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Kenyan Branch

In a Kenyan village 100 miles north of Nairobi, a small group of homesteaders and subsistence farmers have adopted Judaism as their faith

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Yosef Njogu, Avraham Ndungu, and other Gathundia Jews in front of their beit midrash and synagogue. (Jacob Silverman)
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When Yosef Njogu texted me that a “rider” should be waiting for us in Kasuku, a small trading post a 30-minute drive south of Nyahururu, Kenya, I thought it was a typo or an affectation of the Kenyan English idiom. “He is there,” said Njogu, the man I was going to meet. “He is wearing a kippa.”

Immediately, a slim young man appeared on a motorcycle—the rider—wearing a dark blue, Sephardic-style, knit kippa. I was looking for a Jew; doubtless this was the only one in this patch of rural Kenya. The man smiled and introduced himself as James. He told me to get on the back of his motorcycle, or pikipiki. James put on his helmet. He eased the bike through the trading post’s pitted dirt then merged onto the well-paved main road, going south. The wind blasted our hair and set our mouths into Joker grins.

After a 15-minute breakneck ride, we turned onto a bumpy dirt track. James suddenly hit the brakes to avoid smashing into a goat scampering across our path. On both sides, small shambas, Kenyan farms, grew maize, bananas, and mangos, and raised goats, cows, and chickens. Children, unused to seeing wazungu, or foreigners, in this area, stared as we went by. James parked the bike outside a low wooden gate into a shamba that began at the crest of a low rise and flowed gently downhill. A gaggle of sheep and chickens grazed nearby. This was Gathundia, a tiny village in what Kenyans sometimes call “the interior”—a place away from paved roads and the general stream of commerce, a place where municipal services are rare. Trailed by several children, his wife, and an elderly man, Njogu, wearing a black knit kippa like that worn by James, approached and thanked us for coming. He then introduced us to the people with him, including Avraham Ndungu, the elderly man who I had been told was the chairman of Gathundia’s small Jewish community.

With limited resources—they store water in old cooking-oil jugs distributed by a government food-assistance program—Gathundia’s Jews are carving out their own Jewish identity, inspired by a reverence for an ancient tradition but inflected with local customs. Educating themselves and one another, many of them have become adept at Hebrew and live devoutly Jewish lives while continuing to work as subsistence farmers. They are also one of a number of small but growing Jewish communities in sub-Saharan Africa that look to Mbale, Uganda, home to the Abayudaya, as both a model and a site of pilgrimage, religious guidance, education, and even youth conventions.


A slim man with a lively demeanor and ready smile, Yosef Njogu comes from Eldoret, in western Kenya’s Rift Valley Province. An ethnically mixed town with a population of almost 200,000, Eldoret remains a flashpoint for Kenya’s periodic bouts of ethnic violence. (In the 2007 post-election maelstrom, a mob set fire to an Eldoret church in which people had sought refuge; as many as 50 people died.) In 1994, fleeing violence, Njogu, who is 47 and a Kikuyu, left the town with his wife, Ruth, along with their children and some livestock. They went east, wandering through the Rift Valley and crossing into Central Province; in Gathundia, they met Avraham Ndungu, a 76-year-old veteran of the Mau Mau rebellion, who let Njogu and his family settle on his land.

In Eldoret, Njogu belonged to the Seventh Day of God Adventist Church, where members had been haphazardly engaging with Jewish beliefs and customs. After a visit from some black Kenyans who had been practicing Judaism in Nairobi, Njogu and several other members of his church decided that Christianity was a distraction. With its worship of Jesus, Christianity began to seem polytheistic in Njogu’s eyes, so he decided to commit himself completely to Judaism. “We were after a real Judaism, in our hearts,” Njogu said. As part of a branch of the Eldoret church, Ndungu had been exploring Judaism and later found common cause with Njogu’s vision of an unalloyed Jewish community.

It’s unclear how many black Kenyans practice Judaism. In Njogu’s congregation, which includes a few families in the surrounding area, there are about 50 people. Some of Ndungu’s 13 adult children dabble in the religion; all of Njogu’s 13 children, younger than Ndungu’s, are being raised strictly Jewish. They make some allowances for Kikuyu tradition, like naming firstborn children after their paternal grandparents.

