Soul of Africa

By Jumoke Akinniranye

In Soul of Africa Jumoke Akinniranye shares her personal journey through a period of extreme discrimination, atrocity and hatred in the UK, amongst a community she had lived, worked and fellowshipped with for decades – borne out of her encounter with the Lord, which resulted in the grace of God’s presence resting upon her life in an unprecedented way. It is an insightful journal of her journey through the Church, the State and the Community, detailing the lessons learnt through the process. She realised that a heavenly invasion that should have brought life to the community and the nation at large, had become a vehicle which her NHS colleagues, neighbourhood and local church community used for the outpouring of division, discrimination and hatred.

This book also give you an overview of her encounter with the Lord, as she shares the unique work the Lord did in her mind, body and spirit during these encounters, including opening the door of her mind, thereby allowing all to hear every thought or dreams that passes through her mind. She also tells of her numerous visits to heaven, and dreams from the Lord spanning many years with promises of the outpouring of His Spirit on earth like never before.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jumoke Akinniranye
• Release date: May 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9780995575639

Book preview

Chapter 1

Introduction

I am Jumoke Akinniranye. I was born to Nigerian parents in the UK in the sixties, but grew up in Nigeria, returning to the UK in 1985 to further my education. As I stepped off the plane at London Heathrow Airport on a sunny Sunday afternoon, over three decades ago, nothing could have prepared me for all that would unfold in my journey. It didn’t cross my mind at the time that the Lord had handed me a clean sheet of paper and He would write on it as the years went by.

In this book I will share with you the story of my early years, family history, and my journey upon returning to the UK. It is a story of walking through a personal valley of sickness, my encounter with the best social and health care systems in the world, marriage, and my career as an accountant. I will also share with you the details of my unique encounter with the Lord, which changed the course of my life and opened my eyes to the depth of institutional and community discrimination in the UK.

Whilst all that transpired upon my return to the UK, prior to my encounter with the Lord, was enriching and challenging on many levels, my unprecedented encounter with the Lord opened the door to two very different experiences in my life that co-existed side by side for many years. On one hand, life was filled with hate, atrocities and extreme discrimination by both my NHS colleagues and the community I lived and fellowshipped in. On the other hand, life was filled with mountaintop encounters with the Lord, open visions of heaven and the grace of God’s presence on my life.

These two extremes couldn’t have been more different. Both became part of my daily living for years, during which time I found myself struggling to reconcile the two sides of this unusual coin. I wrestled with the thought that an encounter with the Lord should never lead to such hatred, violence and deep-rooted discrimination, borne out of the unique gifts upon my life as a result of this encounter. Being of African descent in a predominantly white community provided the unique opportunity for the outpouring of hate and discrimination by those I’d lived and worked amongst peacefully for over two decades prior to my encounter. Being chosen by the Lord in this unique manner gave way to their indignation. Their rejection was clear and public; their discrimination extreme. How could an African woman carry such grace in their midst? I had to come to terms with the fact that nothing, in that first step off the plane at Heathrow, or any information afforded me in those early years, pointed to the fact that 30 years later I would still be wrestling with being accepted into the community where I lived.

Nonetheless, I discovered on this amazing journey that nothing can stop the Lord’s visitations in our lives. Nor will anything stem His visions and dreams from heaven as long as we are open, willing and obedient. I found it intriguing that the turbulence I experienced never deterred the Lord. Instead He drew closer during those times with manifestations of His grace, His peace, His power to heal, His Spirit and His provision – all of this in complete contrast to all that was unfolding in the physical realm.

We share so many stories and events with our children, but I have realised that we rarely, if ever, impart the truth that life is one big journey for each of us. Ahead are many chapters in which we will encounter both mountains and valleys. How do we prepare their hearts and minds for what lies ahead? What about if we intentionally and honestly shared our journey’s with the next generation to prepare them for their journey?

