Kenya, a nation that treats political theatre like a national sport, delivered a fresh masterpiece this week. Former Chief Justice Willy Mutunga, a man whose robes once reeked of judicial gravitas, was arrested at a protest against the construction of a building in a Nairobi park. Yes, you read that correctly. A man who once presided over the highest court in the land, now frogmarched away by constables for the heinous crime of objecting to a bit of concrete in a green space.
Picture the scene: Mutunga, a figure of such legal authority that his very name once made ministers quiver, standing shoulder to shoulder with activists. They are objecting to the construction of a skyscraper on a public park, a park that has somehow been leased to a developer. The developer, presumably a man with a smile as polished as his shoes, is building something that will cast a shadow over the entire city. But Mutunga, the old lion of justice, is there to roar. And the state, in its infinite wisdom, decides to silence him with handcuffs.
Let us dwell on the absurdity. This is a man who jailed former heads of state, who lectured on constitutionalism at Harvard, and who now finds himself in a police cell for standing up for a patch of grass. The world is a kaleidoscope of contradictions, and Kenya is its most dizzying pattern. The protest was against the construction of a 14-storey building in Jeevanjee Gardens, one of the few lungs in a city choked by smog and greed. The park was gifted to the public by a philanthropist in 1906. But what is a century of public use against the allure of a developer's cheque?
Mutunga, ever the philosopher, no doubt saw the fight as part of a larger battle against the 'hollowing out of public space.' He is a man who once wrote a book on the law's role in society, and here he was, acting out its most literal defence. The police, those always-willing performers in the theatre of the absurd, swooped in. They arrested him along with 10 others, including a city councillor and an architect. The charge? Likely something vague about 'obstruction' or 'unlawful assembly.' But we all know the real charge: 'Daring to remind the government that it stole your park.'
This is not just a story about a park. It is a story about the soul of a nation. Nairobi is a city where the rich build walls around their homes and the poor are squeezed into ever smaller boxes. The park is a rare leveller, a place where a businessman and a street vendor can share a bench. To build a skyscraper on it is to say that profit matters more than people. And to arrest a former chief justice for objecting is to say that the law is a tool for the powerful, not a shield for the weak.
Mutunga, to his credit, seems to have taken it with a dose of his characteristic wry humour. Reports suggest he was calm, even smiling, as he was led away. Perhaps he was thinking of the irony: that the very state he once served now treats him as a common criminal. Or perhaps he was simply enjoying the fresh air, however briefly, before being stuffed into a cell.
The government, as is its wont, will probably dismiss the protest as a 'small group of anarchists.' But the image of a former chief justice in handcuffs will linger. It is a symbol of how far the rot has spread. When the guardians of the constitution are arrested for defending a park, we are no longer in the realm of politics but of farce. And farce, as any student of history knows, often precedes tragedy.
So raise a glass of warm beer to Willy Mutunga. He is a man who has swapped his judicial wig for a protestor's hat, and in doing so, reminded us what real leadership looks like. The park may be lost, the building may rise, but the spirit of defiance is alive. And if the state continues its folly, it might just find itself facing a riot, not of lawyers, but of ordinary people who remember what public space means.
As for the gin-soaked journalist in the corner, I can only offer this: the world is a madhouse, and we are all inmates. But some of us, at least, are trying to redecorate the cell.
