Pastor Victor Kanyari is back, and he is making it rain. The controversial cleric, infamous for his "panda mbegu ya 310" scandal, has once again captured the public imagination—and scorn—by distributing bundles of cash to his congregants during a so-called "Miracle Money Service" at his Salvation Healing Ministries in Kayole.

In a country grappling with a cost-of-living crisis, Kanyari’s theatrics strike a nerve. Ushers were seen hauling bricks of KSh 50 notes, which the self-styled prophet doled out to ecstatic believers. To his followers, it was a divine provision; to his critics, it was a grotesque display of psychological manipulation and a desperate bid for relevance in the competitive market of prosperity gospel.

From Scandal to TikTok Stardom

Kanyari has proven to be a cat with nine lives. After being exposed years ago for faking miracles using potassium permanganate, many wrote his obituary. Yet, he has reinvented himself as a digital content creator, dominating TikTok with his candid, often bizarre livestreams. This latest stunt seems to be a convergence of his online clout and his pulpit power.

"I am giving back to my people," Kanyari declared, framing the handout as philanthropy. But the optics suggest a transaction. By giving out cash, he creates a debt of gratitude—and perhaps a hook for future "seeds." The dynamics of the service, with its high-energy worship and emotional peaks, are designed to lower defenses and heighten suggestibility.

• The Economy of Miracles: In the prosperity gospel model, money is the ultimate sign of God's favor. Kanyari is visually demonstrating that he has the "anointing" to generate wealth.
• The TikTok Factor: Kanyari recently claimed to make millions from TikTok gifts. This "giveaway" could be a reinvestment of his digital earnings to boost his offline congregation numbers.
• The Desperation: The congregants scrambling for KSh 50 notes reflect the deep economic despair in areas like Kayole, where every shilling counts.

The Netizens' Verdict

Online, the reaction has been brutal. Social media users have accused Kanyari of "washing" money or buying loyalty. "He takes 310 from thousands and gives 50 bob to a few," one user sneered. The cynicism is well-founded, given Kanyari’s track record. Yet, for the woman clutching a crisp note in that church hall, the theological debates matter less than the bread she can buy tonight.

Kanyari remains a mirror to Kenyan society—reflecting our obsession with quick riches, our vulnerability to charisma, and the blurred line between faith and fraud. As long as there is desperation, there will be a Kanyari ready to exploit it, or in this case, monetize it.