Therefore, as you read this book, I would encourage you to picture a young African woman getting off a plane in a foreign land with her suitcase in tow, completely unaware of all that will unfold in her journey.

Chapter 2

Understanding My Roots

This story would not exist without my wonderful parents William and Beatrice Showemimo. They met and married in 1951. Following their marriage they found themselves having an immediate struggle with barrenness. For about a decade they could not have any children in a culture that openly harasses and mocks barren women at the time. While men in such a position were usually encouraged to take a second wife. The situation was further compounded by the fact that my father was the firstborn in his family: there was an expectation on him to produce offspring that would carry on the family name. This pressure continued for years into their marriage, but they had the support of my paternal grandfather, who was a senior minister at the local Methodist Church. He admonished his first son to be patient with his wife, trusting the Lord to bless them with the fruit of the womb that they desired, and advised that my dad should not do as the culture of the day demanded.

In those days it wasn’t uncommon for men to arrange to travel to the United Kingdom to further their education, mostly without their spouse, to enable them the time and space to concentrate on their studies. In my parent’s case, my paternal grandfather insisted that they both travel together, or that my father remain at home with his wife due to their on-going challenge with barrenness. However, prior to them leaving for the UK, after years of seeking medical treatment to aid fertility, they had a breakthrough. My mother became pregnant, but unfortunately lost the child within his first year.

Upon their arrival in the UK, they both concentrated on working and studying. Mum worked as a legal sectary in a law firm in Blackfriars, while Dad focused on his education, qualifying as a mechanical engineer. During their time in the UK they went on to have four children. The birth of the four was not without its challenges. Mum was pregnant eight times but had four lost pregnancies.

As the third daughter to this dedicated couple, I was born on the 28th March, 1966, at Queen Charlotte Hospital in Hammersmith. A disappointment to my father who longed for a son. In those days the mother and child would remain in hospital for the first 28 days. This time dad only returned to collect us after the 28 days was up. He nonetheless, wasted no time in sharing the event with me in adulthood on one of my trips back home to see the family. Another pregnancy quickly followed with my brother arriving 18 months later. So it was a full house at 31 Temple Road, Chiswick, our first and only home until we relocated to Nigeria.

The cultural norm at that time dictated that, following your education, you returned to Nigeria to commence your career. Therefore the family sold up 31 Temple Road and boarded a ship back to Nigeria. It was a long journey: weeks on end of adventure on the ship home, with many stops along the way. My father later came to regret his decision to sell up, as we all returned to the UK after flying the nest.

Life in Nigeria was different in every way from life in leafy Chiswick. Dad secured a role with the Nigerian National Electric Power Authority in Kanji, in the northern part of Nigeria. His new job came with staff accommodation on a private estate, so the family happily settled in Kanji, made new friends with other families, while the children spent countless evenings in the pool and the playing ground.

My father came from the south of Nigeria, so after a number of years in Kanji he was keen to move closer to home. He secured another position in Lagos with Panalpina World Transport as the chief engineer for their Nigeria operation and remained there until his early retirement when he started his own private business.

His new role meant that we would live with our grandmother for a couple of months before securing our own accommodation in Surulere, Lagos. Life was pleasant in Lagos and it wasn’t long before we’d made new friends in our new neighbourhood. We immediately discovered that a number of our new friends loved bike riding, which encouraged us to do the same. Before long, after-school bike racing became part of our lives and I spent endless fun-filled hours developing my love for bike riding! Being children, we also delighted in climbing trees and the guava tree that stood next to our house provided endless opportunities, even though our father warned us on a number of occasions about the dangers of climbing this particular tree. All this meant, however, was that we avoided climbing it in his presence! We also took note of our dog raising the alarm, since it would always bark ferociously at the sound of my father’s car approaching the house as he returned from work. Those few moments of warning allowed us the chance to quickly jump down from the tree in order to avoid any punishment!

