IMANI: Kenya left behind as neighbours drop colonial baggage

Decades ago, the British Empire planted the seeds of its judicial culture across East Africa, importing not only statutes and court structures but also the feudal language of the English courtroom.

The practice of addressing judges as "My Lord" or "My Lady" was a direct transplant from the English legal system, where High Court Justices historically held seats in the House of Lords.

This linguistic import became an integral part of the colonial legal apparatus, serving to create an aura of deference and unassailable authority around the bench.

In Kenya, a Crown colony from 1920 until 1963, this tradition was meticulously adopted and became second nature for generations of lawyers across East Africa.

However, more than six decades after the winds of independence swept across the region, the colonial relic of judicial honorifics has been systematically dismantled by its former adherents, leaving Kenya as the last bastion of "My Lord" in East Africa.

Uganda, through a recent and sweeping directive from its Law Society, has become the latest nation to join a growing continental movement to shed these symbols of its colonial past.

The Ugandan order, which takes immediate effect, prohibits its lawyers from using "My Lord," "Your Lordship," "My Lady," and "Your Worship," mandating instead plain forms of address such as "Mr Justice" or "Madam Judge".

This move follows in the footsteps of Tanzania, which long ago abandoned these titles in favour of Swahili and other more egalitarian forms of address. 

The Ugandan move is expected to reignite debate across East Africa on whether inherited colonial legal customs remain compatible with modern constitutional values and equal access to justice and Kenya’s legal profession, like Uganda’s, was a colonial construct—the Law Society of Kenya was initially composed mainly of English barristers and solicitors who became an appendage of the colonial government.

Kenya has already taken tentative steps in this direction, as in 2011, then-Chief Justice Willy Mutunga issued a circular directing that judges should no longer be addressed as “My Lady” or “My Lord” and that ceremonial wigs would be discarded, with judicial officers instead to be addressed as “Your Honour” in English or “Mheshimiwa” in Swahili.

However, the practice has not been uniformly enforced, and the archaic titles persist in many courtrooms, leaving the Advocates Act and the Law Society of Kenya Act still containing legal and regulatory principles that contradict modern regulatory philosophies. 

Across the continent, similar efforts are underway, though with varying degrees of commitment. In South Africa, the system of senior counsel—inherited from British law, where royalty appointed Queen’s or King’s counsel—has come under scrutiny.

Advocates argue that the status is part of a colonial legal tradition that has no place in modern South Africa, while the country’s legal profession has been described as essentially a colonial construct mirroring that of former colonisers Britain and Holland.

In Ghana, superior court justices are still referred to as “My Lord Justice” or “My Lady Justice,” while circuit court judges are addressed as “My Honour” and district court judges as “My Worship.”

Debates about abolishing these titles have surfaced periodically, with some pointing to Singapore—which abolished wigs and titles like “my lord” in the early 1990s—as a model for reform.

Nigeria, meanwhile, continues to cling to the old titles, with female judges often still referred to as “My Lord,” demonstrating that Anglophone Africa remains deeply fragmented on the issue, with no continental consensus emerging despite shared colonial histories.

Back home, Mutunga's reforms were systematically overturned by his successors. Judicial officers and lawyers reverted to using "My Lord" and "My Lady" after his tenure. The traditional, intimidating red and black robes that Mutunga had replaced with "Kenyanized" green and yellow ones were also restored. 

Today, despite a decade-old circular, the archaic titles persist in Kenyan courtrooms, with many lawyers and judges viewing the wigs and robes, despite their colonial links, as a mark of distinction.

This makes Kenya an outlier not just in East Africa, but also in a continent where the conversation has moved decisively towards decolonising legal traditions, leaving the question of why it remains so reluctant to fully abandon the linguistic vestiges of its imperial past.

Dropping these colonial-era courtroom traditions would represent more than a symbolic gesture; it would signal a genuine commitment to democratising access to justice and dismantling the psychological barriers that perpetuate deference over accountability. 

By replacing feudal honorifics with plain forms of address, courts would become more accessible and less intimidating to ordinary citizens, fostering a culture where judicial officers are respected for their competence and integrity rather than their inherited titles. 

The likely impact, as Uganda and Tanzania have demonstrated, is a gradual but meaningful shift in institutional culture, one that reinforces the principle that justice is a right of free citizens, not a privilege dispensed by an untouchable aristocracy.

For Kenya, the true measure of decolonisation lies not merely in the robes discarded or titles abandoned, but in whether such changes translate into a more responsive, transparent and citizen-centred judiciary that commands respect through service, not ceremony.