My name is Aderoju Tojola, and I have been favoured by God to be alive to tell you this story today.

My Near-Death Experience

On the 23rd of September, 2024, God delivered me from the shackles of death when I was about to give birth to my second child.

For my first birth, I had preeclampsia during delivery, and it was also a near-death experience. Being aware of this, I had decided to use a popular private hospital in Abuja so I could receive more careful care during my pregnancy.

There had been several positive reviews about this hospital, so I was very confident it was the right place to go. I must have forgotten that only God is the most reliable physician.

My supposed private care almost turned into a nightmare when, during the later stages of pregnancy, I developed a stubborn cough that wouldn't go away for weeks. This was actually a symptom of a serious condition, but the doctor, rather than investigating the root cause of the never-ending cough, continued with a wrong prescription.

I had gone for an antenatal check one day, and during the routine examination, it was discovered that my blood pressure was alarmingly high. If I didn't undergo a caesarean operation, I risked losing both myself and the baby.

I called my husband, my voice barely holding together as I tried to explain what was happening. Within the hour, he was by my side. I will never forget the look on his face when he saw me — the fear he was trying so hard to hide behind a calm smile, squeezing my hand as they wheeled me toward the theatre, neither of us saying the things we were both thinking.

I was already in the theatre, and the doctor was about to begin the operation when the Chief Medical Officer, who had not been around for a while, briefly walked in. He noticed how swollen my legs were — a sign of severe oedema — and immediately ordered the operation to be stopped. He explained that they could not carry out the procedure, given the criticality of my condition, as post-operative care would require intensive care facilities that they could not provide.

Understanding the severity of the situation, the CMD immediately wrote a referral letter to the Federal Medical Centre, Jabi, and refunded in full the money paid for the caesarean section.

The drive to FMC Jabi felt like the longest of my life. It was late at night, the city was quiet, and all I could do was stare out of the window and pray. I did not know if I would see the morning. I did not know if the baby I was carrying would ever take a breath outside of my womb.

During the drive, we didn't speak much. There is a kind of prayer that goes beyond words, and that night, we were both living inside it.

We arrived at FMC Jabi late at night. The doctor who took my vitals was alarmed, saying she did not know how I was still moving normally or had not collapsed, given my BP reading.

I was billed for emergency surgery, but they could not operate on me as they had to wait for my blood pressure to drop from 242 to 160. On the morning of the 25th, I was taken into the theatre, after the surgeon administered the anaesthesia, not knowing I was still slightly conscious — he told his colleagues how frightened he was about operating. He said he was only confident about saving one life: either the mother or the baby.

Tears rolled down my cheeks. I was terrified. But even in that moment, lying on that cold theatre table, unable to move or speak, something deep within me held on. There is a God whose works cannot be imitated, whose mighty hands crush every sorrow — a God whose beloved Son died on the cross to save my life. And I chose, in that moment, to trust Him completely.

I came out of that surgery alive, and so did my baby. When they finally placed that tiny, warm weight in my arms, something inside me broke open completely. This was the child I had been told might not make it. This was the life that had hung in the balance alongside mine. I held her close and wept — not from pain, not from fear, but from a gratitude so overwhelming it had no words. Only tears. Only the quiet, certain knowledge that God had been in that theatre long before any surgeon.

I was wheeled into the intensive care unit, and for those two days, I lay still and let God's peace wash over me. There were tubes and monitors and the constant quiet hum of machines keeping watch.

But underneath all of it, there was a stillness in my spirit I cannot fully explain — the stillness of someone who has been to the edge and been pulled back by a love stronger than death. By the time I was discharged and walked out of those hospital doors, I was not the same woman who had walked in. I never could be.

One thing was clear: I was not meant to be alive. I was meant to be six feet under. But there is a God who brought me back to life — who saved me, who rewrote my future, who gave me back my life.

The Birth of the Rekindled Project

When I came home, I sat with the silence for a long time.

I looked at my baby. I looked at my hands. I looked at the life around me that I had nearly left behind, and I asked God one simple question — why? Not in bitterness, but in genuine wonder. Why did You bring me back? What is it that You want me to do with this borrowed time, this second chance, this life You so deliberately chose to spare?

And slowly, like a flame catching in the dark, the answer came.

I had always carried a song in my heart. I had always known that God had placed something in me meant to be shared with the world. But somewhere along the way — between the busyness of life, the responsibilities, the fears and the doubts — that fire had grown dim. I had let it smoulder quietly, convincing myself that someday I would fan it back to life. Someday, when the time was right.

But lying on that theatre table, hearing a surgeon weigh my life against my child's, I learned something I will never forget: there is no someday. There is only now. There is only the breath in your lungs and the gift in your hands and the God who gave you both.

So I made a decision. If God had seen fit to pull me back from the edge of eternity, then I owed Him everything — not someday, but today. Not in silence, but in song. Not hidden away, but proclaimed to the world.

That is how the Rekindled Project was born — not in a boardroom, not on a stage, but in a hospital bed, wrapped in the arms of a God who refused to let me go. It is named for exactly what it is: a fire that was nearly extinguished, rekindled by the breath of God.

About the Rekindled Project

The Rekindled Project is the beginning of my global ministry.

This project starts with the release of 3 songs — each one a piece of my testimony, each one a declaration that the God who saved my life is still in the business of saving lives today. This is not just music. This is evidence. This is proof that He is real, that He is near, and that no situation is beyond His reach.

To every person who has stood at the edge of something — illness, loss, despair, the feeling that the story is over — I want you to hear this: there is a God who rewrites endings. I know, because He rewrote mine.

This is my offering back to Him. This is the Rekindled Project.