As a Christian family we attended the local Methodist church which had a vibrant Sunday school. In our early years, Sunday afternoons in Lagos were often spent at the beach as a family, having lunch, and with dad constantly warning us to be careful of the huge waves coming in. On one occasion my sister clearly ignored the warning and ended up losing her bikini in the waves.

As in many African countries, it is not usual to have cousins and members of the extended family living with you, and ours was no different. Our home was often full of uncles and various other cousins. Dad also gathered together a number of young men in the neighbourhood, mostly new graduates, who depended on him daily for transportation to work, his car was often overloaded as he tried to accommodate as many of them as possible! Whilst Dad was a strict disciplinarian, he was often found engaging with us and other young adults with his witty personality. He also loved celebrating birthdays, whether it was for mum, himself or us. In contrast to Dad, mum was quiet, reserved and calm, with a close knit of friends and family.

The day started very early in our household. We were woken by the sound of Mum ringing a small bell to signify it was time for the family’s daily devotions. That meant congregating in the living room to sing hymns together, followed by a Bible reading and a time of prayer. No member of the family, or any visitor, was excused from this devotional time and only afterwards could we start our daily chores prior to getting ready for school or work. Mum, being a teacher, understood the importance of children having breakfast and insisted on a full breakfast before we left the house in the morning. She often said that she could identify the kids in her class who hadn’t had any breakfast, as they were often dull and non-responsive in the morning. A culture we’ve adopted in our household.

In the evenings, the girls in the family would congregate around Mum in the kitchen to help with dinner. We were encouraged to practice what we’d learned. Mum was a teacher to the core; every encounter with her was a lesson! She had a passion for worship and prayer from a young age, so she encouraged us all to fast along with her during Lent – at first until noon, then till 3.00pm, so that we gradually got accustomed to it. So we grew up with prayer and fasting as a normal part of life. Saturday was Mum’s quiet day, which meant she was often in her room praying until after lunchtime. We all knew not to disturb her; the only exceptions to this routine were family special occasions.

Mum ran after-school coaching sessions for students and we were encouraged to do our homework there as well as supporting and helping other younger students. Being a member of the local Methodist church, Mum served in various functions within the Methodist Church, including being the president of the women’s league, and helping with communion. She encouraged us to join the Methodist Youth Club and I served as their administrator for a number of years. Dad also supported and encouraged the Methodist Youth Club and would often invite the group home for social gatherings or organise transport if a trip to the beach was planned.

Like all teachers, Mum had most of the summer holidays off. The holidays were often spent in Ogere, her hometown, three hours from Lagos. Dad would drive the family there, spending a couple of days with us before returning to resume work in Lagos. We would see him again towards the end of the summer break, when he would return to spend a few days with the family prior to driving us all back home. For kids living in the city, summer holidays in the village were an adventure. We knew other families from various cities who congregated in the village during the summer months, and this provided an endless amount of fun for the children. There were afternoons spent at the nearby river, with strong swimmers and not-so-strong swimmers alike diving off the branches of trees, to lovely evenings in the village markets, lit by an array of oil lamps.

On the days when we were not out and about with other kids, we looked forward to visiting my grandmother yam and cassava farm. She maintained the farm, brought in the harvest and sold her goods well into her early eighties. The journey to the farm was always an adventure for us children, with the opportunity of picking fresh fruit along the way. We also learned to avoid the red ant trails – something we weren’t always smart about – as stepping in them brought painful consequences. Our trips to the farm with Grandma further fed our sense of adventure and following those trips we would quickly plan expeditions with the other kids in town!

During those summer breaks we would attend the local Anglican church where Mum’s family went, and again there was the strong presence of other families from across Nigeria. We had expeditions planned out in advance, and would often sneak out of the service and escape into nearby farms while our parents were focused on the church service. We would dive into the villagers’ farms and come back with all manner of treasures.

