In a scene that could have been lifted from a colonial-era drama, Kenya’s former chief justice was escorted from a public park in Nairobi yesterday, his wrists bound by the very laws he once interpreted. The arrest of Willy Mutunga at a protest against government corruption sent a jolt through the nation’s legal establishment and beyond. For those of us who watch the ebb and flow of British influence, it was a reminder that the rule of law, that sturdy British export, still holds fast in distant lands.
Mutunga, a man who once sat at the apex of Kenya’s judiciary, was not merely exercising a right to protest. He was making a point. The park, a patch of green that has become a rallying point for dissent, was symbolic of a broader struggle. Here, citizens gather to demand accountability, and they do so with a faith in legal process that feels almost quaintly British. The former chief justice, a scholar of law and a former political activist, embodies that faith. His arrest suggests that the state is nervous about the power of peaceful assembly.
The human cost of this moment is not lost on the ordinary Kenyan. In the streets of Nairobi, the taxi drivers and market vendors with whom I spoke expressed a weary resignation. One man, a vendor of second-hand clothes, said: “If they can arrest him, what hope for us?” It is a sentiment that resonates across the city, a place where the gap between the powerful and the powerless is a chasm.
But there is a cultural shift at play too. Kenya’s middle class, educated and connected, is increasingly assertive. They are no longer content to let corruption fester. The protests, which have been ongoing for weeks, are a symptom of a society that is maturing. And at the heart of this maturity is the rule of law, a concept that Britain exported and which now has a life of its own.
What does this mean for the British observer? It is easy to view such events through a lens of nostalgia or neocolonial condescension. But that would be a mistake. The rule of law in Kenya is not a relic; it is a living, breathing thing. It is invoked by activists and judges alike. And it is tested every time a former chief justice is handcuffed in a park.
The irony, of course, is that Britain’s own relationship with the rule of law is evolving. Our own legal system faces questions about its independence, and our political discourse is increasingly strident. Yet abroad, the concept endures. It is an anchor in choppy waters.
As I write this, Mutunga has been released on bail. The protest will continue. The park will fill again with people who believe that the law can protect them. And somewhere in a colonial-era courthouse in Nairobi, a judge will ponder the meaning of justice. Britain may no longer rule the waves, but its legal legacy still shapes the shore.
