The easiest way to tell who truly matters in Kenya is not by looking at what happened to them. It is by watching what happens after.
When a 28-year-old man who had been mobilising youth for Principal Secretary Fikirini Jacobs was killed, the country should have been united by one question: “Who killed him, and when will they be arrested”? Instead, the conversation veered in a direction that has become painfully familiar. Kenyans dug through his political loyalties, his social media history and the side of the political divide he occupied, as though somewhere in those details lay a justification for why his death deserved less outrage.
That reaction disturbed me, not because I knew the young man or agreed with his politics, but because I had heard those arguments before. They are the same arguments recycled every time a Kenyan dies or disappears, and the public decides they are somehow less deserving of justice. Only the names change. The script never does. “He was a criminal. She deserved it. He brought it upon himself.” We have become frighteningly comfortable deciding whose constitutional rights should survive and whose should perish alongside public opinion.
It convinces ordinary citizens to waste their energy debating which powerless Kenyan deserves justice instead of demanding to know why justice itself has become so selective. We spend endless hours prosecuting victims in the court of public opinion while those who manipulate institutions remain comfortably beyond their reach. Somewhere along the way, we mistook one another for the enemy when the real enemy has always been a system that treats power as immunity and accountability as optional.
Look at the conversations surrounding Abdulaziz ‘Zizou’ Duba, who was abducted in Kiamaiko. Almost immediately, the discussion shifted from the crime itself to his character. Some insisted he was a criminal and, therefore, not worth defending. Perhaps he committed crimes. Perhaps he did not. That is not a question for neighbours, influencers or anonymous accounts on social media to answer. It is certainly not a licence for anyone to abduct him.
The Constitution does not contain a clause stating that due process expires the moment someone acquires a bad reputation. If Abdulaziz broke the law, then investigate him, charge him and prosecute him before a court. That is how justice is supposed to work.
The tragedy is that many Kenyans no longer believe that is how it works. And they have every reason not to.
For years, we have watched ordinary citizens experience the full weight of the law while politically connected individuals appear to inhabit an entirely different legal universe. Cases involving influential people lose momentum. Investigations become strangely unhurried. Public attention fades. Files gather dust.
Influential figures facing serious allegations have reinforced the perception that status and proximity to power can delay, dilute or even derail accountability. Justice is painfully slow whenever politics enters the courtroom. Whether those accused are ultimately convicted or acquitted is for the courts to determine. The deeper concern is why so many Kenyans have come to expect that justice moves at different speeds depending on who is standing before it.
That expectation was cultivated over decades of watching institutions treat influence as though it were a legal defence.
Perhaps that explains why so many of us have abandoned the principle of equal justice altogether. Instead, we negotiate with our conscience according to the identity of the victim. If it is a government supporter, some celebrate. If it is a protester, others excuse the violence. If it is someone branded a criminal, many conclude that constitutional protections no longer apply. We have constructed our own hierarchy of human worth, one that mirrors the very system we claim to oppose.
Rights were never created for the people we like. They were created precisely for the moments when emotion tells us someone deserves none. Due process exists because history has repeatedly shown that crowds make terrible judges. Public opinion is fickle. It is emotional. It bends with political winds and social media trends. The law is supposed to stand above all of that. The moment we begin deciding who deserves its protection according to popularity or politics, we stop defending justice and start defending power.
The university student was killed over an alleged payment dispute. Abdulaziz, whose disappearance many refuse to condemn because they believe he is a criminal. The protester was shot in the streets. Strip away the circumstances, and they all occupy the same position in the eyes of power. They are ordinary people. They are expendable. The only difference is which section of the public chooses to mourn them and which chooses to ridicule them.
Meanwhile, those with influence continue enjoying something millions of Kenyans have never known: the quiet confidence that the law will wait for them.
