NAIROBI: The story Old Nyati was telling us was shocking. It was about an explosion in Kenya of a deeply disturbing phenomenon – thieving, lying and criminal pastors. He told us about one called Apostle Konyagi, who would con his congregants of thousands of shillings by convincing them he could heal their spiritual and physical ailments. He expelled demons from their bodies, extracted needles from their feet and cured them of HIV.
Another, a Pastor Jameson, had on one or two occasions used his powers to render police blind. A story is told of how the men in uniform strangely arrived at an accident scene and developed poor eyesight, even attributing the accident to the wrong driver. “In Kenya,” Old Nyati said, “faking poor eyesight can be lucrative business.”
At that moment, we heard singing from the direction of Old Nyati’s gate. “They throw the poor shepherds of the flock inside the lion’s den,” sang the two men as they walked inside the compound, “but our faith is our armour...” They wore a priest’s white collar under expensive jackets. On their wrists, dangled gold Rolex watches, and their feet were clad in designer footwear. The diamond crucifixes hanging around their necks completed the ensemble. In attire and manner, they mimicked the obnoxious narcissism of American rap singers. They wore pious expressions on their faces, but there was something lurking beneath the expression, a visceral evil. I cringed inside.
As they walked in, Old Nyati, greatly surprised, cried out: “Great ancestors, if it isn’t Apostle Konyagi and Pastor Jameson!” The ‘Men of God’ put their hands over Old Nyati’s head and commenced a fervent prayer. They prayed for our village to be touched by the grace of God so that its people could find it in themselves to reach deep in their pockets and offer succour to the Lord’s servants. They prayed to be given grace during their retreat in our village so as to wither the storm of their persecution in Kenya. Now, jumping up and down in a spiritual trance, they cried, “We come to this village, Oh Lord, to renew our faith through prayer and meditation.”
It was quite a performance. How was it possible for someone to fake such spiritual earnestness for material and sexual gain. How could people, supposed to give comfort to the poor and the sick, prey on them so as to lead debauched lifestyles? I was desperate to hear how the two pastors explained these deeply disturbing contradictions. I hang around their new residence at the edge of the village, hoping to get a chance to speak with them, but they were always busy in their yard. So I began to spy on them. Apostle Konyagi would be practising his healing powers.
“I command you, accursed illness, to depart from this body in the name of our Lord,” he would shout. Then he would surreptitiously pour some chemical into a basin of water which would turn blood red. The object of his exercises was to try and achieve as seamless an execution as possible to mimic spontaneity. When he judged himself successful, he would reward himself with a swig from a bottle labelled “Konyagi” that he pulled from the inside of his jacket.
On his part, Pastor Jameson would be writing in a notebook, an activity he, like his fellow shepherd, would intersperse with swigs from a bottle marked “Jameson.” Later, when I finally became a regular visitor, I peeked inside the book and discovered it was some kind of inventory, listing cars, farms, buildings, etc. There were also names of officials he needed to “thank” with rewards of money.
One afternoon, I asked Pastor Jameson about the crashes in which he was allegedly the driver. “Look,” he said earnestly, “I never ride in a vehicle, much less drive one... I prefer, like our Lord, to ride on a donkey.” “You are very wealthy,” I suggested to the humble servant of God.
“I could give up everything I have and still be happy if I wanted to...,” he responded with a world-weary face. “At the moment, I do not want to... but I could.”
Apostle Konyagi joined the conversation. “As for me, I heal my flock at no cost...what they plant is a seed...” He saw the quizzical expression on my face. “Ah, the seed is for the cost of miracle ingredients... even our lord needed clay to restore the eyesight of a believer.”
Later that afternoon as I went home, I came to the conclusion that the two lacked a conscience.
