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.”
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.
This statement may sound funny, provocative, or even offensive, but it raises an important question about priorities in marriage and religion.
A pastor is a spiritual leader, but he is not supposed to replace a woman’s husband. If a married woman consistently values her pastor’s opinions above her husband’s, obeys her pastor while dismissing her husband, or shows greater loyalty and admiration toward her pastor than toward her spouse, then something may be seriously wrong with the balance in that marriage.
Marriage requires communication, mutual respect, trust, and understanding. A pastor can provide spiritual guidance, but that guidance should not become a reason for a husband and wife to lose respect for each other.
At the same time, husbands should not expect their wives to obey them blindly. Both husband and wife should seek God’s wisdom, communicate openly, and make decisions with love and respect.
So perhaps the real question is not whether such a woman should become the pastor’s “second wife,” but why has the pastor become more important in her marriage than her own husband?
Put God first. Respect your spouse. And never allow a spiritual leader to become a substitute for your marriage partner.
This is a question worth asking—not to insult African traditions or dismiss anyone’s beliefs, but to encourage honest reflection.
Across Africa, it is common to hear people explain repeated family problems as a “generational curse.” When poverty, broken relationships, addiction, failure, sickness, family conflict or misfortune appears to repeat from one generation to another, some people immediately conclude that an ancestor, spiritual force or past wrongdoing is responsible.
But is every repeated family problem truly a curse?
If a child grows up in poverty, has limited access to quality education, receives little financial support and then struggles as an adult, is that necessarily a spiritual curse—or could it be the result of circumstances that have been passed from one generation to another?
If children grow up watching violence, substance abuse, unhealthy relationships or constant conflict, they may unknowingly repeat those patterns. That does not necessarily mean they are cursed. Sometimes behaviour is inherited through environment, not through supernatural forces.
And Africa is certainly not the only place where people believe in supernatural explanations for suffering or misfortune. Different societies around the world have their own concepts of inherited wrongdoing, family misfortune, ancestral consequences, fate and spiritual punishment.
So perhaps the more important question is not:
“Who cursed my family?”
But:
“What pattern has been passed down to me, and what can I do to stop passing it to the next generation?”
We should be careful not to use the idea of a curse to discourage people from taking action. A family facing poverty may need education, opportunity and financial planning. A family experiencing repeated conflict may need healthier communication. A person struggling with addiction may need professional support and a strong recovery environment. Communities facing injustice may need better institutions, accountability and opportunity.
Faith and spirituality are deeply meaningful to many people, and everyone has the right to hold their beliefs. But faith should not prevent us from examining the practical causes of our problems.
We cannot change the past, but we can change what we pass forward.
Instead of teaching our children that they are victims of an unavoidable family curse, let us also teach them knowledge, discipline, emotional strength, financial responsibility, education, healthy relationships and the courage to break destructive patterns.
Maybe the greatest “curse” is not something mysterious placed upon a family.
Maybe sometimes it is simply a problem that nobody stopped long enough to understand and change.
And the greatest inheritance we can give the next generation is not fear of a curse—but the knowledge and courage to build a better future.
There is nothing wrong with speaking English fluently. In fact, being able to communicate confidently in different languages is a valuable skill. But we should ask ourselves a deeper question: while learning to speak the language of another culture, are we slowly losing the language that connects us to our own roots?
Your mother tongue is more than just words. It carries the stories of your ancestors, the wisdom of your grandparents, the jokes that only your people understand, the traditional greetings, the names, the songs, the history and the identity of your community.
Imagine being able to speak perfect English, but struggling to have a simple conversation with your own grandmother because you do not understand the language she grew up speaking. Imagine your children knowing foreign languages but being unable to understand the language of their own heritage.
That should make us pause.
Speaking English does not make you more intelligent, and speaking your indigenous language does not make you less educated. One is a communication skill; the other can be a connection to your heritage. We should not have to choose between being educated and preserving our identity.
Learn English. Speak it confidently. Learn French, Dutch, Spanish or any other language that opens doors for you.
But don’t let the pursuit of foreign languages close the door to your own.
Teach your children your language. Speak it at home. Ask your parents and grandparents to teach you the words you never learned. If you have forgotten it, it is never too late to start again.
Because when a language disappears from a family, something precious disappears with it.
Be proud of your education. Be proud of your ability to speak English. But also be proud of where you come from.
Your language is not something to be ashamed of. It is a part of your story. Preserve it before the next generation only knows it as something their ancestors once spoke.