Just as in the UK where scarecrows are used on farms to frighten off birds, in those days in Nigeria it was normal for them to use the skulls of various animal to deter people from intruding on their farm. However, this didn’t deter our young scientific minds and our strong desire to carry out practical experiments! We would collect all manner of items and bring them home – much to the dismay of our parents. As city kids, what was meant to put us off from entering those farms only served to fuel our curiosity. By the following morning there would be uproar in the village among the farm owners whose farms had been visited. There was no end to what children from the city classified as fun in the village. Therefore, after weeks of such fun, we were naturally reluctant to go back to Lagos.

On one occasion, on our way back to Lagos after a fun-filled summer break, my brother was upset about returning to the city, having enjoyed his time in the village. As we set out, it was raining heavily, he suggested we return to the village until the rain subsided – in case the car skidded and we had an accident. Mum assured him that we were not returning to the village and that we would be in Lagos in no time. About half an hour after this conversation, the car skidded and spun 180 degrees so that we were facing the direction we’d come from on the wrong side of the road. But fortunately for the family the road was clear. The car was turned around and our journey to Lagos resumed and before long we arrived home safely.

While summer holidays were spent with Mum’s family, Christmas was a special time and was always spent with Dad’s family about an hour from Lagos. It was also a time for celebrating Dad’s birthday, which was on the 23rd December, which meant that the Christmas celebrations started much earlier than normal, with invitations extended to friends and other members of the family. Christmas Day was spent at the family house. The children would attend the local Methodist church for the Christmas Day service, along with all the fathers in the house, whilst the mothers remained at home preparing the Christmas feast. It was normal to have a cow prepared for a party with friends, family and whoever else turned up as African culture doesn’t embrace the strictly by invitation rules that are so prevalent in the West. Following the Christmas celebration we would again return to Lagos and swiftly move on to Mum’s family to welcome in the New Year.

While there is no culture of exchanging presents at Christmastime in Nigeria, it is a time when monetary gifts are given to children, women and the elderly. As kids we knew that we would be cash-rich by the end of the festive season.

Following my encounter with the Lord in April 2009, I began thinking about my roots and immediately realised how important it is to understand one’s history; that even something as simple as the way in which we celebrated Christmas is part of how our history has shaped us. The Bible itself is a book of historical events that shapes our faith and beliefs. Genealogy is very important in Scripture and our Father in heaven is well aware of our heritage, even before we are born into our families, just as He send word that His Messiah would come from the lineage of King David, long before the event. God ensured that all of these biblical events were documented for future generations, intentionally including the genealogy of the people. What the Lord did in biblical times is what many people seek to do today, by using technology and tools available on the Internet to trace their family trees. God is an historian, just like we keep political, spiritual and scientific records etc., to aid and inform future generations. The human race has discovered, over a long period of time, that our history helps shape the future of our society, as well as equipping the next generation, so that they can build on a good platform without having to invest time and energy in researching and pulling together the events of the past to make sense of the present.

Like most African families, my mum came from a large family with strong bonds. Her father was a carpenter and her mother a farmer/trader. They had three girls and one boy. Their son had passed away long before we were born. Although we never met my maternal grandfather as he passed away on 28th March, 1956, a decade before I was born, we knew he was a man with a strong love for his family. My mother was his first child and we heard stories of how he would often accompany her with my father to various hospital appointments as she struggled with barrenness in the early years of their marriage. Her mother lived well into her eighties and passed away on the 28th March, 1984. Following her passing, and noting the date was also the 28th March, I asked Mum what the significance of that date was in her family. She was not aware of anything specific, as such dates were hardly kept in those days.

In my search to understand my history, I discovered that in my mother’s family, there had been a prolonged struggle with barrenness on her mother’s side. This was a prevailing struggle in the life of my grandmother and my mother for a long season, with both going on to have children after the loss of multiple pregnancies. This issue also affected one of my aunts who remained barren for the rest of her days. But it was broken over the lives of the next generation, as none of the next generation has had to confront this issue.

Also present on her mother’s side of the family was mental health weakness, but I