Justice as a right, not a privilege dispensed by aristocracy
More than six decades after independence, Kenya's courtrooms still carry the honorifics of English aristocracy — 'My Lord,' 'Your Lordship' — long after Uganda and Tanzania have moved to plainer, more egalitarian forms of address. A 2011 reform directive under Chief Justice Mutunga briefly interrupted this inheritance, but successive leadership reversed it, and the wigs, robes, and feudal titles returned. The question Kenya now faces is not merely one of language, but of what a society reveals about itself when it chooses ceremony over citizenship.
- Uganda's Law Society has formally banned 'My Lord' and 'Your Lordship,' following Tanzania's earlier shift to Swahili and egalitarian address — leaving Kenya visibly isolated in the region.
- Kenya's 2011 reform was not defeated by public resistance but by institutional inertia: successive Chief Justices quietly restored the wigs, robes, and colonial honorifics that Mutunga had dismantled.
- The legal profession itself has become a barrier to change, with many lawyers and judges treating archaic titles as marks of distinction rather than relics of colonial hierarchy.
- The psychological stakes are real — when citizens hear 'My Lord,' the courtroom becomes a place of deference rather than rights, reinforcing the distance between ordinary people and justice.
- Kenya's path forward likely requires more than another circular from above; it demands a reckoning within the profession about why colonial ceremony has been chosen over democratic legitimacy.
When Uganda's Law Society banned 'My Lord' and 'Your Lordship' this year, mandating plain address like 'Mr Justice' in their place, it drew a clear line across East Africa. Tanzania had already made a similar shift, moving to Swahili and forms of address stripped of feudal weight. Kenya, more than sixty years after independence, remained the exception — its courtrooms still echoing with the language of the English aristocracy.
This was not accidental inheritance. The British Empire planted judicial deference deliberately across its colonies. In Kenya, a Crown colony from 1920 until independence in 1963, the honorifics carried real social meaning — they elevated the judge from public servant to untouchable authority. Generations of lawyers absorbed this language until questioning it felt almost heretical.
In 2011, Chief Justice Willy Mutunga tried to break the pattern. He issued a circular: no more 'My Lord' or 'My Lady,' no ceremonial wigs, new green and yellow robes in place of British red and black, and Swahili honorifics alongside English ones. It was a deliberate Kenyanization of the courtroom. It did not hold. When Mutunga's tenure ended, his successors reversed nearly everything. The wigs returned. The old robes came back. The circular remained on paper while practice reasserted itself.
Across the continent, the conversation had moved. South Africa scrutinized its senior counsel system. Ghana had adopted 'My Honour' for lower courts. Nigeria clung to the old titles entirely. But Uganda's move suggested momentum, and Kenya's position had become harder to defend.
The argument for change was never purely symbolic. When a citizen hears 'My Lord,' the judge becomes distant, elevated, almost unreachable — and the ordinary person feels smaller. Replacing feudal honorifics with plain address would not fix the judiciary's structural problems, but it would signal something genuine: that justice is a right, not a privilege dispensed by ceremony. Uganda and Tanzania had shown it was possible. For Kenya, the harder question was not whether the titles should go, but why the profession had chosen, again and again, to keep them.
When Uganda's Law Society issued its directive this year, it drew a line across East Africa. Lawyers would no longer address judges as "My Lord" or "Your Lordship." The honorifics were gone. In their place came plain speech: "Mr Justice," "Madam Judge." Tanzania had already made this shift long ago, moving to Swahili and forms of address stripped of feudal weight. But Kenya remained. More than sixty years after independence, Kenyan courtrooms still echoed with the language of the English aristocracy—a direct inheritance from the colonial legal system, where High Court Justices once held seats in the House of Lords and the titles carried real social meaning.
The British Empire had planted this judicial culture across East Africa with deliberate care. It was not accidental. The language of deference—the "My Lord," the "Your Worship"—served a purpose. It created an aura around the bench, an untouchable authority that made the judge seem less a public servant and more a figure of unassailable power. When Kenya was a Crown colony, from 1920 until independence in 1963, this apparatus was adopted wholesale. Generations of lawyers grew up speaking it. It became second nature, so embedded in the practice of law that questioning it felt almost heretical.
