TOLANI’s PEACE

Welcome to my humble space🤗 and thank you for adding Tolani’s Peace to your collection—perhaps even your reading list. I am beyond thrilled that you’ve decided to embark on this journey with Tolani and Abbas. This book is not just a story; it’s an exploration of love, self-discovery, and the courage it takes to embrace who we truly are in a world that constantly tells us who we should be. Tolani’s Peace is a deeply personal narrative, one that dives into the complexities of body image, self-worth, and the transformative power of love and support.

So, I’m writing/publishing Tolani’s Peace. It’s my first time writing any book, so please bear with me! I’m still learning, but I’m giving it my all. I really hope it resonates with you as much as it does with me.

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Please, do not plagiarize Tolani’s Peace. Every word here was written by me, with my own hands, and still going through some editing. Thank you! All rights reserved®.

{summary}

Welcome to Tolani’s Peace. This story is close to my heart, not just because it’s my first book, but because it reflects real struggles, love, and self-discovery within a Nigerian setting. Tolani’s journey is one of learning to love herself, embracing happiness, and finding peace in a world that often tells her she is not enough. Her story, like many of ours, is filled with highs and lows, but at its core, it is about love—romantic love, self-love, and the love that shapes us.

As you turn these pages, I hope you see a bit of yourself in Tolani’s journey. I hope her struggles and triumphs resonate with you, make you feel, and remind you that you, too, deserve love and peace.

Since this is my first book, I would truly appreciate your feedback. Your thoughts—what you enjoyed, what moved you, and even what could be better—will help me grow as a writer. Thank you for taking a chance on this story. It means more than I can express.

Happy reading!

[Omobolaji Precious]

“My life has been a battle to protect myself from the cruelty of a world that expects perfection. I’ve spent years hiding behind walls, guarding my heart against the judgments of others who couldn’t see beyond my flaws. But with Abbas, it feels different. He doesn’t ask for perfection; he only wants me to open my heart and trust him with all that I am. In his love, I’m finally learning to let go, to embrace the parts of myself I once feared, and to claim the peace that has always been mine.”

—Omotolani Aderinsola.

Y’all please bear with me, am still editing this chapter Thank you 😘

{The Life I Didn’t Plan For}

I stood there, watching everything unfold as if I were a stranger, detached from my own body. Nothing made sense. Why was everyone crying? Why did it feel like the world had come to an end? The air around me was still, almost as if it refused to move, afraid to disturb the heavy silence. But what peace? There was no peace—only grief, thick and suffocating, wrapping itself around the people gathered in black.

The wailing was endless. Some people clung to one another, rocking back and forth. Others threw themselves onto the red, sandy ground, rolling and pounding their fists into the earth as if they could wake her up.

A woman’s voice cut through the noise, raw with sorrow.

“Haaaa, Anike, but this was not our agreement ooo! Who will take care of your children now? Ehn? Who did you leave these children for? Haaaa, you need to wake up and come back oooo!”

Her cries rang in my ears, but they felt distant, like background noise in a dream I couldn’t wake up from.

I wasn’t crying—why should I? They were wrong. All of them so so wrong. People stared, their whispers crawling over my skin like insects.

“Why is she not crying? Does she not understand what is going on?”

“Ah, omo, she’s just a child. She can’t possibly understand the weight of this loss. What a cruel world, chai.”

But they didn’t understand. None of them could. How could they expect me to believe this? My mother couldn’t be dead. Not my mother—the woman with the most serene smile, the softest voice, the most loving and non-judgmental heart. My mother, who always made the world feel warm and safe, couldn’t just be gone.

A sob shook me from my daze, and I turned to see my older sister. Tears streamed down her face as she clung to me tightly, her body trembling.

“It will be okay, Omotolani,” she choked out. “Mama has gone to rest with the angels... she’s not suffering anymore.”

Suffering.

I knew what she meant. I had seen it—heard it.

