In a development that would make a hyena choke on its lunch, the Kenyan government has decided to charge a gaggle of schoolchildren with murder. Yes, you read that correctly. The very same adolescents who are supposed to be memorising the periodic table and developing crushes on their classmates are now being prepared for a date with a judge, accused of offing one of their own. The details are, as one might expect, murkier than a pint of warm Thames water, but the gist is this: a child is dead, and other children are to blame.
Enter the United Kingdom, stage left, offering forensics and legal training to our Commonwealth chums. Because nothing says 'global leadership' like teaching someone how to dissect a schoolyard murder in a country where your own justice system is about as reliable as a chocolate teapot. The UK, in its infinite wisdom, has decided to lend a hand to Kenya, presumably so that the trials can be conducted with the same meticulous rigour that gave us the Post Office Horizon scandal and the Windrush debacle.
Let us pause to appreciate the sheer, breathtaking absurdity of this situation. We have a nation that cannot seem to get its own forensic house in order – what with the endless backlogs, the shambolic labs, and the occasional bit of evidence going mysteriously walkabout – offering to train another country in the dark arts of criminal investigation. It is like a man who has just set fire to his own kitchen offering to teach a neighbour how to cook.
But wait, there's more. The children in question are accused of murder, which is a serious charge for anyone, let alone someone who might still be hoping for a new bicycle for their birthday. The Kenyan authorities, presumably running low on actual adults to prosecute, have turned their gaze to the youth. Perhaps they think that if they throw enough kids at the justice system, one of them will bounce back with a confession.
Meanwhile, the UK's offer of training is presented as a gesture of Commonwealth solidarity. Oh, the Commonwealth! That glorious, post-colonial nostalgia trip where we pretend that history is just a funny story and not a series of invasions and extractions. Now we are helping Kenya with forensics, which is very kind of us, considering we have not yet managed to solve the mystery of why our own trains are always late.
What next? Will we offer to teach the Kenyans how to conduct a police raid without accidentally shooting the wrong person? Or perhaps we will share our expertise on how to hold a public inquiry that costs millions and concludes that everyone involved is either dead or retired. The possibilities are as endless as they are terrifying.
In the end, this is all just a distraction. A shiny, forensic, legal-training-shaped distraction from the real issues: that children are being tried as adults, that justice is a commodity rather than a right, and that the UK is so desperate to seem relevant on the world stage that it will offer its dubious services to anyone who asks. But do not worry, for Biff Thistlethwaite is on the case, gin in hand, ready to report from the edge of sanity. Because that is where the truth lives, along with the bodies and the unanswered questions.
