The People’s Chief Justice

Githuku and Willy

On the morning of 12 June 2016, about 10.00 am, I was waiting along Kenyatta Avenue in the capital city, Nairobi. The lazy morning saw a deserted city, save for a few people either heading to church and others strolling with less hurry. I was anxious as I awaited my comrade, who had called me a few days earlier to invite me for his farewell visit in the Korogocho slums, the same place he had done his ‘homecoming’ tour, after being appointed the first Chief Justice and President of the Supreme Court of Kenya under the new 2010 People’s Constitution.

Dr Willy Mutunga, with this title which I’ve never used when addressing him, had asked me from where I’d prefer to be picked up on the day of our slum visit. I told him outside the now defunct Cameo Cinema would be ideal. I have always had a problem with picking places to meet in the city whenever someone asks me the same question. So, I picked this spot just because it was nostalgic for me. It is at the Cameo Cinema that I watched loads of ‘continuous show’ movies when growing up in the 80s and and 90s. It is here that I watched ‘The Rise and Fall of Idi Amin’, which made me fall in love with acting after seeing Joseph Olita, a Kenyan taking the lead role of the brutal dictator Idi Amin. I had also watched a lot of Chuck Norris and James Bond movies here. Why we’d go to Cameo was simply because there we could see the latest movies as they rotated from the bigger theatres like Kenya Cinema, Nairobi Cinema and the then prestigious 20th Century Fox theatre, which were out of reach for us at the ‘box office’. We’d wait for a popular film to do about two weeks at the kwa wadosi cinema halls before affording a trip from Mwimuto to the city so that we’d pay about half the price to watch the same film at Cameo, Odeon or Casino cinema. So, when I told Willy that I’d wait outside Cameo, it must have been because of these memories, albeit sub-consciously.

As I waited for his driver or one of his security detail to pick me up I suddenly saw an official motorcade snaking down from Kenyatta avenue, branching a slight right at Kipande Road, to connect to the inner road that then reconnects to Kenyatta Avenue just across the Cameo. At first, I thought it was a ‘big’ government official heading to some official Sunday service engagement. It did not take me long to realize how wrong I was, when the sleek motorcade stopped right in front of me. I must have been in denial that this was it because I hesitated and waited, just to be sure that this was my ride. In Kenya, these motorcades are feared. You stop, when you see them with their menacing security detail pointing at citizens with their radio ‘over-overs’ to move out of the way for the big man to pass. In the mid 90s, a comrade of mine, Githii Mweru, had been arrested for crossing the road when president Moi’s motorcade was driving the big man along the same Moi Avenue that I was waiting at. He was charged with ‘Obstructing the Presidential Motorcade’. All these memories quickly flashed in my mind, with a small voice talking to me in my head, ‘don’t attempt to move an inch closer to the dark tinted limos, until you’re invited!’ As I obeyed my little voice in the head, a window of the fourth limousine was lowered halfway and I saw the familiar ever beaming face of my buddy, the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, Justice Willy Mutunga. He must have noticed how aback I must have been taken, as I was visibly nervous before his eyes. ‘Hey Comrade, hop in, we don’t want to be late for the mass’, he told me, gesturing at me to get into the big ride. I stumbled as I quickly and clumsily started walking towards the car. I think I wanted to go round to the back right door of the black Mercedes, but couldn’t figure out if I was to go round using the rear or front of the car to access it. If Willy noticed my perplexity, he did not show it. But I certainly threw a glance around the street to try and showoff, that actually, this was my ride. Some of the parking attendants who had helped me secure a parking slot for my jalopy looked bewildered as their jaws dropped to see me opening the door of the ‘beast’ as I got swallowed into the leathery comforts of the state for the first time in my life.

We exchanged our niceties with Willy as if we had been together just yesterday, while the long motorcade smoothly meandered across Moi Avenue, towards Muranga Road. I kept itching to roll down my window, a naughty thought that kept bothering me, just so that pedestrians could see me enjoying my temporary judicial birthright.