My mother had suffered.

She had labored for days in that horrible hospital, her cries of pain echoing down the corridors. The nurses, cold and indifferent, snapped at her.

“Why you dey cry? Na your first time to dey born pikin be this?”

Her screams had torn through the walls, raw and agonizing. I had been outside in the hallway, pacing, helpless. We weren’t allowed into the labor room, but I could hear her.

I turned to my sister, desperate for answers. Our father wasn’t there—he had gone to “work,” and no one could reach him.

“Why is Mama crying like that?” I had screamed at Korewa, my voice shaking. “She’s been screaming for hours! Why is the baby not coming out yet?”

I had been excited to meet my baby brother. The scan had shown he would be a boy, and Mama had told us the news with so much joy. I could still hear her voice in my head from that night in our parlor, where we sat eating dinner.

“Omotolani, you’ll finally have a little brother to boss around,” she teased, smiling at me. “I know you’re always giving Ayomikun a hard time.”

But I would never have bullied my baby brother. I would have loved him, cared for him. I only pestered Ayomikun because I wanted to play with him, but he wouldn’t let me. Not because he hated me—he was just looking out for me.

That memory felt like a lifetime ago..

I remembered the moment the screaming stopped. A rush of relief had washed over me—finally, the baby was here. Finally, Mama could stop hurting.

But then the doctor had stepped out.

A stern-looking man, his face lined with exhaustion, like he had been chopping wood for weeks. His scrubs were wrinkled, his posture heavy with something I couldn’t yet name.

And just as he approached us, I heard my father’s voice. Loud. Urgent.

And in that moment, I knew.

Even before the doctor spoke. Even before anyone said the words.

I knew but I refuse to believe it, it can’t be true.

My father stopped short in front of us. He didn’t look at me, my brother, or my sister-the three children who had brought our mother to the hospital when his number was “unreachable.” Не didn’t ask why we had been the ones waiting, why we had been the ones to hear her screams for hours. His focus was entirely on the doctor now, Mine was too.

I was waiting to hear the news that my mother had given birth, that my baby brother was here.

But when the doctor finally spoke, his words shattered my world.

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Aderinsola, but we did everything we could... your wife and the baby did not make it.”

No.

No, he was wrong. Stupid doctor. What was he saying?

His voice was too calm, too unaffected, like he was discussing the weather. Like he hadn’t just destroyed everything. I looked at him, waiting for him to take it back, to say he had made a mistake Beside me, my brother and sister burst into tears. My father kept shaking his head, repeating, “What? What? Wait-what?” like if he asked enough times, the answer would change.

But I didn’t cry. I was angry.

Why was this incompetent doctor lying? Mama was not dead. He was saying nonsense.

Rage exploded inside me, and before I could think, I lunged at him. My small hands clawed at his coat, reaching for his face, trying to scratch out his lying mouth. “You horrible liar! You don’t know anything! You and your horrible nurses killed my mother!”

I fought with everything in me, screaming, kicking, trying to make him feel even a fraction of my pain. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes-guilt, maybe-but I didn’t care. I didn’t care that I wasn’t supposed to speak to adults like that. I didn’t care about anything except the unbearable truth I refused to accept.

My father’s voice cut through blade my screams like a blade

“Tolani, stop this instant, or I will slap you across the face!”

I didn’t care. Let him hit me. I hated him. I hated the doctor. I hated the nurses. All of them-lying, horrible adults.

I screamed until my throat burned.

I screamed until my body ached.

I screamed until we got home, and then I stopped.

I withdrew into myself, shutting everything out. I didn’t talk. I didn’t eat. I just sat there, staring at everyone like they were insane. My mother was not dead. She was coming home.

She had to.

Who would I tell my dreams to if she was gone?

Mama always asked me, “Omotolani, what do you want to be when you grow up?” And every time, I answered with the same excitement.

“A surgeon, Mama! I told you before-I want to perform surgery!”

