Courts and judicial temperament in Kenya

Supreme Court of Kenya. [File, Standard] In recent months, a number of unsettling exchanges within Kenyan courtrooms have played out in the public domain, exposing fissures in what ought to be the epitome of sobriety and reason, the administration of justice. These confrontations, pitting advocates against judges or even involving self-represented litigants, strike at the very heart of the moral authority of the Judiciary. They compel us to reflect deeply on the nature of law as a noble profession, the imperatives of emotional intelligence in adjudication, and the urgent need to re-tool legal education to align with the spirit of the Constitution. Law, at its best, is a calling of intellect and conscience, a vocation that binds its officers to serve truth with humility. The robes, titles, and elaborate rituals of the courtroom are not ornaments of power but symbols of solemn duty. When courtrooms become theatres of temper, sarcasm, or public humiliation, the nobility of the law is betrayed. A judge's seat is not a pulpit for disdain, nor is counsel's table a battlefield for ego. Both judges and advocates share an ethical obligation to preserve the dignity of the process, even amid disagreement. The legal profession, perhaps more than any other, thrives on restraint. Its practitioners are stewards of justice and civility. The public that turns to the courts does not seek displays of intellectual dominance, it seeks fairness, reason and compassion. When the Judiciary forgets this moral axis, justice is demeaned. The Constitution revolutionised access to justice. By expanding the concept of accessing courts, it invited every citizen, rich or poor, learned or lay, to knock at the doors of justice. It democratised the courtroom. Constitutional generosity imposes a moral burden on those who preside over or practice within it. Judges and advocates alike must remember that many of those appearing before them, self-represented litigants, the indigent, or the socially marginalised do so from necessity. They may not speak the language of the law, but they understand the language of dignity. To treat such individuals with impatience or ridicule is to mock the very essence of the Constitution. The court is the one place where the powerless should not feel powerless. It must be a sanctuary, not a spectacle. The rule of law, if it is to retain moral legitimacy, must be clothed in compassion. Justice, in its purest form, must be firm yet kind; authoritative but humane at the same time. Emotional intelligence, therefore, is not an optional virtue in adjudication but a professional necessity. The judge who listens with empathy, who tempers anger with reason, who understands the anxieties behind a litigant's tone, wields more power than any decree can command. The advocate who argues forcefully but respectfully, who defends without demeaning, strengthens not just his case but the credibility of the entire system. Courtroom exchanges should never devolve into contests of temper. The adversarial system demands rigor, not the rancor we often see. When voices are raised and civility is lost, justice itself becomes collateral damage. The robe does not immunise one from humility, nor does the bar license permit insolence. Both judges and advocates must embody the discipline that the law demands of others. Legal education in Kenya still carries residues of colonial elitism. As Paul Mwangi observes in The Black Bar, the profession remains tethered to a tradition that prizes hierarchy over humanity, form over substance, and fear over freedom. Law schools, in many cases, train technicians of the law, not servants of justice. Students are drilled in Latin maxims but rarely taught the emotional, ethical, and civic dimensions of lawyering. The result is a profession fluent in procedure but deficient in empathy. If Kenya's justice system is to fulfill the aspirations of the Constitution, its legal education must be retooled. Future lawyers and judges must be trained not only in the mastery of statutes and precedent but also in the language of compassion and civic responsibility. They must understand that every case file represents a human story, one often laden with pain, fear, or desperation. Law without humanity is not law. In the courtroom, words wield immense power. A harsh tone, a dismissive remark, or a mocking retort can inflict wounds deeper than any judgment. Judicial temperament, therefore, is about strength under control. It is about understanding that respect commands more obedience than intimidation ever can. Judges are not "Lords" or "Ladyships" in the feudal sense; they are servants of justice, entrusted with one of the most sacred responsibilities in a democracy. The true majesty of the law lies not in robes, gavels, or citations but in the quiet power of reasoned restraint. Every judge and advocate must remember that in the courtroom, justice is not only done when the right decision is reached, it is also done in how that decision is reached. To preserve the sanctity of the law, we must guard against the arrogance of authority and the arrogance of advocacy alike. For in the end, justice without compassion is cold, law without humility is hollow. The courtroom must once again become what it was always meant to be, a temple where dignity, wisdom, and humanity converge to serve the people, not to belittle them. I dare say that true justice is not thunder in the courtroom. It is calm reason wrapped in compassion where dignity speaks louder than unchecked authority.

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