I Was Praying In Ramadan…..Then Jesus Appeared In My Room. Muslim Brother From Kano State.
The testimony you are about to listen is the testimony of a Muslim brother by name Ysef Aayamin from Kono State, Nigeria, who encountered our Lord Jesus Christ during Ramadan.
Every bit of this testimony is genuine and I want you to carefully stay to the end of this testimony and your life will not be the same at the end.
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Now listen to Ysef Aamine testimony in his real word. My name is Ysef. Ysef Alamine.
I am 44 years old. I was born and raised in a small city called Kano in the northern part of Nigeria.
I have been a Muslim my whole life. Not the kind of Muslim who just says it when someone asks.
The kind who means it. The kind who feels it in his chest when the call to prayer goes up in the morning.
The kind who cried when he finished reading the Quran for the first time at age 14.
The kind who never missed a single day of fasting his whole adult life. That was me.
I am not writing this because I want attention. I am not writing this because I want to argue with anyone or make anyone feel bad about what they believe.
I am writing this because something happened to me during Ramadan last year. Something that changed everything.
And I promised on the night it happened that I would not keep it to myself.
So let me start from the beginning. Let me tell you who I was before that night.
Because if you do not know who I was, you will not fully understand what that night meant.
I grew up in a home where Islam was not just a religion. It was the air we breathe.
My father, Malam Sullean, was a teacher of Islamic studies at a secondary school in Kano.
He woke up before the sun every single morning of my childhood. I remember hearing him in the dark, his quiet voice moving through the words of his morning prayer while the rest of the house was still sleeping.
That sound was the first thing I knew about God. Not a sermon, not a big church moment, just my father alone in the dark talking to God like it was the most natural thing in the world.
My mother, Hajia Fatima, was the woman who made everything feel safe. She was the kind of person who prayed for you before you even knew you needed it.
She prayed for us constantly. Morning, afternoon, evening. She would stop in the middle of cooking and just whisper something toward the sky.
I used to wonder what she was saying. Years later, she told me she was always asking God to protect her children and keep them close to him.
I was the second of five children. Two boys, three girls. I was the one everyone said was too serious.
My older brother, Umar, used to tease me because even as a small boy, I would go sit near my father when he was reading the Quran and try to follow along.
I could not read Arabic yet, but I loved the sound of it. It felt like something that came from a place deeper than ordinary words.
By age 12, I had started memorizing chapters of the Quran on my own. Not because my father told me to, I just wanted to.
By age 16, I had memorized more than half of the entire Quran. By 20 I was done, every chapter, every verse.
I could recite any part from memory. People in our neighborhood started calling me Hafi Ysef, which means one who has memorized the Quran.
I was proud of that name. It felt like something I had earned through real effort and real love for God.
I went to university in Kaduna and studied Arabic and Islamic studies. After that, I got a job teaching at an Islamic school back in Kano.
I taught students between the ages of 10 and 17. I taught them how to read Arabic properly, how to understand the meaning of what they were reading, and how to connect their daily life to what the Quran teaches.
I love that job. I still love it. Those students were everything to me. At age 29, I married a woman named Zanab.
She was from Sooto originally, but her family had moved to Kano when she was a child.
She was calm in a way that balanced out how serious I was. She laughed easily.
She was patient with people in a way I always admired but could not always copy.
She wore her faith quietly. She did not talk about it much but she lived it in every small decision she made every day.
We have four children now. The oldest is Bal. He is 13. Then Marama who is 10.
Then little Idris who is seven. And our youngest Somaya who just turned four and who calls me Baba bigig because she says I am too tall.
For 15 years our life was full and good and steady. I prayed five times a day without missing.
I fasted every Ramadan all 30 days without breaking. I read Quran every morning after the dawn prayer.
I taught my children how to pray. I took my family to Friday prayers every week.
I gave to charity regularly. I was not perfect. I knew that. But I was trying every day.
I was really trying. I say all of this not to brag. I say it because I want you to understand the kind of man who was on that prayer mat on the night I am about to describe.
I was not a man in doubt. I was not a man looking for something else.
I was not secretly reading other books or quietly wondering if my faith was wrong.
I was a fully committed Muslim man who believed completely in everything he had been taught, who loved God with everything he had, and who had no reason at all to expect what was coming.
Now, let me tell you about Ramadan last year. Every year during Ramadan, I keep a special practice during the last 10 nights of the month.