Njogu said that there were a few Jewish families near Nakuru, the capital city of the Rift Valley 30 miles to the west, and they tried to get together with them for major holidays. (Njogu’s family celebrates all Jewish holidays.) In Nairobi, black Kenyans occasionally attend services at the Orthodox synagogue that caters to a mostly expat community (it’s 80 percent Israeli), but members of the Gathundia community had at times felt unwelcome. Harriet Bograd, who runs Kulanu, an organization that works with isolated or emerging Jewish communities, told me that Njogu’s son Samson had been turned away from the Nairobi Hebrew Congregation. When, via email, I asked Charles Szlapak, the unofficial leader of the Nairobi congregation, if he had heard of Gathundia’s Jews, he responded, “To my knowledge, the Nairobi Hebrew Congregation is the only recognized Jewish community between Zambia and Ethiopia. I am also aware that there are places in Kenya where groups of people have decided to call themselves Jewish and even to place a signboard outside a building, calling it a synagogue.”

Later I met with Maggie Jonsson, the Nairobi congregation’s community coordinator, who said that some black Kenyans prayed at the synagogue—and were welcome—but she prevaricated when I asked about the congregation’s attitude toward facilitating black Kenyans’ conversion to Judaism: She cited the congregation’s lack of resources (they have no permanent rabbi), questioned the motives of those wishing to convert, said that potential converts should study in Israel or the United States, and later declared that just as people can’t choose their family members, they should not be allowed to choose their religion. At one point, she allowed that the Nairobi Hebrew Congregation might have to revisit its attitude toward converts if the congregation hopes to survive.

For Njogu, it has not been a problem being Jewish in a devoutly Christian area, where neighbors are friendly. “This is a peaceful place,” he said. Notably, the area is predominantly Kikuyu, Njogu and Ndungu’s ethnic group, and it lacks the persistent ethnic tension of Eldoret.

In the past, particularly during colonial times, there have been other informal Jewish movements among black Kenyans. According to the Nairobi Hebrew Congregation’s official history, Glimpses of the Jews of Kenya, the town of Ol Kalou, which is near Gathundia, contains the remnants of “Mt. Zion Synagogue,” established by a black community in the pre-independence era. As with many African ethnic groups, particularly in East Africa, the “lost tribe” label sometimes gets tossed around by scholars and even politicians; the Kalenjin and Meru have both been cited as such, the former by Daniel arap Moi, a Kalenjin who was Kenya’s second president. The Meru are a Bantu tribe and, like some other Bantu peoples, the Meru have a bit of folklore that describes their escape from bondage under a brown-skinned people and a subsequent flight across a parted body of water referred to as a Red Sea. In Customs and Traditions of the Meru, Daniel Nyaga, a Kenyan scholar, says that he heard the story from multiple people who had had no contact with the Bible.


When we entered Ndungu’s homestead, it was late in the afternoon on a Friday in early February. The sun hadn’t yet begun to set, but I was anxious to begin taking photographs in case the community’s observance of Shabbat included a prohibition on the use of electricity. (I soon learned that the homestead lacked electricity and running water, although the nearest shamba had both.) We were about 30 miles from Nyahururu, which, at more than 7,500 feet, is Kenya’s highest city, and the air was cool here in the highlands despite our proximity to the equator. The wind blew in occasional gusts, and Ndungu’s 23 acres stretched to the east, toward the verdant Aberdare Range.

Ndungu’s homestead is dotted with small wooden or concrete buildings with corrugated tin roofs; most are clustered together in the main compound. Many of Njogu and Ndungu’s relatives are scattered among these buildings, some of which also are used for grain storage and cooking.

Njogu pointed with evident pride to a structure standing about one hundred feet from the gate. At first I thought that this building—with its spindly wooden posts, semi-transparent, white plastic tarpaulins for roof and walls, and dried palm fronds laid above—might be a sukkah. Instead, I soon learned that it was the community’s beit midrash and synagogue, words that were also daubed in blue paint on either side of its entrance, along with two menorahs. Bottle caps had been used as washers, which, along with nails, kept the tarps bound to the posts.

