They do not know me at all: Timothy Njoya’s online craze

Rev. Dr. Timothy Murere Njoya PHOTO:WILBERFORCE OKWIRI

In recent months, Timothy Njoya has been among the most mentioned names on Twitter. His book -- Divinity of the Clitoris -- political messages and the images he posts gets the internet worked up. He receives comments in hundreds, mostly from younger people suggesting he needs to control himself.

Njoya often responds by asking if they understand who he is. Most of them nonchalantly tell him they do not care. All they want is for Njoya to calm down and stop posting outrageous things on his social media accounts.

“They don’t know me at all,” Njoya tells Sunday Standard at his home in Ngong.

Yet they should.

On June 10, 1999, media splashed images of a man lying helpless on a pavement. Next to him were men in plain clothes raining blows on him as police watched.

The man on the ground was Reverend Timothy Njoya, a cleric of the Presbyterian Church. He was attacked as he led a team of protesters to Parliament to demand for constitutional reforms.

That image of Njoya with hands and feet stretched to shield his face from batons and kicks got lodged in history as one of the indicators that the push for a new constitution was peaking. The voices could not be drowned, even with relentless brutalities.

Near Death

“I almost died. I was in intensive care, unresponsive for three days,” Njoya says, pointing at a copy of the photo neatly filed among the tome of books that make up his home library.

Reverend Njoya, together with late Archbishop David Gitari, Bishop Alexander Muge, Bishop Henry Okullu, retired Catholic Archbishop Ndingi Mwana a’Nzeki and other preachers of those days were feisty and unwavering on the pulpit.

They spit fire. Guiding their flock on how to avoid hell’s gate, and using the same podiums to deliver politically laced sermons with undertones suggesting the need for a revolution.

Their argument being the country needed liberation that could only be gotten through God’s descent and a new constitution. The press lapped at his sermons. They contained what editors felt their audiences desperately ached for, yet they could not pursue.

Gitobu Imanyara, a friend of Njoya and former editor of Nairobi Law weekly, recalls waiting for Njoya’s broadcast messages with enthusiasm. 

“He spoke at a time when the press was chained. My publication pounced on his sermons because we knew people wanted that kind of message, but nobody was as daring to say them,” says Imanyara.

Njoya dominated headlines, and suffered the consequences, including being exiled from Nairobi because he was ‘too dangerous’ to be on the loose. In 1986, when he preached about possibilities of multiparty, Parliament was recalled to discuss his sermon and conduct.

“Oh my! I touched on a topic that was considered taboo. It was service for God, we feared no man,” says Njoya, pausing momentarily, as if trying to recapture a gone moment.

WRONG SIDE

His charisma, determination, and what his close allies term as “inability to know when to stop” placed him on the wrong side of government and the church. Three times he lost his clerical collar for delivering messages the church felt were off doctrine.

He says, if he sheds off his clothes to display the scars on his body, it would be like flipping through pages of a history book – one of a scholar, preacher, philosopher, activist, reformist, conservationist, and a man who stood unfazed in the face of death.

“It was all worth it. I would do it again,” he says.

Some of his friends feel he has strange mannerism and sense of entitlement that cannot allow him to interact with his peers. A family member referred to him as a man who spent too much time trying to prove himself, and forgot to blend with relatives.

Imanyara says although they are close friends, Njoya can be intellectually paternalistic; a man who sees himself as perfect, and cannot be challenged.

“I do not think there is anyone Njoya has not criticised, including myself,” says Imanyara.

Njoya laughs off accusation of his self-idealisation. He says struggling to be understood has never been his priority, and most people judge him based on how firm he stands by his ideas.

“People must have divergent views for us to live in harmony. I am a philosopher, so I am not offended,” he says.

The only time he felt he needed to explain himself was one Sunday when he preached about the beauty of chastity. He wanted young people to marry virgins. The next day, the media in their headlines wrote: Njoya loves virgins.

“It almost ruined me. People were whispering to my wife, asking if our marriage is fine. I had to explain,” he says. “Other than that, I have no apologies for who I am.”

Njoya has taken a break from politics and preaching. As events in the country unfold, he chooses to watch from his home garden; a safe distance from teargas, gun shots and beatings that defined his previous life.

THE SPRING

At 76, the spring on his feet has left. He no longer gets a thrill from the action packed demonstrations he lived for. He feels politics and activism has become individualistic, and nobody does it for the country; like they did in his days.

“The youth today do it for party leaders. In my day, it was not a tribal thing. It was to shape the country. Nobody paid us or told us to do it,” he says.

He has found a new obsession -- Twitter. His energy and controversy has seeped into the virtual streets of the World Wide Web. His persona has changed, to a more youthful, perhaps comical Twitter user who uses his handle to entertain and give opinion many consider to be off tangent.

His recent book, Divinity of the Clitoris set Twitter ablaze. When he tweeted that he was done with the 600 paged book, there was so much flurry and talk, that in a few hours, Njoya was trending.

“At first I thought the Reverend suffered technological auto-correction,” read a tweet from one of his followers. 

Another said: “We should learn to call things by their real name. I see nothing wrong with the title of your book.”

When the day ended, the tweet from the man who once begged to be allowed to preach the gospel had gotten more than 1,000 comments. 

Not known for going gentle on projects he starts, Njoya defended the title of his book, saying he was done with ‘obscenization’ of female body parts, and regarded the clitoris as an integral part of womanhood. 

The book, he says, is an ode to his late mother who escaped circumcision at a time when society demanded it.

RESPECTING WOMEN

“This book has nothing to do with sexuality, it is about respecting women,” he says, showing excerpts of the raw copy of the book he hopes to publish before the year ends.

His controversy does not end at what sits in the parting of women’s legs. He caused chuckles and eye rolls when he posted a photo of his ‘well done’ laundry drying on a line – among them, underwear.

“Take them down!” read one of the tweets he got, admonishing a man of his age for airing what should be hidden.

Njoya defended his photo, saying his intention was not to show underwear, but emphasize that washing clothes is not reserved for women.

“I care about changing perception on masculinity,” he says.

Then came the tweet about cannabis he had found growing in his backyard as he was weeding this week. He blamed the rain and the hills for depositing the intoxicating plant at his door step.

HUMILIATION

“The floods from Ngong Hills deposit bang seeds to my garden that grow like this. I am going to destroy them,” he tweeted.

Kenyans on twitter went on a spree, suggesting mischievous ways to get rid of the plant.

Njoya says he cut and decomposed the plant, ignoring suggestions by young people to burn and sniff it. 

Twitter, he says, is his beautiful distraction, a platform where he has control over everything he says. He also views it as a place he can talk to young people, and tell them, in bits, what it takes for a man to lose himself into building the nation. 

“I wish they knew…of the bloodshed, pain and humiliation we suffered when we decided to believe in this country,” he says.