As we sailed along Thika road, in the midst of our conversation with the retiring CJ, I thought about how we have slaved for this country for so long. How we, activists with a new name, ‘human rights defenders’, have toiled to make this country better, but have not been appreciated for it. I remembered the heroes and sheroes of the Mau Mau who had fought to free Kenya and how they have always been shoved aside by successive regimes, not getting even the crumbs of the national cake. I thought of Brigadier Njooki of Maragwa, Murang’a, who, after the war of independence has been renting a tiny two-bedroom house, where she has single-handedly raised her nine children. The comfort I was now enjoying, courtesy of Willy, was what was not accorded those who made it possible to achieve the freedoms and privileges that Kenyans enjoyed today. As we neared Baba Dogo, just a few kilometres to Korogocho, Willy asked me to perform some poetry just before he gave his farewell speech to the country. I did not hesitate to take up the offer, which I later honoured with my poem, Remember To Remember.

I owe my revolutionary artistic valour to Willy Mutunga. When I first met him, in 1992, I was a young hothead student activist, still in college at the Kenya Polytechnic, where I was the leader of the very vibrant Kenya Poly Theatre group. A few students and I were attracted to the current simmering protests and struggles of ousting president Daniel arap Moi, a powerful dictator who was notoriously intolerant of any alternative political agenda, save for his ‘Nyayo philosophy’ which some of us were tired of, having grown up in the same political system that he’d inherited from his predecessor, Mzee Jomo Kenyatta. In 1992, Moi was marking his 14 years in power and the people were getting restless. He had been Kenya’s vice president from 1967 to 1978, when he took over after Kenyatta died in office after ruling with an iron fist for 18 years. It was only natural then, that albeit the fear instilled in Kenyans for all these years, that the ‘natives’ had started grumbling in loud whispers.

I first heard of the name Willy Mutunga in 1991 when I visited the famous Freedom Corner, which was spear-headed by the mothers of Moi’s Political Prisoners. Even though he was in exiled in Canada, Willy’s name kept popping up during deliberations at Freedom Corner, among many other prominent names of Kenya’s liberators. It is then that I gathered that Willy was a human rights lawyer, a former political detainee, having been detained by Moi on 10 June 1980, just six days before his 33rd birthday, on 16 June. It is the day that is currently recognized as the Day of the African Child, in commemoration of the day more than 20,000 South African students in the township of Soweto took to the streets, demanding to be taught in their own language as opposed to the mandatory Afrikaans. Armed white police responded with arms, murdering the black pupils in their hundreds.

As protests and demands for the release of political prisoners heightened, Willy and other progressive lawyers continued to offer direction to the now vibrant Release Political Prisoners (RPP) movement. It was in 1992, that Maina Kiai, Kiraitu Murungi, Makau Mutua, Prof. Peter Kareithi and Willy formed the Kenya Human Rights Commission (KHRC), having registered it in Washington DC, since there was no possibility of having it registered under the ruling KANU regime.  KHRC was later registered officially in Kenya in 1994, making it the first human rights organization to be registered in Kenya. It was not until 1992 that I came face to face with this icon that I only knew from political conversations through the likes of Njeri Kabeberi, Wahu Kaara and Wangari Maathai.

When I first saw him, two things struck me. First, his casual smart way of dressing. Willy was in brown khaki pants, a checked shirt and a fitting jeans coat. I had seen and even worn some jeans jackets, but this one was different. He wore some round ringed glasses, which reminded me of Mahatma Gandhi, an icon we respected then. When he spoke, he was soft spoken and calm. I was taken aback as I expected a fire-spitting radical human rights lawyer, who could scare away Moi with his red eyes and verbosity. I had been ready for a loquacious and abrasive behemoth. We would now march to statehouse and kick Moi out of power, under the leadership of Willy, I kept telling myself. I knew that the time for the revolution that we’d been yearning for was nigh. The people’s leaders were back!

I was disappointed to find a soft-spoken Willy. Even though articulate and eloquent, the radical me at that time needed a hard-hitting fire-blazing Willy Mutunga. Most of us activists were really impatient and ready to go for war like our forefathers did to free this country. Privately, a few of us always debated on the possibilities of arming ourselves and overthrowing Moi from power. Our mission was to improve on where the underground MWAKENYA, who we were now pressurizing the government to release from prison, had failed. We read loads of autobiographies and biographies of revolutionaries around Africa, who had taken out oppressive colonialists and African regimes. We fantasised about Samora Machel, the uMkontho we Sizwe, which was the armed wing of the African National Congress in South Africa and even shared Sowing the Mustard Seed by Yoweri Museveni, who had taken over Uganda just a few years before Freedom Corner was formed. Thomas Sankara was, and remains my favourite of the revolutionaries we admired then.