Inside the synagogue, several wooden benches sat on either side of a center aisle. At the front of the room stood a wooden podium covered with a red fabric. What appeared to be an old vinyl seat cover had been painted with a Star of David and tacked to one of the building’s posts. A soft diffuse light filtered through the tarp-walls, and the dried palm fronds overhead resembled a thin layer of dirt scattered across the roof.

Njogu gestured to an area just beyond an abandoned greenhouse. He said that he and Ndungu hoped to build a permanent, brick-and-mortar synagogue there. They wanted it to serve as a beacon attracting other Jews in the region, including the families who lived near Nakuru. “We want it to be a place for Jews to rest” and pray, Njogu said.


Before Shabbat services began, a cavalcade of children arrived, ranging in age from about 6 to 18. There were perhaps a dozen of them, but they came and went—as they would throughout the night—with names like Daniel, Naomi, Eliyahu, David, Yitzhak, and Judith. Some were Njogu’s children, others were of unknown provenance, but they were universally excited to see unusual visitors. No white Jews had ever visited Ndungu’s homestead, and it was likely that the children rarely saw white people at all. The boys wore kippot, pants, and collared shirts, the girls long dresses and blouses, their hair plaited.

We assembled in the synagogue—Njogu and Ndungu, their wives, about 10 children, James, and the wife of one of Ndungu’s sons, who works in a faraway village. Although Ndungu was the leader of the community—Njogu often referred to him as “Mzee,” an honorific widely used for older Kenyan men—he sat in the back while Njogu and his 16-year-old son, David, led the service. Njogu and David’s Hebrew was impeccable, although their Kenyan accents caused them to sometimes chop off portions of words, like when they made the throaty “ch” into a hard “k.” The younger children made themselves heard during most prayers. The melodies were all Western. The women’s high voices added an almost keening sound.

At the end of services, we all wished one another Shabbat shalom and filed back to Ndungu’s house. After the Ha Motzi (in lieu of challah, David tore up chapatti and passed it around) and Kiddush and a couple of songs, dinner was served: boiled chicken, cabbage, and chapatti. Someone brought in a bucket of roasted maize. Each child took an ear and began eating. Only Ndungu and a male neighbor who had arrived ate chicken, one piece for each man, and no one else touched the cabbage or the chapatti. The chicken had been one of the dozen or so that Ndungu owns.


On Saturday, after Ndungu’s daughter-in-law served us hot chocolate (they called it “strong tea” and loaded it with sugar) and chapatti, Njogu and Ndungu welcomed arrivals to morning service. They put on two beautiful white tallitot with blue embroidery. We used Conservative prayer books, some stamped with the seal of a synagogue in Swampscott, Mass. When it came time for the Torah portion, Njogu offered a short introduction in English: We would hear Parashat T’rumah, a highly detailed account of how to build and decorate a Tabernacle. Njogu handed me an English-language Tanakh, its cover barely holding on, and I opened it to Exodus 25:1. A man named Paul, who lived nearby, came to the front of the room and read the Torah portion from a Kikuyu-language Christian Bible.

In my conversations with Njogu and others, it became clear that the Jews here were striving to emulate the Abayudaya in Mbale, Uganda. The Abayudaya provide prayer books, kippot, and Hebrew workbooks, as well as conversions. And although some of the Gathundia Jews expressed a desire to visit Israel, Mbale was both more accessible and more relevant to their own lives—the nexus of the East African Jewish world.

Some young men from Gathundia, including two of Njogu’s sons, have received scholarships to the Abayudaya high school, and Rabbi Gershom Sizomu, the leader of the Abayudaya and likely the first ordained black African rabbi, is, if not the unofficial leader of the Gathundia Jews, then certainly a hero to them. They call him “my rabbi” and “Rabbi Gershom.” Ndungu presented me a photo of Sizomu posing with his family, and Njogu showed off a scrap of paper with the schedule of Sizomu’s installation ceremony. It is the deeply held hope of many in the community that one of theirs might go on to study at Sizomu’s yeshiva. A woman named Naomi approvingly relayed the story of a Ghanaian Jew who studies at a yeshiva in Mbale and returns to Ghana periodically to instruct his people in what he has learned. The 100-strong community of Ghanaian Jews supports him, paying for his studies and his flights.

