The Nightclub Priest: How Padre Watenga Turns Eldoret’s Dance Floors into His Pulpit

On a cold Saturday night in Eldoret, the kind where the wind cuts through the streets and the city’s clubs pulse like living creatures, a familiar figure slips quietly through the doors of one of the busiest joints.

The DJ is deep in his set, laser lights sweep across sweaty faces on the dance floor and bartenders weave expertly between crowded tables.

Most revellers barely notice the man with a clerical collar walking in with a Bible tucked under his arm, smiling as though he has just stepped into a Sunday service.

A few do a double take. Others whisper and nudge their friends. Some shake their heads in amusement. But once it dawns on them who has arrived, the murmurs spread quickly.

Padre Michael Watenga is in the house.

Padre Watenga at Club Timba XO, Eldoret.

For the past two months, the Anglican priest from the Diocese of Kitale has made Eldoret’s nightlife his newest mission field.

While most pastors wait for congregants to walk through church doors, he has taken the opposite route, choosing to preach in the very spaces many churches write off as dens of sin.

It is a decision he says grew from watching too many young people trapped in alcohol, depression and hopelessness, while feeling judged and shut out of traditional religious spaces.

He first had the idea during a market evangelism session with boda boda riders.

As he stood chatting with them, he kept noticing young men and women stumbling in and out of a nearby club.

They seemed carefree, lost or simply exhausted by life’s burdens. He knew instantly that the church’s message would never reach them if he kept waiting inside a sanctuary.

He approached his bishop, sought permission, received it and started walking into clubs with a prayer and a plan.

His approach is gentle and simple.

He speaks to the club’s management, asks for a few minutes and waits for the DJ to lower the music.

Sometimes the club is packed wall-to-wall with students who chose the venue for its affordability. Sometimes the crowd is older and rowdier.

Once he is handed the microphone, he stands by the DJ booth or at the edge of the dance floor, greets the revellers and begins speaking. His voice is calm, his message brief. Five to ten minutes of encouragement, prayer, hope and a reminder that they are loved. The music resumes almost instantly after he steps aside.

Many go back to their drinks without a second thought. Some wipe away tears.

Others request to speak to him in corners where the lights do not reach. He hears stories of broken families, breakups, depression, suicide attempts and addiction.

He listens, takes their contacts, and offers counselling where he can. He never drinks alcohol, choosing instead a soda as he chats with those who gather around him.

One of his most unforgettable moments happened at MP Oscar Sudi’s Timba XO club, where he walked in dressed in full clerical robes.

The club hostess leading him held a glowing sign announcing his arrival. The energy in the room shifted from curiosity to disbelief to excitement. Revellers cheered, phones came out, and then the club erupted when the DJ played “Uninyunyizie Maji,” a popular Catholic hymn that has somehow found its way into late-night playlists.

The crowd sang along as the priest stood smiling in the middle of the floor. A video of the scene later hit over 1.2 million views on TikTok.

Social media users responded exactly as expected, mixing humour with admiration. One joked about whether the priest had come to bless the bottles or to “pope” champagne.

Another commented that Jesus himself preached to tax collectors and outcasts, so there was nothing strange about a priest in a nightclub.

Padre Watenga embraced the conversation, telling his online followers that drinkers are human beings who deserve to hear God’s love just as much as anyone else. He reminded them that he does not judge and that anyone who wanted him to visit their club should simply invite him.

And, of course, he cheekily added, they should remember to give an offering.

Not everyone in the church is pleased. Some elders say clubs are ungodly spaces and warn that his appearances could send the wrong message. But he brushes off the criticism with the same calm tone he uses on dance floors.

Invitations keep coming from Nakuru, Naivasha, Kericho, Bomet, Kitale and more towns where young people feel forgotten by the church. He has no official travel budget, but small contributions from his online supporters help him keep going.

As he moves from town to town armed with a Bible, a soda and a mission, Rev Michael Watenga says his calling is clear.

If young people are not coming to church, the church must go to them. Whether they are dancing, drinking or wrestling with inner battles in the shadows of neon lights, they are still God’s children.

And on any given night in Eldoret, you might find him standing by a DJ booth, whispering a prayer over a crowd that is learning, perhaps for the first time, that grace can find them anywhere.