However, Willy happened to be of a different breed. He was focused on changing the constitution of Kenya as opposed to an armed struggle. He taught us that for change to come, we needed to be honest with ourselves, patient and focused. That we needed not to lose our lives in a stupid move of arming ourselves against a merciless dictator. He warned us that it would be of no benefit to the country that we were struggling to free, if we were dead. Willy used simple terms that were realistic and easy to follow.  

Once, we with a few activists, accompanied Willy for a funeral occasion to his native Kitui home. This was in the late 90s. We rode in his red Toyota saloon car. As we were riding back to Nairobi, we discussed, among other things, the flower farms that deprived Ukambani of water. Powerful politicians farmed by diverting the water from the hills to their flower farms. One of the giant greenhouse farms, we’d been reliably informed, belonged to the then sitting Vice President. In the heat of the discussion, I suggested that we should blow up the pipes of these leeches who needed to know the agony of our people. Willy, who was driving us, with his usual, not loud but firm voice said, “You bufoons are using the wrong method to change this country. This country needs you for the future to become better. You are not going to sacrifice yourselves this way because we need you in leadership in the future. You need to be preparing our people today for the just leadership that this country deserves. Spend more time in educating the masses of the change that they need.” To be honest, I was taken aback. I expected Willy to support us. In my early 20s, my mind was fantasizing on how we’d wear balaclavas at night, armed with AK47s and pistols hanging on each hip of our khaki cargo pants, with grenades strapped across our chest. I had imagined us rigging explosives on the giant water pipes that ferried stolen water from the peasants of Ukambani.

It was the strategy, in my mind, that we’d then blow up the pipes and head to the Coast. We’d lie low in Pwani waiting for things to cool down. We’d then come back to Nairobi and assign ourselves the next saboteur mission. We were going to liberate our people. We were the change. We were going to take over the government by overthrowing the oppressive Moi regime.  Willy ended by saying, “…putting your efforts in changing this constitution is the only way out of Kenya’s misery. Your poetry and music is powerful enough to break the yoke of the oppression of these mother*****s!” 

I reflected deeply on that statement.  I felt my artistic power rising from the toes of my feet, all the way up the braids of my hair. A rejuvenation!

Willy continued mentoring us from then on. In retrospect, I think he saw the urge and energy we had in our clamour for change. In the late 90s, Willy was among the change-makers who formed the Citizens’ Coalition for Constitutional Change, popularly known as the 4C’s. The lobby group was led by among others, Willy, Dr Chris Mulei and others. It is at the 4C’s offices that we, the young cadre also were hosted. We were recruited to form a theatre group that would go around the country performing plays on the need for constitutional change in Kenya. We, the actors, came up with our own name, the 5C’s Theatre Group. 5C’s was inspired by our first play entitled ‘5 Centuries’. We’d articulate what was being theorized by the academics who were now under the 4C’s coalition. Willy helped secure funding for the outfit and we finally found ourselves in each of the 8 provinces in Kenya. We’d do our rehearsals on a particular issue that concerned the area we’d be visiting and then incorporate it in the main body of our constitutional clarion call for the need for constitutional change in the country.

It is during this time that I got an opportunity to traverse Kenya. On one occasion we’d be performing for landless squatters in Maganyakulo in Kwale and in Miteitei for those homeless Kenyans displaced by the 1992 and 1997 politically instigated clashes in the rift valley. We’d sometimes be in trouble with the police and local administrations. We found ourselves blocked from performing in certain venues. But Willy and others would always intervene. The mention of names such as Willy Mutunga, Kivutha Kibwana and Kiraitu Murungi, etc. during police blockades always brought a magical intervention. These guys were always making headlines and were feared by the police. These are among the names that organized the popular mass action programs that would see Kenya come to a standstill. They are the ones who brought around the very popular Saba Saba political rallies that always almost edged Moi out of power.

