ADURAGBEMI_CHILD OF PRAYER

Hi, I’m Aduragbemi.I come from an average background—not poor, but not wealthy either. My parents were hardworking and deeply believed that education was the key to success. We lived a simple life, but we found joy in the little things and celebrated every win, no matter how small. My family was, and still is, one of my greatest blessings. I couldn’t have asked for a better one.I’m a beautiful, young, and hardworking entrepreneur with a story of perseverance and grit. The journey to where I am today wasn’t easy—I had to fight through many struggles and setbacks. Now, I’m ready to share how I rose above the challenges to become the woman I am today. Chapter One: A Child of Prayer My name is Aduragbemi—a name that carries deep meaning and even deeper history. In Yoruba, it means "I have received grace through prayer," and I believe my mother chose it because my very existence is a testament to the power of faith. According to what I’ve been told, I wasn’t supposed to be born. My arrival into this world defied the odds. But through my mother’s persistent prayers and unwavering belief in God, I came into being. I am a miracle child in every sense of the word.I’m proudly the last born of the Olabode family—a position I wear with joy and pride. My mom gave birth to three children, and while I love my siblings deeply, this story isn't about them. It's about me—Aduragbemi.. The Rebel With a Reason My mom was a prayer warrior—literally. If she wasn’t at work, she was in church, praying with fire and conviction. Her faith was the air she breathed, and she poured it into every corner of our lives. My dad, on the other hand, wasn’t exactly the spiritual type. He was more of a silent strength—a workaholic whose love was expressed through provision and discipline rather than words or prayers. They were opposites in many ways, but both driven by duty and love for their family. It’s often said that every family has a “black sheep”—that one child who seems to color outside the lines. I truly believed I was that child. I was stubborn, rebellious, and constantly in trouble. I didn’t follow instructions, not because I enjoyed chaos, but because I was craving something I couldn’t explain—attention, understanding, connection. But in our home, like many typical African households, emotions weren’t always discussed. Feelings didn’t come first—discipline did. And so, for every wrong move, there was a consequence.“Spare the rod and spoil the child”—that was the unspoken rule. And the rod was never really spared. My mom would cry over me often. She didn’t know what to do with my wildness. My dad? He was firm. To him, disobedience was a sign of disrespect, and disrespect had to be corrected—immediately. It didn’t matter if I was the one at fault or not. There wasn’t always room for questions, only punishment. I started to believe they didn’t love me. How could they?How could people who said they loved me be so quick to beat me without asking for the full story? But what I didn’t know then—what I’ve come to learn now—is that they were doing the best they could, with the tools they had, in the world they understood. They loved me deeply… they just didn’t always know how to show it in a way my heart could recognize.............

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