Chapter 10: Just Older
I used to think getting older would make things easier.
That the noise in my head would quiet down. That heartbreaks would stop hurting so much. That love—real, lasting, soul-deep love—would find me when I stopped looking for it.
But life doesn't work like that.
Getting older just means carrying more weight with fewer shoulders to hold it.
I was fifty-five now.
My hair had started to gray—not all of it, but enough to remind me every time I looked in the mirror that time wasn't waiting for me.
I still wore leather jackets and red lipstick. Still danced in my kitchen when "Livin' on a Prayer" came on. Still cried sometimes when I listened to "Always."
But I also took more naps.
Worried about my blood pressure.
And sometimes forgot where I put my phone even though it was in my hand.
Getting older didn't mean slowing down.
It meant doing everything with a little more ache in your bones—and a lot more memories in your chest.
David and I kept in touch after the wedding.
At first, it was casual—messages here and there, sharing music, stories about Nigeria, updates about our lives. He moved back to Port Harcourt for work, producing music for young Afro-rock artists trying to find their sound.
We talked weekly.
Then daily.
Then we started video calling.
He made me laugh like I hadn't laughed in years.
He remembered the lyrics to "Bed of Roses" and sang them to me one night when I was feeling low.
He told me he saw something special in me.
Not because I was glamorous or wild anymore.
But because I was real.
Because I had lived.
Because I still believed in love, even after losing it.
Even after surviving it.
We met again—six months later—in Lagos.
He visited for a music festival. Reached out. Invited me to dinner.
We went to an old-school rooftop spot in Victoria Island. The kind with fairy lights and soft jazz playing in the background.
We talked until midnight.
About Nigeria.
About America.
About what it meant to be alone at this age.
He held my hand.
"I'm not scared of getting older," he said. "I'm scared of not living while I do."
I smiled.
"Me neither."
He leaned in.
Kissed me gently.
Like he knew I was fragile.
Like he didn't care.
Like he wanted to try anyway.
For the next few months, we were inseparable.
He flew me to Port Harcourt. Showed me around his studio. Introduced me to his friends like I was someone important.
I invited him to Lagos. Took him to Balogun Market. To Lekki Arts & Books. Even to Bose's house, where she grilled him like he was applying for marriage.
He passed with flying colors.
People started calling us "the Bon Jovi couple."
I loved it.
I felt like I was in my own music video.
A second chance at love.
At fifty-five.
Who even gets that?
I did.
Or so I thought.
The signs started small.
Tiredness.
Shortness of breath.
Chest tightness after walking up the stairs.
I blamed stress.
Age.
Too much excitement.
Too many dreams coming true too fast.
But then came the pain.
Real pain.
One evening, after cooking jollof rice for David and me, I walked outside to check the mail.
The sky was darkening.
The air smelled like rain.
I bent down to pick up the envelope.
And then—
A sharp pain shot through my chest like lightning.
I gasped.
Staggered backward.
Clutched my shirt.
My heart pounded like it was trying to escape.
I tried to scream.
Couldn't.
Everything blurred.
The world tilted.
And then—
Darkness.
They found me on the ground minutes later.
Neighbors heard the fall. Called an ambulance.
David rushed over.
Held my hand as they loaded me into the vehicle.
I barely remember the ride.
Just flashes.
Lights.
Sirens.
His voice.
"Stay with me, Folake."
In the hospital, the doctors ran tests.
Bloodwork.
ECG.
MRI.
And then the words I never expected to hear:
"You've had a mild heart attack."
Silence.
Shock.
Panic.
David sat beside me, holding my hand like he wasn't going anywhere.
"You're going to be okay," he whispered.
But I wasn't sure.
Because suddenly, getting older didn't feel poetic.
Didn't feel legendary.
It just felt scary.
I stayed in the hospital for a week.
Rest. Monitoring. Medication.
David never left.
He read to me. Played Bon Jovi softly on his phone. Told me jokes.
He promised me we'd take it slow.
That we'd heal together.
That we still had time.
But I wasn't so sure.
Not anymore.
When I finally returned home, I sat on my balcony and stared at the city.
Lagos still pulsed with life.
Music still played from open windows.
Children still ran through the streets like they owned them.
But I felt different.
Older.
Fragile.
Scared.
I pulled out my phone.
Opened my playlist.
Played "Just Older."
Jon Bon Jovi's voice filled my ears.
"I don't know what's ahead… But I know what's behind…"
I closed my eyes.
Let the tears come.
Because getting older didn't mean I was done.
It just meant I had to be careful.
Careful with my body.
With my heart.
With my dreams.
That night, I texted David.
"I don't want to lose you."
He replied instantly.
"You won't. I'm not going anywhere."
I believed him.
But I also knew something else.
Getting older isn't just about wisdom.
It's about learning to live with the weight of everything you've survived.
And maybe…
Just maybe…
Love can still find you.
Even when your heart is broken.
Even when it's tired.
Even when it's just older.