Our main theatrical duty was to help prepare the masses around the country, to rise up and join the popular change that was coming. Our civic education gained popularity within the masses. We’d be invited to perform for communities all over the country. To avoid police interruptions, we arranged to be hosted by religious bodies under the then very powerful National Council of Churches (NCCK). It then was under the leadership of very progressive bishops who gave positive political direction to their followers. We had people like Bishops David Gitari, Henry Okullu and other changemakers at the helm. Arch-Bishop Ndingi Mwana a’Nzeki was also a crucial component and critic of the Moi regime at that time. We saw ourselves performing at Christ The King Cathedral in Nakuru, where the Archbishop had hosted a huge number of victims of political violence from one of the Moi-KANU political bastions, the Rift Valley.  In Mombasa we’d be hosted by Bishop John Njenga of the Catholic Church. Bishop Njenga was one of the leading voices for change in Mombasa.

The Muslim Imams were also on board. It was at this time when we had the radical Islamic Party of Kenya (IPK) in action. This vibrant party had made in-roads in the coastal area and were always in trouble with the police. One of its leaders was Sheikh Khalid Balala. Sheikh Balala later found himself in the brutal hands of the Moi regime, where he was always arrested, severely tortured and finally ‘De-Kenyanized’. He once travelled abroad and while in transit in Germany, his passport was revoked, rendering him stateless. The Sheikh lived in squalor in Germany for a couple of years before lots of pressure was exerted by Kenyans to have him back. I hear he is still alive and living a quiet life in the coast. 

Willy Mutunga continued supporting our theatre circle for a couple of years. I can confidently say that he is the one who really inspired me to be the protest artist that I am today. I now run a musical band, ‘The FieldMarshals’, which regularly performs publicly in Kenya. The 9-piece band is now in the process of recording the old and new songs that address the political situation in Kenya today.

When Willy applied to become the first Chief Justice of the Supreme Court in Kenya, I was overjoyed.  There were some people who dismissed his application, labelling him as an activist who would never be allowed to lead the judiciary. But the majority of activists rallied behind him, lobbied and supported his candidature. Some said that President Kibaki would not approve of an activist becoming the president of the Supreme Court. Willy had earlier on declined a Kibaki appointment to be the Vice Chancellor of Kenyatta University. While declining his appointment, this doctor of law, who had earlier on taught the likes of Kivutha Kibwana and other big names in the law fraternity, insisted that he was not qualified for the job. He also added that he’d not been consulted earlier for the same. And yet in the vetting exercise, in spite of his controversial earring, he emerged the most qualified among the 12 candidates, 11 of whom had all been judges in the judiciary. He was the only ‘outsider’, who’d never been a judge of the High Court.

We, human rights activists, were delighted that one of us had gotten the highest judicial position in the land. On my social media platforms, I uploaded ‘How Kenya got it’s groove back!’ and attached a picture of Willy to it.

Willy continued reaching out to some of us even after he became CJ. One day he called me while I was catching a pint at Karurii Pub in my village. The noise of the music and the brisk business in the local joint was deafening. I shouted to the lady behind the counter to stop the music and shushed my fellow imbibers. I shouted at the top of my voice that I needed to pick an all-important call from Kenya’s top-most judge. There was dead silence as my fellow drinkers tried hard to contain themselves. I put the call on speaker. These fellow natives had to know that I, a renowned activist and village celebrity, was being called by the highest and mighty of this country. Willy Mutunga was ‘ours’ and I needed to show him off to my people. “Hujambo Kamarade,” said the president on the other end of the line. Willy and I go by the title Kamaradi, derived from the progressive title ‘Comrade’.  “Salama sana Kamaradi, how are you?” I replied. “I’m fine but I need you to visit me at the Supreme Court within the week”, he said. One of the drinkers, in an inebriated voice shouted, “…ma ya Ngai ni we!” (I swear to God that’s the CJ!) Willy asked me, “…where are you, comrade?”

It is then that I returned the call from speaker-phone and and stepped out away from the now excited drunks, who were asking to say hello to the CJ. I explained to Willy that I was in my local and that my friends had passed their regards to him. In his usual cheeky way, he retorted, “nyinyi badala ya kubadilisha nchi mnakunywa mkojo wa shetani!”, (instead of changing the country you’re drinking the devil’s urine!).  I laughed it off as my mind drifted to remembering that Willy was a Muslim. I never see him as one, because he never imposes his faith on others. I actually rarely remember that he’s a Muslim, until it gets to the holy month of Ramadhan, when he fasts without fail. Our conversation lasted about 20 minutes. He told me, among other things, that he’d like me to be visiting him at his office once in a while. He told me that he had no friends in the civil service and that he once in a while would like to remain in touch with ‘my true friends and reformers, “…so that I do not lose my way”. He asked me to make time to see him the following week, which I promised him that I’d do. There was loud applause when I stepped back to Karurii Pub! I was the man of the moment! I had ‘brought’ Willy Mutunga, Chief Justice and President of the Supreme Court to Mwimuto! I never told Willy this, because he’s a Muslim, but that night, the patrons showered me with a lot of alcohol. Everyone bought me a drink or two. I had to get an escape route because I was not going to get out of Karurii sober!

