Chapter 15: Grey, Gorgeous, and Glowing
I turned seventy with red lipstick on and a Bon Jovi playlist blaring from my phone.
David called me insane.
I told him not to pretend he didn't marry me for this madness.
We celebrated my birthday the way we did everything now—with music, laughter, and just enough sass to make the younger generation roll their eyes.
Jon flew in with her husband and their two teenage daughters—both of whom were already writing poetry and claiming they'd form a girl band one day.
Bose brought a cake shaped like a microphone again.
This time, she added wings.
"For the rockstar who refused to die," she said proudly.
I kissed her cheek.
Then I cried.
Because at seventy, you cry at everything. A commercial. A hug. A memory that hits you sideways.
But these days?
The tears are happy ones.
Or at least, they mostly are.
----
David and I danced under the stars that night like it was our first kiss all over again.
He still looked at me like I was seventeen, standing in front of him with torn panties and a broken heart, screaming Bon Jovi lyrics into the Lagos night.
And I still looked at him like he was the man who showed up when I thought love had left me behind.
We weren't as fast as we used to be.
Our knees creaked more than the floorboards.
Our backs groaned after too much dancing.
But none of that mattered.
Because love doesn't slow down—it just changes shape.
It becomes softer.
Warmer.
More intentional.
When I look back on my life now, I don't see the pain.
I see the lessons.
I see every broken heart that taught me strength.
Every loss that led to something better.
Every dream that died only to be reborn in a new form.
I see the scars—and I call them beautiful.
Because they're mine.
They tell the story of a Nigerian girl who dared to dream loud.
Who fell in love with music before she ever trusted a man.
Who screamed into the void and found herself screaming back.
Who lost everything.
And then built something even better.
----
Life today is quieter—but only because the twins moved out.
Well, Bukky's away at university.
Bonnie's still home—barely. She's got her own boyfriend now and thinks she's Beyoncé reincarnated.
She sings "Livin' on a Prayer" off-key while doing her hair in the mirror.
Just like I did.
Sometimes, David catches me watching her through the hallway mirror.
"She's just like you," he says.
I smile.
"God help us."
He kisses my temple.
"We raised legends."
We did.
We absolutely did.
We live in Port Harcourt now.
A small house near the beach.
Every morning, I wake up to the sound of waves crashing outside and birds chirping like they know we're old and need gentle reminders to get up.
David makes tea.
I hum "Always."
Sometimes, I read Bukky's latest email from school.
She's studying music production.
Said she wants to produce the next big Afro-rock album.
Bonnie declares she'll marry a British guy and move to London.
I remind her she can do both without leaving her roots behind.
And then I go sit on the porch, sip my tea, and watch the sunrise.
Not because I'm nostalgic.
But because I've learned to love the quiet moments.
The ones where I don't have to scream to be heard.
Because now, the world listens.
Even if only in my heart.
----
At seventy, I published another book.
This one wasn't about heartbreak or chasing dreams.
It was called "Grey and Glorious."
A reflection on aging, womanhood, and owning your power at any age.
People loved it.
Some called it "a love letter to older women."
Others said it made them want to grow old fearlessly.
One young girl wrote to me:
"You made me proud to become who I am. Even before I get there."
I cried when I read that.
Because sometimes, being seen isn't about fame.
It's about knowing that your life meant something.
That your stories mattered.
That your journey helped someone else find theirs.
Jon helped me launch the book.
She surprised me by flying in my cousin Bimbo—the one who gave me that first Bon Jovi poster.
He's in his seventies now.
Still tall.
Still stylish.
Still calling me "rockstar girl" like nothing changed.
We laughed until our sides hurt.
Drank palm wine like we were teenagers again.
And when I asked him what kept him going all these years, he smiled and said, "Love. Music. And remembering that no matter how old you get—you owe it to yourself to keep dreaming."
I hugged him.
Told him I owed him everything.
He winked.
"You paid me back with every chapter."
----
Somehow, Jon Bon Jovi himself found out about my book.
He sent me a message through his team.
"You are an opening act for my concert."
I nearly fainted.
David caught me again.
Of course he did.
The meeting happened in Las Vegas.
Yes.
Fitting, right?
We met backstage at one of his shows.
Surrounded by lights, guitars, and the smell of history.
He walked in, older now but still golden.
Smiled.
Hugged me like we were family.
Then he said the words that undid me completely:
"You lived the story I never knew I was part of."
I broke down.
Right there.
In front of a legend.
He held me.
Let me cry.
And when I finally pulled myself together, he handed me something.
An autographed photo.
From the Slippery When Wet era.
He pointed at the signature.
"It's for the girl who never let life slip away."
I hugged him again.
Then he said:
"You should come on stage with me tonight."
I blinked.
"What?"
He grinned.
"You sang my songs louder than anyone. Now sing with me."
So I did.
Well… sort of.
I stood beside him during "Livin' on a Prayer."
He handed me the mic for the last line.
I whispered into it:
"Hold on!"
The crowd roared.
I cried again.
By the end of the night, I had a million videos of me crying, hugging, and pretending I knew how to dance again.
And I wouldn't change it for the world.
----
Jon's career took off.
She became Nigeria's first Afro-rock queen.
Her music played everywhere—in malls, radio stations, even in Nigerian films.
She won awards.
Did interviews.
Performed at Coachella.
And every time she spoke onstage, she mentioned me.
"This song is for the woman who taught me that growing old doesn't mean giving up. It means glowing brighter."
I watched every performance.
Cried at every one.
Because this was it.
This was my legacy.
Not just books or tattoos or a face carved in Lagos music history.
