I still see ‘Big B’s face everyday — Widow

‘Biggest mountain letting go of the role I had with him, rebuilding my identity’

It will be a year exactly on Sunday since celebrated Gospel minister, Bolaji Olarewaju, passed on. His death came as a shock to most and his impacts on many remain indelible as testimonials continue even till date. He was married to Tolulope Olarewaju for over 18 years, having tied the knot in 2005 and were blessed with children. ROTIMI IGE spoke with her recently where she recounted the passion of the memories together, and how she copes with his absence everyday.

They say the first year is a journey through a ‘year of firsts’. How would you describe the evolution of the silence in your home from the day he passed to this first anniversary?

The silence in our home carries a story all its own. In the early days, it was raw and sharp—an unbearable echo of his absence in every corner. It felt like the world had lost its rhythm. By the middle months, that silence grew heavy; it became a constant companion that reminded me of what was missing as I navigated daily tasks for our children.

Approaching this anniversary, the silence has taken on layers. It is no longer just empty. It is a space where his voice, his influence, and the love we built linger quietly. It is a silence that teaches you to live with absence while revealing a connection that hasn’t disappeared—it has simply changed form. The house is quiet, but he is still very much in it.

Grief is often described as love with nowhere to go. In the moments when the loss felt most heavy this year, what gave you the strength to keep moving forward?

Strength in those moments didn’t feel heroic; it felt small and stubborn. It was the routine—getting out of bed and going to work even when it felt pointless. But the core truth that carries both the grief and the strength is our children. The responsibility and love I feel for them have been the anchors keeping me upright.

I remind myself that Bolaji believed in me because he knew my resilience. I’ve learned to accept the paradox: I can feel deep sadness and still show up for them. My strength exists alongside my grief; it’s the quiet, living tribute to a love so deep that the pain is simply its reflection.

Beyond the public ceremonies and tributes, what has been the most challenging personal ‘mountain’ you’ve had to climb alone over the past twelve months?

The hardest part isn’t the visible goodbye; it’s the quiet, internal shift. I had to face the reality of navigating life without my closest, safest person—my anchor and my only true friend. The biggest mountain has been letting go of the role I had with him and rebuilding my identity.

There is an unspoken pressure to ‘be okay’, but the real challenge is figuring out how to keep living without feeling like you are leaving him behind. It’s climbing the mountain of the ‘ordinary’—eating alone or having good news and realising I can no longer reach for him to share it.

The world knew him as a giant in his field, but who was the man you saw when the doors were closed and the lights were low? What was the most beautiful part of his private soul?

To the world, he was a giant. To me, he was simply my friend. Behind closed doors, there were no titles—just us. The most beautiful part of his soul was his softness and his humility. He didn’t see home as a place to be served, but a place to belong. He stood beside me as an equal, sharing chores and running errands. He didn’t perform greatness; he lived it through mutual dignity and deep respect. He was my safe place.

ALSO READ: 2027 election will be my last outing  —  Atiku declares

Looking back at your years together, what is the one life lesson he taught you—not through his words, but through the way he lived his daily life?

He taught me that love is partnership. By showing up consistently and treating me as an equal, he modeled that love is proven in what you do repeatedly, not just what you say. He also taught me that true greatness is humble and that real strength doesn’t have to be loud or controlling—it can be calm and gentle.

Is there a particular habit, a phrase he often used, or a specific song that still feels like a direct visitation from him when you encounter it today?

He made loving me an everyday habit. He never let a conversation end without saying, ‘I love you, Tolu’, and he never missed a chance for a hug or a kiss. Those weren’t just romantic gestures; they were constant reassurances. Today, those memories are like secret doors. I carry the memory of what it felt like to be truly treasured, and that shapes how I move through the world even now.

In what ways do you see his spirit, his humor, or his principles manifesting in your children or the people he mentored?

I see him every day. Our son, Oluwanifise, carries his face, his smile, and those specific expressions that make me catch my breath. Our daughter, Tireniseluwa, carries his spirit, his drive, and his instinct to create joy.

In our home, we speak of him constantly. We laugh about his jokes and imagine what he would say. We’ve integrated him into our lives so that remembering him doesn’t only mean sadness. Beyond the family, I see his mentees adopting his principles and his steadiness. What he planted in people is still growing.

As you reflect on his career and his contributions to the community, which of his many ‘legacies’ do you feel he would be most proud to be remembered for?

I think he would be quietly proud of the ways he made people feel seen and supported when no one was watching. Beyond the awards, his truest legacy is the integrity of his work and the culture of kindness he modeled. He cared about the causes that were right, not the ones that brought recognition.

If he were to walk through the door today, one year later, what do you think would bring the biggest smile to his face regarding how his work or family has carried on?

He wouldn’t care about perfection. He would smile just seeing that I am still standing—not ‘over it’, but still moving forward. He would love seeing his principles in the choices I make and seeing that the love hasn’t disappeared. If he walked in, he wouldn’t ask, ‘Have you done everything perfectly?”. He would just ask, ‘Are you okay?’, Are you taking care of yourself?”. That thought makes me smile.

During this year of transition, how has the support of family and friends shifted from immediate sympathy to the kind of long-term ‘holding’ that helps a person heal?

The immediate sympathy was loud and urgent, but the ‘holding’ is subtle. It’s the friends who allow me to grieve at my own pace without judgment. It’s the presence without pressure—people who sit in silence or check in just to see how life is going, rather than focusing solely on the loss. This constancy has made the day-to-day survivable.

If you could freeze time and revisit one perfectly ordinary, happy moment from your life with him, which one would it be, and why does that memory remain so vivid?

It wouldn’t be a milestone; it would be a moment of quiet contentment where the world outside disappeared. Those memories stay vivid because they were ‘home’. They weren’t performances; they were the ease between us and the quiet understanding we shared. They remain vivid because my heart recognises them as safe and deeply mine.

What is the one fundamental truth about Big Bolaji’s heart that you want to ensure the world never forgets as the years go by?

His unwavering integrity and generosity of spirit. He gave without expectation and lived by his principles without compromise. All the awards show one layer, but the real essence of Bolaji was how he treated people when no one was watching. I want the world to remember that I experienced a real, genuine love, and that his heart was a gift we hold dearly, even though he is lost to us for now.