In the long and complex religious history of Lagos—and indeed Nigeria—few figures have stirred as much fascination, controversy, and disbelief as Olufunmilayo Immanuel Odumosu, better known as Jesu Oyingbo.
Born in 1915 in Ijebu-Ode, present-day Ogun State, to an Egba family, Odumosu seemed destined for an ordinary life. He apprenticed as a carpenter under his uncle, Pa Odubela, who brought him to Lagos.
There, he briefly worked for the Post and Telecommunications Department before opening his own carpentry shed on Oil Mill Street. But financial troubles, including six months in jail, set him on a new path—one that would lead him to declare himself nothing less than the Second Coming of Jesus Christ.
From Carpenter to Preacher
Odumosu’s turn toward religion began quietly. After work each day, he gathered curious listeners beneath a tree for Bible studies. By 1952, this small group had taken the name Universal College of Regeneration (UCR), with teachings that condemned the corruption of the material world and promised redemption through spiritual discipline. Alcohol and tobacco were banned, sexual restraint was demanded, and tithes were collected.
A wealthy convert’s gift of land in 1954 allowed him to establish a base in Ebute Metta, near Oyingbo Market. Loudspeakers blasted his sermons into the streets, attracting both devoted followers and mocking detractors. It was here he earned the nickname that would follow him for life—Jesu Oyingbo (“Jesus of Oyingbo”).
“I Am He” – The 1959 Declaration
In June 1959, at the age of 43, Odumosu stunned Lagos by publicly proclaiming:
> “I am He. I am Jesus Christ, the very one whose second coming was foretold in the New Testament… I have come to prepare the faithful for Judgment Day.”
Some dismissed him as a delusional preacher; others sold their possessions, abandoned their families, and moved into his growing commune.
The Rise of the “New Jerusalem”
From Oyingbo, the movement relocated first to Awoyokun Street in Palmgrove, and finally to Immanuel Street, Maryland, Ikeja—home to what his followers called the New Jerusalem. By the early 1970s, the settlement housed over 500 residents, possibly up to 700, with thousands more loosely affiliated.
The UCR ran bakeries, canteens, a printing press, a construction company, barbershops, lodging houses, and a property business. Odumosu insisted his wealth came from these enterprises, not from exploiting his congregation.
The compound itself was part sacred space, part spectacle—buildings bore bold inscriptions like “Prince of Peace” and “Lion of Judah”. Statues of Christ stood beside lions and mermaids spouting water, while even tractors were displayed like holy relics. In the evenings, Jesu Oyingbo sometimes screened open-air films for the community, turning Maryland nights into small festivals.
Power, Discipline, and Allegations
Inside the commune, Odumosu’s authority was absolute. New members were “baptised” not with water, but with nine strokes of a cane he claimed carried spiritual power—rumoured to be linked to his grandfather’s lineage as a famed herbalist. Allegations later emerged of property seizures, forced marital “reassignments,” and sexual impropriety. Some claimed he had more than 30 wives and around 80 children.
Not all of his family accepted his claims. One daughter, Bukola Immanuel, openly rejected his divinity: “He’s my father, but I have only the real Jesus Christ as my saviour.”
Death and Disintegration
In 1988, at the age of 73, Odumosu died in hospital. His followers waited for him to rise on the third day; he did not. Without a will, bitter disputes erupted among wives, children, and disciples. In 1997, a court awarded the Maryland estate to his children, who evicted the remaining faithful. Legal battles continued for years, with as many as 167 people eventually recognised as his children.
Today, the once-bustling New Jerusalem is a fading relic—its statues weathered, slogans peeling, and walls reclaimed by weeds.
Legacy of a Self-Made Messiah
To some, Jesu Oyingbo was a visionary leader who built a self-sufficient community from nothing. To others, he was a manipulative impostor who exploited faith for power and wealth. Either way, his story remains one of Lagos’ most extraordinary tales—a reminder of how belief, charisma, and ambition can collide to create legends that outlive the man himself.

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