THE SUPREME BAN

Kenya’s Supreme Court: A Comedy of Errors in the Theatre of Justice

In a scene worthy of Kafka, the Kenyan Supreme Court has decided to silence a lawyer, Mr. Ahmednasir Abdullahi, for his outspoken criticism of the Judiciary. To say this is an affront to freedom of expression is like calling the Grand Canyon a pothole. It’s a chasm, a gaping maw of injustice that threatens to swallow the very essence of a democratic society.

Imagine, if you will, a football match where the fans are banned from booing the referee, even for the most egregious offside call. Can you picture the pent-up frustration, the simmering resentment? That, my friends, is the atmosphere you create when you try to silence dissent, especially in the hallowed halls of justice.

Or, imagine a world where doctors who diagnose illness are banned from treating patients. Where artists who paint flaws in society are forbidden to exhibit their work. Where journalists who expose corruption are silenced by the very pen they wield. This, in essence, is what the Supreme Court has done to Mr. Abdullahi. His criticism, however harsh, falls squarely within the fundamental right to freedom of expression, enshrined not just in Kenya’s Constitution, but in the very fabric of a democratic society.

Mr. Abdullahi’s crime, it seems, is his sharp tongue and unsparing critique of judges he believes are corrupt. Now, let’s be clear: accusing someone of corruption is a serious matter. But here’s the thing, in a functioning democracy, such accusations are not met with censorship, they’re met with scrutiny. If the judges have clean hands, as they so vehemently claim, then why fear the light of public criticism? Shouldn’t they welcome the opportunity to clear their names?

The Supreme Court’s decision is not just an affront to Mr. Abdullahi, it’s an insult to every Kenyan who values a free and vibrant democracy. It’s a declaration that criticism, however pointed, is not welcome in the hallowed halls of justice. It’s a chilling reminder that the road to silencing dissent is paved with good intentions, but leads to a graveyard of liberty. The ban on the Grand Mullah, as Mr. Abdullahi likes to call himself, reeks of a banana republic more than a beacon of justice. It smacks of a desperate attempt to silence a thorn in their side, a critic who dared to hold the mirror up to their alleged flaws.

But let us not forget, the right to free expression is enshrined in the very fabric of the Kenyan Constitution. Article 35(1) declares: “Every person has the right to freedom of expression, which includes freedom to hold opinions and to receive and disseminate information.” This is not just some feel-good clause, it’s the bedrock of a free and open society.

And to those who argue that Mr. Abdullahi’s words might damage the reputation of the Judiciary, I say this: a reputation earned through censorship is like a trophy won through cheating. It’s hollow, meaningless, and ultimately, unsustainable.

The true strength of any institution, including the Judiciary, lies in its ability to withstand criticism, to engage in open debate, and to emerge stronger from the crucible of dissent. Silencing Mr. Abdullahi is not just an attack on him; it’s an attack on every Kenyan’s right to speak their mind. It’s a chilling message that dissent is not tolerated, that questioning authority is a dangerous game.

So let me be clear: the Supreme Court’s decision is not just wrong, it’s an embarrassment. It’s a stain on the Kenyan flag, a betrayal of the very values this nation was built upon. And let us not forget the words of Justice William Brennan of the US Supreme Court: “To punish a person for expressing a critical view is to punish the critic for the government’s own failure to tolerate criticism.”

This is not the end of the story, my friends. This is just the intermission. The curtain has risen on a new act, a play where the stakes are high, and the audience is restless. Let the voices of dissent ring out, let the pen mightier than the sword continue its fight. For in the end, the only way to silence the truth is to bury it, and burying the truth is a sure-fire way to suffocate the soul of a nation.

So, let the Supreme Court have their gag orders and their pronouncements. We, the people, have our voices. And we will use them, loud and clear, until justice prevails. Let this be a reminder, Kenya: the theatre of justice is not a closed door affair, it’s a public spectacle where the audience has a right to boo, to hiss, and to demand a better performance. The show must go on, and we, the people, are the critics who will not be silenced.