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By Alphonso Bernard Otieno
Two names have recently collided with Kenya’s legal and political spotlight — Raphael Tuju and Irungu Nyakera.
Their separate ordeals have triggered a wider national debate: is the law being applied objectively, or selectively?
Across political commentary and social media, a new phrase has begun circulating — “juggle law.” It captures a growing public suspicion that laws in Kenya sometimes appear elastic: firm for some, flexible for others.
The troubles of Raphael Tuju stem from a long-running debt dispute involving a multibillion-shilling loan from the East African Development Bank. Courts have repeatedly ruled against the former Cabinet Secretary, clearing the way for the auction of properties linked to the loan after years of litigation and appeals.
In March 2026, the High Court dismissed Tuju’s latest attempt to block the recovery process, with the judge ruling that the application was an abuse of court procedure and meant to delay lawful debt recovery. The decision effectively opened the door for auctioneers to proceed with the sale of his high-value properties tied to the debt dispute.
Yet Tuju has consistently argued that the process has been unfair and politically influenced. He has publicly questioned the conduct of the judiciary and claimed that the case surrounding his Karen property has been handled in a manner that denies him a fair hearing.
For supporters, Tuju is a victim of a hostile system. For critics, he is simply confronting the consequences of a legal battle he lost in multiple courts.
Meanwhile, Irungu Nyakera has faced his own confrontation with the state. The former public official was removed from his position as chairman of the Kenyatta International Convention Centre board through a presidential gazette notice.
Nyakera reacted with characteristic candour, suggesting that political considerations may have influenced the decision. His dismissal, though legal within executive authority, has been interpreted by some observers as a signal of the increasingly high stakes within Kenya’s political establishment.
Viewed separately, each case has its own legal and administrative explanation.
But when seen together, they feed a broader anxiety: are institutions applying the law evenly, or is power quietly shaping outcomes?
In any functioning democracy, the rule of law must be both real and visibly fair. Citizens may accept unfavourable rulings if they believe the process is impartial. But once doubt creeps in — once people begin to suspect the law is being “juggled” — trust in institutions begins to erode.
And when public confidence erodes, the damage extends beyond individual cases.
For ordinary Kenyans struggling with the pressures of daily life — rising prices, shrinking job opportunities and political uncertainty — elite legal battles can feel distant. Yet they matter.
Because these disputes test a central democratic principle: that the law should neither bend to power nor be weaponized by it.
Whether one sympathizes with Tuju, Nyakera, or neither, the ultimate national interest is clear. Kenya’s justice system must remain predictable, impartial and transparent.
The Constitution promises equality before the law. The country’s stability depends on it.
And in moments like these, Kenyans are watching closely to see whether that promise still holds.