When I visited Willy at his office in the Supreme Court, I was not surprised by the sense of visible and practical reforms that had already started taking place. Unlike our days as State Guests in the 90s, where police menacingly pushed you right left and centre while in the corridors of justice, where crowds of unattended clients crowded the court house in search for an end to their snail-paced court processes, and court orderlies acted for ‘ambulance chasers’ as brokers for clients. The place was a total mess before Mutunga took over. It was a market place where the highest bidder would win a given case. The toilets were without water and the stench from unflushed loos would ‘perfume’ the corridors of this fountain of justice. It used to be a mess! On this day, when I honoured my ‘summons’ to the CJ’s office, I found a welcoming bunch of staff at the security desk. They greeted me and asked what business I had come to attend. They seemed unbothered when I said I had an appointment with the Chief Justice. I was ushered through after a friendly security procedure. I walked into a now very clean place that was dingy and stinky just a few months before. There were no crowds idling in the corridors. Willy had made it his top agenda to clear the humongous backlog of cases that had clogged the judicial system. Some cases dated back to 30 and 40 years ago! He had also introduced a friendly approach by his staff when dealing with clients. Another huge reform that Willy had pledged to implement once he assumed office was to devolve the court cases by building a high court in every region in Kenya. People who thirsted for justice would, in the earlier days, travel from far flung areas to attend court in Nairobi.

When I reached his office, the secretary was as friendly as I expected. She asked me for my name and did not bother to confirm if I had an appointment to see the President. She simply asked for my name. I told her my name is Kamaradi Githuku. She gave me a warm smile and picked the old-school phone and dialled an extension number to Willy. ‘Kamaradi Githuku is here to see you’ she said. I expected her to ask me to wait to go in but instead, the huge dark brown oak door of the most powerful judge in Kenya opened, and a beaming Willy Mutunga showed up. “Ah, Kamaradi, come in!”

Willy’s office was cozy and very colonial. This court was established by the East African Order in Council of 1897. The building was constructed in 1932. Willy’s office was furnished with rich oak on the walls. A large Kenyan flag stood to attention adjacent to the Chief Justice’s flag behind his huge leather seat. His desk was neatly arranged with a few books on it. The then still new 2010 Constitution of Kenya booklet was prominently placed on the huge desk. He took a copy and autographed it, before handing it over to me. I found myself on my feet as I received the prestigious mother-of-all laws of the land, which we had traversed the country to achieve. This was the set of rules that Willy and others had been detained for without trial. This was what we had been tear-gassed for. It is this Constitution that had seen many young Kenyans flee to exile. Kenneth Matiba and Charles Rubia had been tortured and permanently maimed for this book that Willy had just placed in my hands. Paul Amina and Osundwa Chitechi had gone to the Nyayo House torture chambers for demanding reforms. Hundreds of Kenyans from all walks of life had been killed by the state, as they clamoured for this little booklet that was now in my hands, while seeking change during the famous Saba Saba riots and other political gatherings. My hands trembled as I received the Katiba of Kenya from the top-most judge of the Supreme Court. Presenting me with the Kenyan Constitution was the first ritual that Willy Mutunga performed in his office, hardly before I even sat down.

Willy and I exchanged pleasantries. He asked me about the many activists that he hadn’t seen since he assumed office. He asked me how Mama Kangethe, one of the mothers of Political Prisoners was doing. Leah Wanjiru Mungai happens to be my aunt. I told him she was doing fine and that she had sent me with her regards. As tea was being served, he told me that when he got into office, tea was only served to judges and magistrates. He had however made an executive order that all staff from the highest office to the gardener must be served with tea of the same quality. It is then that I happened to look out of the expansive window overlooking the parking lot that I saw drivers, cleaners and gardeners being served with tea, at the same time as the CJ! This might be a small gesture, but I am sure it was a big deal that helped change the attitude I had witnessed from the main gate of the Supreme Court all the way to Willy’s office.

