Mystery in turbans: Inside the secret life of Mihiriga Kenda

Clad in distinctive turbans of green, black and white, they are a group many Kenyans recognise by sight, but few truly understand. 

To some, they are a cultural community deeply rooted in tradition;  to others, they remain shrouded in suspicion, often labelled an outlawed sect and linked, rightly or wrongly, to controversial practices such as Female Genital Mutilation (FGM).

Recent events in Juja only deepened the intrigue. Police arrests tied to such allegations made headlines, casting the group once again into the national spotlight. Yet the case quickly unravelled when the Office of the Director of Public Prosecutions (ODPP) declined to press charges, citing insufficient evidence.

Despite that, the whispers have refused to fade. In many ways, the court’s decision only added another layer to the mystery that continues to surround them. It is not the first time they have drawn national attention.

Five years ago, they emerged into public focus during the burial of one of their own, the late Gaturi Member of the County Assembly from Murang’a County, Kiiru Mbembe. 

The ceremony, marked by their distinctive dress and rituals, stirred curiosity and, for many, confusion about who they really are and what they stand for. Against this backdrop of suspicion and fascination, the name Mihiriga Kenda continues to evoke mixed reactions: fear for some, curiosity for others.

On a quiet Saturday in Kambaa, Githunguri, Kiambu County, they gather once more not in secrecy or defiance, but in what they describe as a routine communal meeting.

We visited what one would loosely call their shrine in Kambaa. 

Dancing in unison

It is here, away from the noise of public debate and speculation, that we begin a journey to understand them beyond the rumours, to separate myth from reality, and to uncover what truly defines a group so often spoken about, yet so rarely heard.

Long before we reach the entrance, the sound of singing carries through the air. Rhythmic, coordinated and deeply rooted in Kikuyu tradition, the songs welcome us into a space that feels both familiar and unfamiliar.

As we draw closer, we see members dancing in unison, men, women, and children, most of them dressed in their signature turbans. 

Some of the songs are well-known Kikuyu tunes popularised by secular musicians, while others are drawn from a book known as Mihiriga Kenda Muiyuru. Still, many are sung from memory, passed down through generations.

At the gate, three men sit with a black book, carefully recording the details of members arriving from different parts of the country. 

The process is orderly, almost administrative, reflecting a level of organisation that contrasts sharply with the chaotic image often portrayed about them.

Inside the compound, a large hall hosts some members, while others gather outside. Children move freely, singing and laughing, showing this is a community spanning generations.

Kamau Kirigi, one of the members, welcomes us and offers to guide us through the compound.

“Welcome to Mihiriga Kenda Muiyuru Githunguri camp,” he says. “This is where members from different camps across the country meet occasionally. We come together to share knowledge and strengthen our understanding of Kikuyu traditions.”

He says the group holds similar Saturday gatherings at different camps (Kambi), where members “sharpen one another” culturally and spiritually.
It is in such a setting, he notes, that some of their members were recently arrested in Juja before being released without charge.

Traditional healer

Within the compound, one structure stands out: a small, enclosed room that Kirigi refers to as Thingira, where a man sits in, Mundu Mugo, or traditional healer.

When ushered in, we meet Harun Kiambuthi, a man who has practiced as a traditional healer for over three decades. His role, he explains, is to listen to the problems brought to him by members and visitors, and to offer guidance based on traditional knowledge.

“Many people come here when they are sick or facing challenges,” Kiambuthi says. “Once they are cleansed and advised on what to do, their problems often subside.”The room itself is partitioned by metal bars, separating him from those who come seeking help. No one crosses to his side. A whitish powder is occasionally sprinkled around the space, part of what he describes as cleansing rituals.

He insists that his work is lawful and recognised, adding that he is registered with the Ministry of Culture and National Heritage under the National Traditional Health Practitioners Association.

He is duly registered with the Ministry of Culture and National Heritage under the National Traditional Health Practitioners Association registration number 1300/22, as the certificate hanging on the wall indicates.

“Government officers come here from time to time to check what we are doing,” he adds. “They always find that we are operating within the law.”

A close observation during his consultations reveals a gourd and, on the table, an assortment of stones, seeds, wires and beads spread over a piece of skin. He explains that once a client presents their problem, he shakes the gourd and pours the contents onto the skin. From the arrangement, he is able to interpret the issue.

He then advises clients on steps to follow, stressing strict adherence. Many, he says, come with illness, marital, or personal problems and leave with guidance and direction.

