They say Nairobi is a city of opportunities.
But for Obiero, Nairobi was a slow cruel punishment, every sunrise was another reminder that life wasn’t moving anywhere.
Obiero was having it rough in Nairobi. Despite having a diploma in Business Management, his job applications never went through. The only calls he got were for sales positions — commission-based — and he feared those jobs with everything in him. He job-hunted for six years, yet had nothing to his name.
His daughter kept growing and so did her needs. School fees was now a struggle, rent was paid in instalments, and his wife was threatening to leave because — in her own words — she was “too young and beautiful to suffer in Nairobi with a broke man.”
One day he met his friend, Steve, at the neighbourhood football pitch for a chat.
“All problems must have a solution. We can’t continue living like this in Nairobi,” Obiero said sadly.
“True,” Steve replied. “We need to use what we have to make money. Maybe we should start with what we are good at.”
“But what are we good at? What can make money fast?” Obiero asked.
“Let’s begin with you,” Steve said. “Obiero, you have a smooth mouth. You convince people easily. Why don’t you use your mouth to make money?”
“I’ve tried,” Obiero sighed, eyes drifting away. “Nothing is working.”
“It has to,” Steve insisted. “We must force things to work. Why should people less smart than you live well? This must work. I have an idea…”
“Please don’t introduce another sales job,” Obiero said sarcastically.
“You know the Bible really well, very well, and you’re a good public speaker. Be a pastor.”
“What?” Obiero almost choked on his saliva. “How?”
“Imagine this,” Steve smiled. “The easiest way to make money in Africa is by opening a church. Name one poor prophet — just one? Africans love tithing. Africans believe in miracles. You have convincing power. Use that gift to get what you want.”
Steve paused and lowered his voice.
“Stealing from God is a sin,” he whispered.
“We’ll repent later,” Steve waved it off. “God understands what you’re going through.”
For days, Obiero battled the idea. He felt this would be the greatest sin he’d ever commit. He pushed it aside until the landlord arrived, reminding him the arrears were piling up, and he had days before the door would be locked.
That is when he swung into action.
Obiero started preaching online — TikTok, YouTube, Facebook — those became his pulpits. Despite having no physical church, people still sent offerings because they were touched by his teachings.
“This is it,” he thought. “If I can make money online, what if I get a church? If short videos alone can earn me 2,000 bob on Sunday, imagine with a building? This is it. God understands the heart of man.”
And that is how Zawadi Ministries was born.
The church began with only thirty faithfuls — his close friends, relatives and wife — but it grew fast. Within six months, Obiero had around 200 congregants. They called him “Daddy”, hungry for the word.
Obiero preached relentlessly. If he wasn’t in church, he was online. He sold hope to the poor, long life to the sick, and prosperity to the wealthy. He knew how to use his mouth.
“You’re not giving enough and that’s why your victory is delayed! How can you give the Lord peanuts and expect a giant-size blessing? Someone read Malachi 3:10!” he shouted from the pulpit.
With that single verse, the unemployed would give money meant for meals, students tithed their HELB, wives gave their chama savings — everyone sacrificed, hoping for Abraham’s blessings.
He would bless them and dismiss the service.
“131,800 in tithes. Not bad for the week. Even God understands…” he would whisper after counting.
His week was filled with “home visits”, “deliverances”, and “hospital prayers.” Everywhere he stepped, faithfuls showered him with gifts because the man of God promised to intervene in their spiritual battles.
Another Sunday, same preaching.
“Your enemies are winning because they sacrifice more than you to their gods! How do you pray for Solomonic wisdom and tithe 300 bob? Read Deuteronomy 14:22!”
Again, the faithfuls emptied themselves.
“298,600. Not bad. We’ll try again Sunday. Once I get enough, I’ll stop.”
He repeated the same lines weekly:
“Poverty is a curse. Nobody was born poor. Your enemies are sacrificing more than you at their altars. They stole your luck, and they’ll steal your children’s luck too. God loves a cheerful giver!”
His bank account kept swelling.
“659,500 this week. Not bad,” he’d say after counting.
Meanwhile, the same man who began with 30 members now drove a Prado TX. His wife owned a brand-new Mercedes C200. Their children attended international schools. They lived in a fenced bungalow with security — yet he had no other job.
“You are poor because you don’t give enough. You are robbing God. Tithe more and wait for wonders! Your enemies are winning because they are active on their altars!”
That became the daily reminder at Zawadi Ministries.
And every night, he still said he would stop.
But he never did.
Because the money tasted better than repentance.