It is called Tahajud. It is a night prayer that Muslims do voluntarily. Nothing requires you to do it, but the very devoted ones do it because those last 10 nights of Ramadan are considered the most sacred of the whole year.
Muslims believe that one night in those last 10 called the night of power is worth more than a thousand months of worship combined.
So the serious ones stay awake praying trying to catch that night. I had been doing Tahaja during the last 10 nights of Ramadan since I was 18 years old.
I knew that prayer like I knew my own hands. I knew how it felt from the inside at every level.
The shallow focus at the beginning when your mind is still scattered. The middle part where things start to settle.
The deep part near the end where everything goes quiet and you feel like you are actually in the presence of something real.
I knew all of it. So on the night of the 21st of Ramadan last year, I went to my small reading room after Zanab and the children went to sleep.
It was a little after midnight. The room is not big. It has one wooden desk, two bookshelves full of Arabic books and Islamic texts, a small window that looks out to the street, and my prayer mat on the floor.
The prayer mat was a gift from my father when I finished memorizing the Quran.
It is old now. The edges are worn, but I have never bought a new one because this one feels like it carries something.
I made my ablution, the washing of hands and face and feet that Muslims do before prayer.
I rolled out the mat. I faced in the direction of Mecca. I began. The first two rounds of prayer went the way they always do.
My mind was not fully settled yet. I was still thinking about a student I had corrected that afternoon, wondering if I had been too sharp with him.
I was thinking about a bill I had forgotten to pay. Normal thoughts, the kind that come at the beginning of prayer before you settle in.
I kept going. By the third round, the thoughts had started to slow down. The way water settles after you stop stirring it.
I went down into prostration. That is the position where your forehead touches the ground.
In Islam, it is the most humble position a person can take. You are putting your face to the floor before God.
I said the words I always say in that position. In Arabic, it means glory to my Lord the most high.
I said it three times the way I always do. And then something happened that I cannot fully explain.
Everything stopped. Not the room. Not the sounds from the street outside. Something inside me stopped.
The thoughts went completely quiet. Not the way they do when you are focused. Something deeper than focus.
More complete. Like the difference between a room with the lights turned low and a room with no lights at all.
Total quiet inside. A stillness I had never felt before in 26 years of praying.
And into that stillness, something came. I want to be very careful here because I know how this sounds.
I know that people will say I was tired from fasting. That my mind was doing things because of the emotion of Ramadan.
That I had been praying for hours and my body was playing tricks on me.
I understand all of that. Those were the first things I thought of myself. But I need you to know something.
I have prayed to Hajid for more than 25 years. I have been in deep states of prayer many times.
I know what my own mind feels like when it is doing something on its own.
What happened that night was not my mind. What arrived in that room arrived from outside me.
I am as sure of that as I am sure of anything I have ever been sure of in my life.
There was a presence. That is the only word I have for it. A presence entered the room.
Not through the door, not through the window. It was just suddenly there. The way light is suddenly there when you walk from a dark hallway into a room with the sun coming through the windows.
A weight in the air. A feeling of being completely totally known. Not seen from a distance.
Known the way you feel when someone who loves you very much looks at you and you realize they know something about you that you never said out loud.
I was still with my forehead on the prayer mat. My hands were flat on the floor at my sides.
I started crying. I want to say that clearly. I was crying before anything was said, before I saw anything, before I understood what was happening.
The tears just came from somewhere very deep from a place I had not been to before.
And I did not know why I was crying except that the presence in the room was so big and so real and so full of something I had no word for that my body responded before my mind could catch up.
Then I heard my name. Yousef. One word. My name said in a voice I had never heard before and yet I knew it.
I do not know how to say this properly. You know how sometimes you hear a piece of music that you have never heard before but something in you responds to it like you have known it forever.
It was like that. A voice I had never heard but something inside me recognized it the moment it spoke.
The voice was not loud. It did not shake the walls. It was not dramatic the way voices in movies sound when they are supposed to be from God.
It was quiet, but it carried a kind of authority that had nothing to do with volume.
The way a doctor says something with certainty and you just know it is true without needing him to prove it.
That kind of authority, quiet and completely sure of itself. I lifted my head from the mat.
He was standing near the bookshelf on the far side of the room. I am going to try to describe what I saw.
But I want to say first that what I am describing is only what my eyes were able to take in.
What comes next?