David caught me.
Of course he did.
----
Being a grandma wasn't what I expected.
I thought it would be all baby bottles and bedtime stories.
But it turned out to be a full-time job in rebellion.
Because apparently, Bukky and Bonnie inherited my sass.
At two years old, they already knew how to clap back with a side-eye that could shame an entire village chief.
One day, I caught Bonnie trying to climb onto the couch in high heels.
"Where'd you get those?!"
She grinned. "Papa said they make me look powerful."
I glared at David.
He shrugged. "She's got your fire."
I rolled my eyes.
"But not until she's thirty."
He laughed.
"She's got your stubbornness too."
I sighed.
And then realized—
This was my life now.
Two tiny tornadoes in pigtails.
A husband who still made my heart race.
A daughter who sang to millions.
And a playlist that kept me young.
----
Jon invited us to her second tour.
This time, it wasn't just Lagos.
She was touring across Africa.
We flew to Accra first.
Then Nairobi.
Then Cape Town.
We partied in Johannesburg with South African rockers who knew all the Bon Jovi lyrics.
We ate injera in Ethiopia while listening to her band rehearse.
And in Ghana, David proposed we get matching tattoos.
I stared at him.
"You mean like… hearts?"
He smirked. "Nope. Lyrics."
He showed me what he wanted:
"Livin' on a prayer."
On his forearm.
I blinked.
Then smiled.
"Only if I get to pick mine."
He nodded.
I chose:
"Who says you can't go home."
Right above my Bon Jovi tattoo.
He kissed me.
"Perfect."
----
People used to ask me if I regretted anything.
If I wished I had done things differently.
If I wished I had married the right man sooner.
But I never did.
Because love isn't about timing.
It's about people.
About finding someone who sees you—even when you're broken.
Someone who sings to you even when you don't sing back.
Someone who holds your hand when you wake up from death and whispers:
"You're still here."
And now?
Now I was still here.
Still singing.
Still dancing.
Still kissing David like we were in a music video.
Still raising hell.
Still raising babies.
Still loving like there was no tomorrow.
----
Some nights, after putting the girls to bed and curling up beside David on the couch, I think back to where it all began.
A poster on the wall.
A boy who bit my tongue.
A CD almost got me kidnapped.
A man who looked like Bon Jovi but turned out to be better.
A heart attack.
A coma.
A dream of heaven built from songs.
And now?
Now I have a life I never thought I'd get.
I'm not just Folake anymore.
I'm Nanny Folake.
Grandma Rockstar.
Mrs. David.
And sometimes, when I close my eyes and listen to "Legendary," I still hear the voice that raised me.
Jon Bon Jovi.
Still golden.
Still legendary.
Still making me feel like I was seventeen again.
Screaming into the Lagos night.
Believing in dreams.
Chasing love.
Living loud.
Living proud.
Living free.
"WHOAAAAA!"
The twins squealed as Jon put on another track.
David pulled me to the floor.
We danced.
We laughed.
We loved.
And somewhere in the middle of it all…
…I realized something.
Getting older wasn't scary.
Getting older was magical.
Because when you survive enough heartbreaks to write a lifetime of songs…
You learn this truth:
Love ain't just for the young.
It's for the brave.
The broken.
The reborn.
The ones who still believe in magic.
Even when their knees complain.
Even when their hair turns gray.
Even when their heart gives them a scare.
Even when they've lost everything…
…only to find themselves again.