The Uber driver picked me up from Freedom Heights in Lang’ata. My destination was Café Deli on Koinange Street, where I was scheduled to moderate a book club session. Behind the wheel was a portly man in his early 50s, friendly and talkative—the kind of driver who strikes up a conversation the moment you shut the door.
I didn’t mind. In fact, I often welcome these spontaneous encounters, especially when traveling in a new country. There's something refreshing about hearing a local’s perspective—raw, unrehearsed, unscripted.
It didn’t take long before the conversation took a sharp turn—from pleasantries to preaching. My driver had a lot to say, and soon it became clear that driving wasn’t his only calling. “I’m a pastor too,” he said with pride. Monday through Saturday, he drives Uber to make ends meet. On Sundays, he puts on his collar and steps up to the pulpit.
His church, he told me, is still small—too small to support him full-time—but growing, slowly and steadily. The gradual increase in his ‘flock’ (I am not sure if this is the right term) gives him hope that he’ll leave the driver’s seat behind and dedicate himself fully to the ministry in a near future. Again, I am not sure if 'ministry' is the right word here. I had an impression he was motivated by the financial benefits of his mission.
Curious, I asked where his church was. “In Kibera slum area,” he replied. “I live in Lang'ata but the church is in Kibera.”
At some point, his casual commentary turned into a full-blown sermon. He preached passionately, quoting the Scripture and testifying with conviction. I let him go on for a while, until I felt the need to redirect the energy. It was my turn to preach.
You read that right. I’m a preacher too, in my own right. I preach the gospel of exploration. As a matter of fact, he was driving me to Cafe Deli to preach to the emerging brood of African explorers.
I told him about Nairobi National Park, which borders Lang’ata, just a few minutes from his home, and how it compares to Akagera National Park, which borders my home village back in Rwanda. To my surprise, he confessed he’d never actually been inside the park. Not once.
“I was there yesterday,” I told him, then shared some of the highlights from my visit. Before we reached my destination, I handed him a gift—a booklet I wrote about my experiences in Akagera.
Despite having never set foot in the park next door, he spoke knowledgeably about Kenya’s wildlife. He had stories, facts, even animal behavior insights. Nairobians, it turns out, don’t need to go on safari to learn about the wild—they live alongside it. The city and the savannah exist side by side, and somehow, the relationship is symbiotic.
When we reached Café Deli, I stepped out with more than just a story—I left with a sense of how layered and quietly profound these brief encounters can be. He had shared his vision for a growing church in Kibera; I had shared my passion for untamed landscapes and open roads. Two different callings, born of the same desire: to connect, to inspire, to leave something meaningful behind. Yes, I questioned his true intentions with the church project, but I guess I was wrong to judge him.