When systems turn: What Tuju's case says about power in Kenya

 Former CS Raphael Tuju addressing the press at his Karen home in Nairobi. [Collins Oduor, Standard]

There is a quiet illusion that often accompanies power, the belief that injustice is tolerable so long as it is directed elsewhere. It is a dangerous comfort, this idea that the machinery of coercion can be observed, even quietly approved, without consequence to those who stand close to it. Yet history, with its unyielding memory, teaches a different lesson. Systems do not forget. They outlive individuals. And when they turn, they do so without regard for past loyalties.

The unfolding legal and political troubles surrounding Raphael Tuju invite sympathy and reflection. Not the shallow reflection that asks only whether he is being treated fairly now, but the deeper one that interrogates how we arrived at this moment. In the arc of governance, today’s victim can be yesterday’s silent witness.

This is not to deny the principle of justice. If Tuju is being treated unjustly, then that injustice must be opposed without hesitation. The rule of law demands consistency, not convenience. It cannot be applied selectively based on personal histories or political affiliations. To defend due process only for the agreeable is to undermine it for all. Alongside that defence lies an uncomfortable truth. Power tests moral courage.

There was a time when Tuju, like many others in positions of influence, stood close to the levers of authority. The signs of systemic strain were visible to those willing to see them. The use of police force against civilians was not hidden. The bending of institutions was not subtle. The erosion of accountability was not an abstraction. It happened in real time, in public view.

For many within the system, silence prevailed. Those who raised concerns were dismissed, labeled alarmists, agitators, or enemies of progress. Their warnings were treated not as contributions to democratic health, but as disruptions to political comfort. In that climate, silence became complicity, and complicity a currency of belonging.

That context matters. When individuals who once stood within the architecture of power find themselves subjected to its harsher edges, instinct is to demand empathy. No citizen should be denied justice or subjected to abuse of process. Empathy, however, does not erase history. Nor does it absolve the responsibility that comes with having once had the opportunity to shape the very system now in question.

This is not about retribution. It is about accountability that is consistent, principled, and honest. The true danger lies not in any single case, but in the continuity of a broken system. Laws that expand state power without safeguards do not discriminate in their future application. Institutions weakened for short term political gain do not recover integrity when fortunes change. A system trained to serve power rather than principle will serve whoever holds it, and confront whoever does not.

This is the paradox of governance. The tools you shape today may one day be used against you. The lesson extends beyond Tuju. It speaks to those who occupy authority now. Every decision to overlook injustice, every effort to consolidate power at the expense of accountability, every law that tilts the balance away from citizens and toward control, these are cumulative acts. They form the character of the state, and the state does not easily unlearn its habits.

Leaders often view power as permanent, or enduring enough to outlast the consequences of misuse. Political history shows its fragility. Power shifts. Alliances dissolve. Public sentiment evolves. What remains are the systems built, or allowed to decay, during moments of authority. This is why consistency matters. The duty is not merely to react to injustice when it becomes personal or visible, but to resist it as principle. It is necessary to hold two truths at once, that an individual may deserve justice now, and that they may have failed to uphold it before. Supporting due process for Tuju is not to ignore his past. Acknowledging his past is not to justify any present injustice. A mature democratic conscience maintains that balance.

Beyond individual cases lies a broader imperative, to break the cycle. If a system is broken, it must be repaired when there is power to do so, not reinforced for temporary advantage. Reform delayed is often reform denied. Unchecked systems develop momentum, becoming harder to redirect. The question is not simply what is happening now, but what happens next, and to whom.

For those in power today, the message is clear and urgent. The structures you shape, the precedents you set, and the injustices you tolerate will define not only your tenure, but your legacy. And perhaps, one day, your own experience.

The system remembers. In the end, it does not distinguish between those who built it, those who ignored it, and those who finally fell victim to it.