The dimly lit studio cameras rolled as Funke Ashekun leaned forward, her voice trembling with a mix of fury and resolve. “I’ve spent nearly $100,000 fighting his lawsuits,” the former MFM minister confessed to SaharaReporters, peeling back the curtain on what she describes as a decades-long reign of spiritual terror under Dr. Daniel Olukoya, the General Overseer of Mountain of Fire and Miracles Ministries. “But I won’t stop until someone holds him accountable.”
Ashekun’s allegations – spanning sexual predation, blackmail, and a sophisticated system of legal intimidation – have sent shockwaves through Nigeria’s Pentecostal community. Her account paints a disturbing portrait of one of Africa’s largest churches, where she claims cameras disguised as everyday objects secretly recorded intimate encounters, and where dissent is allegedly crushed through endless litigation.
A House of Worship or a House of Horrors?
For 20 years, Ashekun moved through the inner circles of MFM’s sprawling empire, until what she witnessed became impossible to ignore. “Women would come to me weeping,” she revealed, describing how victims allegedly confided in her about coerced sexual acts and secret recordings. “One showed me a pen Dr. Olukoya left behind – it had a camera inside.”
The most chilling testimony came from Akpeji Daniel, a self-described former “fixer” for Olukoya who appeared on Ashekun’s YouTube channel. “I arranged meetings,” Daniel allegedly confessed on air, his face obscured, “and yes, some videos were shared with others.”
The Legal Blitzkrieg
Ashekun’s decision to speak out came at enormous personal cost. She detailed how four simultaneous lawsuits in U.S. courts drained her life savings. “He doesn’t sue directly,” she explained. “Pastors – many just transplanted from Nigeria – file the cases for him.” In one courtroom drama, she faced four opposing attorneys despite Olukoya not being a named plaintiff.
The strategy, according to legal experts familiar with megachurch operations, creates a suffocating barrier to accountability. “It’s economic warfare,” noted Lagos-based human rights attorney Iniobong Williams. “Few can sustain the financial hemorrhage of fighting these battles.”
Silence of the Shepherds
Perhaps most damning is Ashekun’s account of institutional indifference. Petitions to the Pentecostal Fellowship of Nigeria and Christian Association of Nigeria gathered dust, while police investigations allegedly stalled. “CAN excommunicated T.B. Joshua,” Ashekun pointed out, her voice rising. “Why is Olukoya different?”
The political dimensions loom large. With Lagos Governor Babajide Sanwo-Olu reportedly sitting in MFM’s front pews, Ashekun questions whether earthly powers will ever challenge the spiritual giant. Her skepticism deepened after recalling the case of a pastor shot in the leg after making similar allegations – a crime that remains unsolved.
The Cost of Truth-Telling
Today, Ashekun’s once-comfortable life lies in ruins – financially, socially, and spiritually. Former church friends crossed streets to avoid her; family members pleaded with her to stop. Yet in her modest apartment, surrounded by legal documents, she remains defiant.
“They think bankrupting me will silence me,” she said, holding up a stack of court filings. “But every lawsuit just proves my point.” As Nigeria’s #ChurchToo movement gains momentum, Ashekun’s lonely crusade may become its defining battle – a test of whether even the most powerful religious institutions can be held to account.
The MFM headquarters in Lagos remained conspicuously silent as this story went to press, its gates guarded by stern-faced security. Behind those walls, one of Africa’s most influential spiritual empires continues its work, undisturbed by the tremors of scandal. But somewhere in America, a woman who once wore their ministerial robes keeps speaking into the storm, her voice cracking but unwavering: “This isn’t about me anymore. It’s about every soul still trapped in that nightmare.”