“We want to be part of the Jewish commonwealth,” Njogu told me late in my visit. The Gathundians’ path toward Judaism has been quixotic, for some a flight from Christianity and ethnic conflict, and with some missteps and a great deal of self-education. But it has also been faithfully pursued, visible in the Hebrew chalk scrawlings on the wall of Ndungu’s home, their makeshift synagogue, and the Hebrew worksheets that Njogu and others have filled out by lamplight. It has also been a journey—amidst displacement and poverty—toward self-betterment and intellectual inquiry. I asked Njogu which Jewish books he might want, if I were able to send them. His eyes widened, and he answered, “A midrash of Genesis.”

Jacob Silverman is a Los Angeles-based writer and book critic.

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mike applegate says:

great story … did Lizzy get to witness Gathundia?

Congratulations, Jacob Silverman, on a great article!

Harriet Bograd, President

    Kim Yehudah says:

    am greatful as one of the this community for this sacred work to make this community established out there

Hannah Lee says:

Thank you for this post!
Would you give an address for book donations
or financial contributions?

Hannah Lee, You are welcome to make U.S. tax-deductible donations through, or by mailng donations payable to Kulanu (in U.S. dollars) to Kulanu, Inc., 165 West End Avenue, 3R, New York, NY 10023, USA. Please mention whether this is for the Kenya community, for the Abayudaya, or is unrestricted.

Please contact me first if you are thinking of book donations, since shipping is very costly and there are many challenges in making good use of the donated books.

Harriet Bograd, President
Kulanu, Inc.

John C. Randolph says:

“just as people can’t choose their family members, they should not be allowed to choose their religion. ”

Maggie should be ashamed of herself. This is precisely the position held by the head-choppers.


sestamibi says:

@JC Randolph

Agreed. Which makes me wonder, what kind of Jewish name is Jonsson anyway?

“read the Torah portion from a Kikuyu-language Christian Bible”

Say what?

I believe this story begs for some clarity. Are we talking replacement theology, a form of Messianich Judaism, or are we discovering/discussing unique subsects of the diaspora like those found in India, or Ethiopia. It appears none of the above.

Is what they believe in Judaism, or are they just fascinated with assuming the label of a Jew?

We live in a time when non-Jewish groups are claiming to be “the real” Jews, and concurrently we’re seeing a rise in the fraudulent notion that Ashekenazic Jews are not semitic or of Jewish lineage.

lactmama says:

whites are call mezungo in Kiswahili
Kulanu seems to be a bit confused – why choose Judaism to follow and not something else?

Certainly a freedom of choice in religion is a good thing, but many times this comes with a hope for help from their co-religionists.

In any case, I wish these people luck. Life in most parts of Africa is not easy and at least they are in some rural place where they can grow a lot of their food.

Simone says:

Fascinating piece! I wanted to point out that “They make some allowances for Kikuyu tradition, like naming firstborn children after their paternal grandparents,” is not a violation of any Jewish law. It is an Ashkenazic minhag to name children after deceased relatives.

Andrew G says:

Charles Szlapak, the unofficial leader of the Nairobi congregation is a horse’s arse. Are you kidding me? We have people reading by candle light on dirt floors in order to learn Hebrew and our traditions and this idiot disrespects them? That is embarrassing. If any of these folks are ever in the U. S. they will be welcomed with open arms at our REFORM synagogue. Maybe they aren’t good enough for our more “pious” brothers?

Ari W. says:

I just arrived in Mbale yesterday,and am planning on spending 4 months here. Right now I am sitting with Yosef’s son Samson. In response to anyone who questions the authenticity or intention of the people here I can only say come and see for yourself. This morning I, along with Jews from Uganda, Kenya and Ghana laid t’fillin, davened scharit and read from the torah, things I don’t often see many of my Jewish friends in America doing.
In response to what it means to choose one’s religion I would note that the intentionality and challenge involved in sustaining these communities leads those Jews to be better educated and I will add that rarely have I ever encountered a synagogue that worshiped with they type of kavenah which I am encountering here.
I feel blessed to be here, and I know that I will leave with a stronger sense of my own Jewish identity than when I arrived.