And she would smile, pride shining in her eyes.

“My smart baby girl.” She had said then with so much pride and joy.

I used to watch medical programs with her on

TV, fascinated by the doctors in their scrubs, their steady hands saving lives. I knew, without a doubt, that I wanted to be like them.

But now... who would I tell that dream to?

Who would call me their smart baby girl?

I was still waiting for Mama when my sister came to me, her eyes red and swollen.

“Grandma will be coming, Omotolani. We need to lay Mama to rest.”

I didn’t respond.

She sighed, then left me alone.

So I stood there, watching. Watching as people wept, as the air filled with wails of sorrow, as the reality of what was happening began to settle over me like a suffocating weight.

Mama was gone.

She would never wipe my face when I cried. Never clean the scrapes on my knees when I fell. Never laugh at my antics or hold me when I was scared.

She wouldn’t be here to see me grow up. She wouldn’t see me become a surgeon.

Or would I still become one?

Did my dreams even matter anymore?

I looked around at my family, at their tear-streaked faces, at the way grief twisted their bodies as they clung to each other. I stood in the center of it all, frozen, watching as my world shattered into a million pieces around me.

Mama was gone.

My baby brother that I was looking forward to meet was gone too.

And I would never see her again.

I will never my baby brother, the one I didn’t get to name.

A pain so unbearable tore through me, something too big, too heavy for my small body to contain. It settled deep in my chest, pressing down, making it hard to breathe. I gasped, but the air felt thin, useless, as if my lungs had forgotten how to work. My tiny hands clutched at my stomach, fingers digging into my sides, as if holding myself together could stop the aching from spreading.

Even as a child, I knew this wasn’t ordinary sadness. Sadness was when Ayomikun refused to play with me. Sadness was when my father wouldn’t take me to the zoo with the other children. But this—this was something else. Something raw, jagged, tearing through me like sharp claws raking over tender skin. It wasn’t just pain; it was loss, a vast emptiness swallowing me whole.

My mother was gone. My baby brother—the one I never got to meet—gone with her. Both of them, dead.

So I cried, my little body rocking violently. I cried from the deepest part of me, from my soul. My mother... my beautiful mother... gone forever.

How could something hurt this much? How could a person be here one moment and gone the next? It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t fair.

And deep down, I knew—no matter how much time passed, no matter how many days or years stretched between then and now—this pain, this unbearable, suffocating grief, would never fully leave me. Not in this lifetime.

Why?

Why, God?

Out of all the millions and millions of people in this world, why did you take my mother?

A sob tore from my chest, raw and desperate, and then another. And then another.

I cried.

I cried bitterly, horribly, like my soul was being ripped from my body.

People stopped to watch. My grandmother reached for me, pulling me into her arms, whispering words of comfort, but I pushed her away.

No.

I didn’t want comfort.

I didn’t want whispered reassurances or gentle hands.

I just wanted my Mama.

Only Mama.

And in the blink of an eye, my entire life shattered.

~Drifting Between Homes~

After my mother’s death, everything changed. Life as we knew it crumbled, scattering us like dry leaves in the wind. We no longer had a home of our own—our small, familiar world was ripped away, and we were uprooted, passed from one relative to another like an unwanted burden. At one point, we ended up with a family member from my father’s side who lived in Lagos. But no place ever felt like home again.

My father... he was never the same after losing my mother. She had been his anchor, the force that kept him steady, the one who made sure our family didn’t fall apart. Even though she chose to be a stay-at-home mom, she never truly stayed still. She was hardworking, determined, the kind of woman who refused to let hardship swallow her family. I remember how she used to travel to Cotonou, buying bags of rice and reselling them to market women, just to make extra money and support my father. He repaired fridges for a living, but it was never enough. And my mother—she never complained. She never made him feel like less of a man. She simply worked beside him, quietly making sure we survived.

Without her, he drifted.

