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THE RISE AND FALL OF JESU OYINGBO,, LAGOS: A SELF-PROCLAIMED MESSIAH
In the religious history of Lagos and perhaps the whole of Nigeria, few names provoke as much intrigue, controversy, and disbelief as that of Olufunmilayo Immanuel Odumosu, better known as Jesu Oyingbo.
Born in Ijebu-Ode, in present-day Ogun State, Odumosu would grow from an ordinary carpenter’s apprentice into one of the most notorious self-proclaimed messiahs in Nigerian history, a man who, in June 1959, declared himself to be Jesus Christ returned to Earth.
His proclamation was dramatic and absolute:
“I am He. I am Jesus Christ, the very one whose second coming was foretold in the New Testament. I have come, and those who believe in me will have everlasting life and joy. I am the missing part of the trinity. I have come to prepare the faithful for judgment day.”
This declaration made when Odumosu was about 43 years old sent shockwaves through Lagos society. Many laughed it off as madness, but others embraced it as divine truth. Those who believed sold their properties, abandoned their families, and moved into his communal enclave to await salvation.
Born in 1915 to an Egba family in Ijebu-Ode, present-day Ogun State, he was the grandson of Joseph Odumosu, a famed traditional healer whose old herbal manuscripts: Iwe Iwosan, Iwe Egbogi, Iwe Isoji, and Iwe Ala would later be whispered about as sources of secret power.
After completing primary school, Odumosu apprenticed as a carpenter under his uncle, Pa Odubela, who took him to Lagos. In Lagos he worked briefly at the Post and Telecommunications Department (P&T) of the Ministry of Communications, before starting his own carpentry shed at Oil Mill Street. This became the turning point of his life.
Deep in debt and, by his own account, jailed for six months, he turned towards an intense spirituality. He began attending Protestant churches and, after each day’s work, he started holding Bible study sessions with curious listeners under a tree after work, an informal gathering of about thirty people that grew into his first congregation.
By 1952, this little gathering had a name: the Universal College of Regeneration (UCR). His message was uncompromising, he taught that the natural world was corrupt while the spiritual realm offered true redemption. He demanded strict discipline, forbidding alcohol and tobacco, insisting on sexual restraint, and collecting tithes from the congregation.
A wealthy convert’s gift in 1954 allowed him to secure land in Ebute Metta near Oyingbo Market. There, loudspeakers blared his sermons into the streets, drawing both crowds and mockery. He got a nickname which will stuck with him: Jesu Oyingbo meaning Jesus of Oyingbo. In June 1959, at about forty-three years old, he made a declaration that would define him forever: “I am He. I am Jesus Christ, the very one whose second coming was foretold in the New Testament. I have come, and those who believe in me will have everlasting life and joy. I am the missing part of the Trinity. I have come to prepare the faithful for Judgment Day.” While Lagos erupted in laughter and alarm, some believed him, sold property, abandoned families, and followed him.
From the early base in Oyingbo, the group moved to larger premises in Awoyokun Street on Ikorodu Road in Palmgrove, and finally Immanuel Street, Maryland, Ikeja where he built what followers called the New Jerusalem. By the early 1970s, the Maryland enclave functioned like a small city. More than five hundred people lived and worked there, with some reports suggesting the number was closer to seven hundred, and total adherents possibly in the thousands. The UCR ran bakeries, canteens, a barbershop, a construction company, a printing press, lodging houses, and a property outfit. Jesu Oyingbo insisted his wealth came from these enterprises rather than from exploiting his flock.
The compound itself was unforgettable. Buildings carried bold inscriptions: “Prince of Peace,” “Lion of Judah,” “Merciful Father,” and sometimes “Immanuel the Christ” or “Everlasting Father.” Statues of Christ stood alongside sculpted lions and mermaids that spouted water, and even caterpillar tractors were positioned like sacred icons. His teachings blended Christian language with Islamic references and elements of traditional religion, creating a style many called syncretic and others called a cult. Yet, in person, he could be warm and genial, a smiling man who waved to neighbours and brought out a projector in the evenings to screen open-air films, turning Maryland nights into small festivals.
Inside the commune, discipline was strict and his authority nearly absolute. Instead of baptism by water, new initiates received nine strokes of a cane he claimed had spiritual power. Rumours spread that the cane’s potency, and even his aura, came from his grandfather’s lineage of healers and their books. Allegations grew over time, claims that followers’ property could be seized at will, that wives could be reassigned to other men as punishment, and that sexual impropriety was common in his church. Some said he had more than thirty wives and around eighty children.
Not everyone in his household accepted his claims. One of his daughters, Bukola Immanuel, said plainly, “I don’t accept him as my saviour. He’s my biological father. I have only the real Jesus Christ as my saviour.”
Stories circulated about his flashy cars, including a gold-painted Mercedes-Benz. Mainstream churches denounced him and journalists accused him of turning priesthood and messianism into profitable trades. In the 1970s and 1980s, his name found its way into Yoruba gospel lyrics and street jokes alike; he was, simultaneously, parody and legend.
In 1988, the man who claimed to be the Second Coming died in a hospital at the age of seventy-three. For days, his followers waited for him to rise on the third day; he did not.
Without a will, the ministry fractured. Wives, children, and disciples fought bitterly. His eldest son, Olukayode Immanuel Odumosu, went to court, and in the proceedings the private life of the New Jerusalem was laid bare. In 1997, the court awarded the Maryland estate to his children, who evicted the remaining followers. Years later, judges would still be sorting through the vast inheritance dispute, eventually recognising up to 167 children as his heirs.
Today, the Immanuel Street compound is a ghost of itself, statues weathered, slogans fading, and walls being reclaimed by weeds. To some Jesu Oyingbo was a visionary Shepard; to others, a manipulative impostor. Either way, he remains one of Lagos’ most unforgettable figures, the self-proclaimed messiah whose rise and fall revealed how power, belief, and human frailty can meet in a single life and etch themselves into a city’s memory.