Within Kikuyu culture, the figure of a Mundu Mugo has historically been central to community life. Far from being merely a healer, he was a spiritual guide, a counsellor and a custodian of cultural knowledge. 

He offered remedies with herbs, interpreted spiritually rooted misfortunes, and guided key life events like birth, initiation, marriage, and death.

Back in the main hall, the gathering became structured, with members introducing themselves, tracing their lineage and origins.

“My name is Ndoni wa Mugo, born in Limuru, Kamirithu,” one member says, before concluding with the phrase, “Ni thayu” meaning peace. The greeting is echoed by others, creating a rhythm that reinforces a sense of unity and shared identity.

The session moves into Kikuyu cultural teachings, followed by discussions where members raise issues and seek input. Inside the hall, women sit behind men, a structure mirrored during singing sessions. Outside, children are engaged in cultural learning. A young man, Benson Muguro Kamau, leads them through Kikuyu riddles and songs. He commands their attention with ease, blending teaching with play.

Negative perception

Close observation reveals that the children express themselves much like their parents, often dropping what many refer to as baptismal names and instead using two traditional names, followed by their clan and lineage.

While singing, they skillfully shake leg rattles (kigamba), keeping rhythm with songs learned from childhood. Later, Muguro, an architect, shares his perspective.

“Many people have a negative perception of tradition,” he says. “They associate us with things we do not practice. But when you take time to understand our way of life, you realise most of what is said about us is based on myths.”

He describes himself as a modern adherent of tradition, someone who balances cultural identity with professional life. “One of the key values I have learned here is honesty and trust,” he adds. “In my work, we handle projects worth millions. Without integrity, you cannot survive in this industry.”

As the day unfolds, the sense of community becomes more evident. On one side of the compound, members prepare a communal meal. The aroma of githeri fills the air, drawing people together in anticipation of lunch.

Kirigi explains that their identity is rooted in Kikuyu ancestry, particularly the lineage of Gikuyu and Mumbi.

“We derive our name from the daughters of Gikuyu and Mumbi,” he says. “Our goal is to preserve traditions that were eroded over time, especially during colonial periods.”

Apart from promoting and learning more about Kikuyu culture, the group is also formally registered as the Wicarie Society under the Registrar of Societies, a status it has held since 2015.

Through the society, members contribute funds and offer loans to one another at a small interest rate, to provide financial support within the group. Asked why they wear the distinctive turban, Kirigi explains that it carries deep symbolic meaning.

“Black represents the African people, green symbolizes the environment, and white stands for purity and the values we uphold,” he says, adding that both their attire and activities are duly registered with the government.

Members are quick to dismiss allegations of FGM, insisting that such claims are false and meant to damage their reputation.

“Government officers have visited us many times,” says Gathoni Wa Maina, another member. She adds that the group plays an important role in addressing cultural issues, particularly those affecting women. “Many women today face challenges because certain traditions have been abandoned,” she says.

However, not everyone views the group favourably.

Religious leaders have voiced strong opposition. Bishop David Ngari of Calvary Chosen Centre describes their teachings as retrogressive and inconsistent with Christian beliefs.

Apostle Francis Kimeu of the Springs of Life echoes similar concerns, warning against what he calls “deceptive philosophies” rooted in human tradition rather than faith in Christ.

For some observers, the issue is less about outright opposition and more about caution.

“I am not against them,” says Joseph Mwaniki, a resident familiar with such groups. “But if not properly checked, they could lead society back to practices we moved away from.”

Mid-last month when several members were arrested Juja MP George Koimburi urged authorities to respect the organisation.

“I will push for legislation in Parliament aimed at protecting groups that practice traditional customs, rights of Kenda Muiyuru and other groups which practices their traditions should be safeguarded under the law,” Koimburi said.

As evening approaches, the members begin preparing for their final prayers of the day, held shortly before sunset at exactly 17.45hrs. The timing, they explain, aligns with traditional beliefs about the transition between day and night.

The singing resumes, softer now, more reflective. The earlier energy gives way to a calm, almost meditative atmosphere.

As the sun sets, marking the end of their gathering, we quietly leave the compound. Behind us, the voices fade, leaving a lingering sense of a group caught between tradition, modern scrutiny, and public perception.

For Mihiriga Kenda Muiyuru, the struggle appears not just to preserve culture, but to be understood on their own terms.

And as the debate around them continues, one question remains unresolved: in a rapidly changing society, where tradition and modern values often collide, who gets to define what is acceptable and what is not?