He updated me on his work at the Supreme Court and that he was not finding it as exciting as he anticipated. He told me that the government he was serving was riddled with powerful cartels and it was becoming difficult to implement some of the real changes that he wished to execute. The reforms that he had already started working on were being impeded by interested persons who lurked in the shadows, and that there was state capture in every corner that he turned. He also poured out to me the frustrations he faced on simple things like building new courts around the country. “Hawa  mafisi wako kote wakitafuta kandarasi” (These hyenas are all over fighting to get the contracts). He confided to me that I should visit him more, because he was lonely at the top. “I don’t have any friends here”, he reiterated in a nearly stifled voice. Willy told me that the marauding cartels in the corridors of justice were so entrenched that when doing repairs of the courts, they substituted the hardwood that expensively dotted all courtrooms, including his office, with cheap hardboards painted with tanned furnish to fool the eye. He was visibly pained.

It was then that I asked him why he cannot deal with the cartels. He was the boss! “Kamaradi, the cartels in this country are more powerful than the government. When I assumed office, I thought that I’d jail them all and rid Kenya and Kenyans of the theft and plunder by a few rotten scumbags”, he stressed. “But little by little I have realized that this army of cartels is all united and powerful. I had a meeting with President Kibaki the other day where he needed me to bring him to speed on the same. I told him that the best we can do was not to jail these rascals, but to negotiate with them to return what they had looted. It’s an uphill task, Kamaradi”. “What would happen if you jailed them?” I asked, eager to know how we’d get our country back. Willy looked me straight in the eye and told me, “These guys are so powerful, they’re even capable of overthrowing the government!” I was as disappointed as he sounded. It did not matter that we had a revolutionary Chief Justice at the helm. It did not matter that he was world renowned in matters of reform. It did not matter that he was incorruptible. The cartels in and outside government had their say! This meeting left me so deflated.

My hopes that the fourth in command of the land was unable to bring change from the top was such an anti-climax. At one time during this visit, the receptionist buzzed Willy. He picked the land-line and responded, “…oh he is already here? Tell him to come in”. A tall gentleman in a suit and greying hair walked in. He seemed to hesitate when he saw me in the CJ’s office. He did not expect Willy to be with anyone else. Willy stood up, prompting me to follow suit, and introduced us. He said, “Meet my comrade and human rights activist Ndungi Githuku,” said Willy, as I stretched my hand to the tall gentleman. “Kamarade, meet my colleague, Justice Maraga.” I shook the firm grip of this towering lean judge. This gentleman would later inherit this same office that we were in. Chief Justice David Maraga became the 15th Chief Justice of the Supreme Court after Willy’s early retirement in 2016. Willy had indicated this retirement date when he assumed office and true to his word, he retired on his birthday on 16 June 2016. He was 69. Willy exited with a legacy of judiciary reforms, but I know that he’d have wanted to achieve more.

As we rode back from the farewell party in the Korogocho slums, I silently listened to the man who had demystified and made the judiciary more people-friendly. I sat next to the revolutionary judge who had demolished the traditional judicial architecture. I was in the backseat of a limousine in a convoy that he seemed not to care so much about. As we winded out of the ghetto and hit Thika Road, heading back to the city, I reminisced the times that Willy has guided and shared with me and other young Kenyans on many issues that concern his  favourite and pet subject, Wanjiku.

When I vied for the seat of MCA, Kabete, on an Independent Ticket, Willy was one of my biggest supporters. He’d call me with encouragement messages and even chipped in financially, like most of my comrades and friends, to help me clinch the seat. He kept telling me that the electoral route was the best to start taking over this mkora-ridden country. Unfortunately, I lost the seat, but narrowly. Willy was one of the first people who reached out to find out how I’d fared in the election. When I told him I had missed the seat with a difference of 900 votes, he said “ala, si unaona watu wako kwa njia wa mabadiliko, don’t give up. Hio kiti ni yetu. Lazima tubadilishe Kenya from the grassroots. Next time we shall make it!”

I pride of myself as one of the privileged Kenyans who has been fortunate to be shown the way of change, along the treacherous journey of bringing change to this beautiful country, by the down-to earth Willy Munywoki Mutunga. The People’s Chief Justice.   


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