But the winds of change had been blowing elsewhere. Tanzania abandoned the titles in favor of Swahili and more egalitarian forms of address. Uganda, watching the continental conversation shift, finally moved. Across Africa, the question had begun to surface: Did these colonial relics belong in modern courts? In 2011, Kenya's then-Chief Justice Willy Mutunga had tried to answer that question. He issued a circular. Judges should no longer be called "My Lord" or "My Lady." The ceremonial wigs would go. Judicial officers would be addressed as "Your Honour" in English or "Mheshimiwa" in Swahili. He even replaced the red and black robes—symbols of British tradition—with green and yellow ones, a deliberate Kenyanization of the courtroom.
It did not hold. When Mutunga's tenure ended, his successors systematically reversed what he had done. The wigs returned. The red and black robes came back. Lawyers and judges reverted to "My Lord" and "My Lady." A decade later, the circular still sat on paper, but the practice had reasserted itself. Many in the legal profession viewed the wigs and robes not as colonial baggage but as marks of distinction, symbols of the profession's standing. The archaic titles persisted in courtrooms across the country, unevenly enforced but stubbornly present. The Advocates Act and the Law Society of Kenya Act still contained regulatory language that contradicted the modernization Mutunga had attempted.
Kenya was now an outlier—not just in East Africa, but across a continent where the conversation had moved decisively toward decolonization. South Africa had begun scrutinizing the system of senior counsel, a British inheritance tied to royal appointment. Ghana still used "My Lord Justice" and "My Lady Justice" in superior courts, though it had adopted "My Honour" for circuit judges. Nigeria clung to the old titles entirely, with female judges still addressed as "My Lord." But Uganda's recent move suggested momentum. The question for Kenya was no longer whether these titles should go, but why they remained so difficult to shed.
The argument for change went beyond symbolism. When a citizen entered a courtroom and heard "My Lord," something happened psychologically. The judge became distant, elevated, almost untouchable. The language reinforced a hierarchy that made ordinary people feel smaller. Replacing feudal honorifics with plain forms of address—"Mr Justice," "Madam Judge"—would not solve the structural problems of the judiciary. But it would signal something real: that justice was a right, not a privilege dispensed by an aristocracy. It would make the courtroom less intimidating. It would suggest that judicial officers deserved respect for their competence and integrity, not for the ceremony surrounding them. Uganda and Tanzania had shown that this shift was possible, that courts could function perfectly well without the language of feudalism.
For Kenya, the question had become urgent. Decolonization, the argument went, was not measured in the robes discarded or titles abandoned in isolation. It was measured in whether such changes translated into a judiciary that was more responsive, more transparent, more centered on the citizen. It was measured in whether the courts commanded respect through service rather than ceremony. Kenya had taken a step in 2011 and then retreated. The next step would require not just a circular from above, but a genuine reckoning with why the profession had chosen to hold on.
Notable Quotes
Justice is a right of free citizens, not a privilege dispensed by an untouchable aristocracy— Argument for decolonizing Kenya's courts
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why did Kenya's 2011 reform fail when Uganda's seems to be sticking?
Because Mutunga's changes came from the top down, and when he left, there was no constituency defending them. The legal profession itself—the lawyers and judges—didn't see the wigs and robes as colonial baggage. They saw them as professional identity. Without buy-in from below, a circular is just paper.
But Uganda's Law Society just issued a directive too. What's different there?
Timing, maybe. Uganda moved when the continental conversation had already shifted. There's momentum now. And perhaps Uganda's legal profession was more ready to see these symbols as what they actually are—remnants of a system that no longer applies.
Does it actually matter what you call a judge? Isn't the real problem the judiciary itself?
It matters because language shapes how people experience power. When you walk into a courtroom and hear "My Lord," you're being told something about your place in the room. It's not the whole problem, but it's part of how the system maintains distance between the judge and the citizen.
Kenya tried this once and failed. Why would it work now?
Because the failure itself is instructive. Now there's a record. Uganda and Tanzania have shown it's possible. The question isn't whether it can be done—it's whether Kenya's legal profession is willing to see itself as something other than a colonial institution.
What would actually change if Kenya dropped the titles tomorrow?
Probably not much at first. But over time, the courtroom would feel different. Less like a temple, more like a place where justice happens. That shift in feeling matters more than people think.