He stopped going to work. He started drinking. The scent of alcohol and cigarette smoke clung to him like a second skin, thick and suffocating, replacing the warmth that once lived in his presence. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe deep down, he knew that he had pushed her into having another child—a son, he had said, to balance the equation of two girls and two boys. My mother, who had loved him so genuinely, hadn’t been able to say no. She agreed, telling herself that this would be the last, that after this son, she would finally be done with childbirth.

But that decision became her doom.

She should have refused. She should have said no. But she didn’t. And now, she was gone. And the baby—the son my father had so desperately wanted—was gone with her.

It was my sister, Korewa, who stepped in to fill the void, shouldering responsibilities far beyond her years. She cooked, she cleaned, she took care of me and my brother. She made sure we had food to eat—even if it meant going hungry herself.

I was too young to understand the full weight of what she carried. But I knew one thing: our father was slipping away from us. And there was nothing we could do to stop it.

~The Night Everything Changed everything ~

One night, my father stumbled into the tiny room we shared. His steps were unsteady, his words slurred. The sharp smell of alcohol filled the space.

“You—” he gestured vaguely in Korewa’s direction, “You need to start packing. Tomorrow, you’ll be leaving.”

Korewa’s hands clenched into fists. “Leaving?” she echoed. “To where?”

“To my sister’s house,” he muttered. “She’ll take care of you.”

At that, Korewa stiffened. Her voice wavered between anger and disbelief. “Your sister?” she repeated. “Daddy, you know she never liked Mama. Even now, even after she’s gone, she still blames her for keeping you away from your family. You think she’s going to take care of us? She despises us!”

My father’s face darkened, but there was exhaustion in his eyes. He rubbed a hand over his face, sighing heavily. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “You’ll have to manage. You’ll just have to do what she says.”

Korewa’s voice cracked. “Daddy, please—”

He cut her off, his tone suddenly harsh. “I’ve made my decision.”

The finality in his voice sent a shiver through me. He wasn’t asking. He was done listening.

Korewa’s jaw tightened, her breath shaky. I saw the way her hands trembled, how she bit her lip to keep from crying. But she squared her shoulders and met his gaze with quiet defiance.

“Fine,“she whispered. “We’ll go.”

My father nodded once, a quick, dismissive motion, as if relieved to be rid of the conversation. He didn’t offer any words of comfort, didn’t tell us things would get better. He simply turned away, already reaching for a cigarette, his fingers steady in a way they hadn’t been when speaking to us. The familiar click of the lighter followed, the brief flare of fire casting shadows on his face before he disappeared into the night, leaving behind only the stale scent of alcohol and smoke.

The moment he was gone, Korewa let out a shaky breath and sank onto the thin mattress, pressing her hands to her face. She sat there for a long moment, shoulders trembling, trying to hold in emotions too big for her small frame.

I didn’t know what to say. I was just a child, and she—she was barely more than that herself, yet carrying burdens meant for grown women. So, I did the only thing I could. I crawled beside her, resting my head on her lap. Her body was warm, familiar, a fragile shield against the cold reality pressing in on us from all sides.

“We’re going to be okay, right?” I asked softly.

I didn’t believe it. Not really. But I needed her to say it. I needed her to reassure me, to weave some kind of magic into the words that would make me believe them.

She didn’t answer right away. Her hand hesitated before settling in my hair, fingers threading through the strands in slow, careful strokes. I closed my eyes, listening to the sound of our breathing, to the distant voices of the household moving around us, to the quiet despair settling between us like an unwelcome guest.

Then, after what felt like forever, she whispered, “I don’t know. But I’ll do everything I can to keep us safe.”

Her voice was steady, but beneath it, I could hear the fear she was trying to hide.

And in that moment, whatever was left of my childhood.

If you enjoy this version of TOLANI’s PEACE please comment, I will love to hear your thoughts 🤗 THANK YOU 😘