For years, his name appeared in police files, court records, and whispered conversations marked by fear.
Today, Ndura Waruinge stands behind pulpits instead of operating in the shadows, telling a story he says began with ideology, descended into violence and a death sentence, and ultimately ended in faith, freedom, and family.
His journey mirrors the rise and fall of one of Kenya’s most controversial movements and raises enduring questions about radicalisation, justice, and redemption.
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In the late 1980s and early 1990s, the outlawed sect Mungiki surfaced among marginalised youth in Central Kenya and informal settlements in Nairobi.
Early narratives framed the group as a self-help initiative and later as a cultural revival movement seeking to restore traditional governance systems, reject perceived Western influence, and address historical land grievances.
According to Waruinge, the movement began with modest intentions.
“It started as a self-help group where seven others came together and started a dart game, and at the end of the month, we had saved lots of money, and this attracted more youths towards our group. From the profits we started farming for profits,” he once said.
Waruinge maintains that he and his cousin initially envisioned the group as a platform to empower young people rather than engage in criminal activity. He has described those early years as being driven by a search for belonging and identity.
“We thought we were fighting for our culture and dignity,” he said.
However, by the late 1990s and early 2000s, authorities linked Mungiki to forced oathing ceremonies, extortion rackets, control of the public transport sector, and targeted killings. The group’s name became synonymous with organised violence and urban criminal networks.
Waruinge’s association with the sect made him a marked figure. In past interviews, he has claimed he was arrested 52 times, shot 12 times, and poisoned nine times.
Eventually, he was arrested and prosecuted in connection with violent crimes attributed to the sect’s operations. A court handed him the ultimate penalty: death by hanging.
He recalls one instance when he was taken for execution, only for the hanging mechanism to allegedly fail.
“You live knowing the government has already written your final chapter,” he recounted.
Waruinge describes such moments as turning points that convinced him his life still held a greater purpose.
After years of living on the edge of the law, he says he found spiritual transformation through a prayer led by Pastor James Ng’ang’a. From that point, he says, his life took a different direction.
Freedom, however, did not bring instant adjustment.
He has spoken openly about the toll his imprisonment and notoriety took on his relatives, particularly children who grew up without their father present. Rebuilding family relationships, he says, required humility, accountability, and time.
Today, Waruinge focuses on youth mentorship, prison ministry, and discouraging young people from joining criminal or extremist networks. He frames his testimony as a cautionary tale about the dangers of radicalisation and the cost of violence.
For many Kenyans, memories associated with Mungiki remain painful and unresolved. Survivors of extortion, intimidation, and violence continue to view the movement through the lens of trauma and insecurity.
Yet Waruinge’s story feeds into a broader national debate about rehabilitation and second chances within Kenya’s justice system.
He says he is now a father to 25 children and insists he remains actively responsible for their upbringing.
“I take care of all my children,” he says. “I am not in a relationship with their mothers now — some remarried, others moved abroad — but I asked that the children stay with me because I have the means to support them.”
He adds that the central lesson he tries to instil in them is one of dignity and accountability.
“I tell them that morally, some of the things I did were wrong, but they are not a mistake,” he says. “My focus now is to guide them onto the right path.”
His transformation narrative continues to spark debate — for some, it represents redemption; for others, unresolved wounds. But for Waruinge, it is a testament to what he calls grace, responsibility, and the possibility of change.