But the lives I helped raise.
The hearts I helped heal.
The women I inspired to wear leather jackets at sixty-five and scream into the night like nobody cares.
Because honestly?
Nobody does.
And that's the point.
----
People ask me all the time:
"How do you stay so full of life?"
And I always say the same thing:
"Because I stopped fearing the end."
I used to think getting older meant fading away.
I thought grey hair was a sign of slowing down.
That wrinkles meant time had passed me by.
But now?
Now I see age for what it truly is.
A celebration.
A badge of honor.
A reminder that you survived.
That you endured.
That you kept going—even when the world tried to bury you.
Getting older isn't tragedy.
It's triumph.
It's walking through fire and coming out not just alive...
…but glowing.
----
David and I sat hand in hand at our anniversary dinner.
Our silver wedding anniversary.
Twenty-five years of marriage.
He looked at me across the candlelight.
"You still think you're too old to fall in love again?"
I laughed.
"Nope. But I still act like it."
He kissed my knuckles.
"You never stop amazing me."
I leaned closer.
"You never stop loving me."
He smiled.
"That's the easy part."
We danced.
Slow.
Gently.
Like we had all the time in the world.
And maybe we did.
Maybe that's what heaven feels like.
Not white clouds and angels.
But peace.
Love.
Music.
Family.
And the certainty that no matter how old you get…
…you're still living.
Still feeling.
Still singing.
Still dancing.
Still here.
Still you .
----
They gave me an award in Lagos.
Lifetime Achievement Award for Literature and Culture.
They called me "The Voice of Generations."
I walked up on stage with trembling hands.
Took a deep breath.
And said:
"Growing up, I thought beauty came in youth. That love ended with age. That passion faded with time. But I was wrong. So incredibly wrong."
The audience listened.
I continued:
"Getting older isn't the end of the story. It's the encore. It's the moment you realize that joy doesn't have an expiration date. That beauty doesn't fade—it evolves. That love doesn't leave—it deepens."
I paused.
Wiped away a tear.
"I spent my life chasing dreams. Chasing men. Chasing music. But now, at seventy, I've finally learned: the best dream is the one you build. The best love is the one you choose. And the best music is the one that plays in your soul long after the song ends."
The entire room stood.
Cheered.
Clapped.
And then, as if on cue, the speakers played "Legendary."
Jon joined me on stage.
Laced her arm in mine.
Smiled.
And together, we walked off the stage—not as mother and daughter.
But as warriors.
As survivors.
As women who learned that getting older isn't scary.
It's glorious.
----
After the award ceremony, we threw a party.
Backyard full of laughter.
Grill lit.
Jollof rice served late into the night.
Everyone came.
Jon and her girls.
Bukky and Bonnie.
Bose with her homemade playlist.
David, of course.
Even my cousin Bimbo, who insisted on playing air guitar to "Bad Medicine."
I sat in the middle of it all.
Surrounded by people who loved me.
Grandkids running around like they owned the place.
Teens asking for life advice.
Women wanting to interview me for documentaries and podcasts.
And David, lying back on a chair, watching me like I was still the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
He reached for my hand.
Squeezed it gently.
"Still having fun, old lady?"
I smirked.
"Only because I married the man who still dances with me at midnight."
He kissed my fingers.
Then whispered, "You're still the most legendary woman I know."
I kissed him.
Hard.
Then shouted to the crowd:
"This one's still got it, y'all!"
Laughter exploded.
Music played.
Fireworks lit the sky.
And I felt something shift inside me.
Not sadness.
Not nostalgia.
Just… gratitude.
For every scar.
Every loss.
Every love.
Every song.
Every heartbeat.
----
Later that night, after everyone went home and the city lights dimmed, David and I sat on the porch.
The stars blinked above like spotlights.
He held my hand.
I leaned my head on his shoulder.
We sat in silence for a long time.
Then he said softly:
"Do you think about dying ever?"
I looked at him.
Then nodded.
"All the time. Not because I'm afraid. Just because I appreciate being alive now more than I used to."
He smiled.
"Me too."
I touched his face.
"We've lived good lives, haven't we?"
He kissed my fingers.
"The very best kind."
I closed my eyes.
Let the wind carry our laughter into the night.
And I thanked the universe for letting me live long enough to feel this full.
This free.
This loved.
This gloriously, beautifully, unapologetically old.
----
If I had to write one last song.
It wouldn't be about heartbreak.
Or loss.
Or chasing dreams I almost lost.
It would be about this.
About learning to love your face even when the lines show your truth.
About finding happiness not in youth—but in the wisdom that comes with age.
About building a life that doesn't apologize for its wrinkles.
A life that wears gray hair like a crown.
That dances barefoot in the rain.
That loves hard.
Laughs louder.
And lives like every single second matters.
Because it does.
And it will.
Until the final note.
Until the last beat.
Until the final curtain closes.
And even then—
I'll still be smiling.
Because I lived.
Fully.
Passionately.
Unapologetically.
With a voice that never stopped singing.
And a heart that never stopped beating.
Not because I was fearless.
But because I chose to keep going anyway.
WHOAAAAA!"
The twins screamed as fireworks burst above the house.
Followed by Bose yelling, "Play the damn song!"
And then it started.
"Livin' on a Prayer."
I stood up.
Danced.
Laughed.
Sang.
We all did.
Because we were still here.
Still alive.
Still loving.
Still glowing.
Still rocking.
Still celebrating.
Still us.
Still Folake.
Still Nigerian.
Still bold.
Still Bon Jovi.
Still wild.
Still whole.
Still me.