Kenyan Jews, B”H!

What i find fascinating is the rare incidence of community efforts at conversion, rather than the spate of genuine giyur candidates. These burgeoning African communities are also not isolating themselves [like Christian cults do], but are actively sharing resources in a larger regional network of community coops (similar to the early Kibbutzim movement), who identify with Judaism and express their solidarity with Israel and its diasporic people (arguably comparable to earlier Hasidic movements of Eastern Europe). Their effort at maintaining mitzvot in a largely Christian nation as Kenya is not so different from American Jewry [where over 80% of its increasingly mediocre populace identify with some manifestation of Christianity). Based on their farmland subsistence, maintaining their distinction, as well as cultivating a semblance of simplicity may allow for less difficult conditions for spiritual maturity, compared to their Western Jewish counterparts. Their inclusion into the Israeli fold will strengthen Jewish unity. May Kenyan Jewry merit speedy aliyot!

Shmuel Yonah says:

Just met Samson, Njogu’s son, on Skype, while speaking with my son and his wife who are on a dental mission with the Abayudaya community in Uganda. He is studying in the high school, was engaging, real, and a committed Jew who sings Hebrew impeccably and will be a credit to his community in Kenya.

N.Samson says:

Am one of the Kenya community member yosef son and am studying in uganda am in he high school in Semei kakungulu high ,istarted in senior one till where iam .we united with Abayudaya of uganda through judaism ,it was after realising that there is community in Kenya that they visited us in kenya and they decided we join together and learn ,unite and develope judaism in africa .you are warmly welcome we are ready to learn since judaism is a source of knowlegde.knowing Torah is being in a land of milk and honey.

Yehudi D'Israeli says:

I hope you motherfuckers don’t succeed. Keep your money grabbing and mercenary ways out of Kenya. We have enough blood suckers already.

Desmond Nyapola says:

I’am a Kenyan whose interested in knowing about Jewish religion so us to join if it’s possible please kindly let me know.

Tira says:

@ Yehudi D’Israeli: your ignorance, laced with spite here is a clear reflection of your lack of tolerance for others and it further declares your abhorrent attitude and incredible loathe of the jewish community!Since when did the Jews suck blood? Do you have witnesses?! If you are a Kenyan,(which looks like based on your selfish comment) you therefore undermine whatever good the Israeli community has done for Kenya throughout the years and that is a disgrace! Shame on you! Your thoughtless pride shall be your own downfall!

Tira says:

“Be a disciple of Aaron; love peace and pursue peace; love people and draw them to Torah ( Avot 1:12)”. The Nairobi Hebrew Community needs to realize that this is a Mitzvah and that all our mitzvot influence Tikun Haolam. We need to do something righteous in this matter, after all, they came asking for help in their enlightenment;
we did not go seeking their conversion. The Jewish world owes them an understanding and knowledge of the Jewish way of life, after all, they seek the truth!!

Kim Yehudah says:

believe or visit olkalou jewish community in kenya to witness and you will be astonished to find young children singing hebrew zemirot to show how much they love there faith and dedication to God.i believe that judaism is existing in this village and we hope to go higher to keep the tradation and customs as jewish people beezrat Hashem.

Kim Yehudah says:

Dear friends and brothers lets join hand together to do this sacred work of helping the olkalou kasuku jewish community in kenya to make the bright future of adults and children who need your help in fighting the poor state in this community.this will help particullary on this young children who need education for children are hope of continuation of this jewish community .this community need to practise kibbutz inorder to make there services at the right time they wish to,like having the minyan at the times of prayers for they are scattered in different places.therefore they are looking forward to purchase a piece of land where they can allocate there permanent synagouge for at the moment the community is just hosted by one of the community member as it look on having a permanent land where they will build there homes close each other for the benefit of the community.we welcome any of your ideas,donations and any help .thank you


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Kenyan Branch

In a Kenyan village 100 miles north of Nairobi, a small group of homesteaders and subsistence farmers have adopted Judaism as their faith

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