Marking 10 years as the Strathmore Law Clinic, our commitment to access to justice could not be contained in Nairobi. Instead, it took us 450 km away across the country to Busia County, where we got front-row seats to the transformative justice delivered by Busia law courts.

For the first time in the Law Clinic’s history, our Remand project took us outside Nairobi all the way to Busia, a town situated at the Kenya-Uganda border. Six eager clinicians, along with director Patrick Nzomo, administrator Josephine Kairo, and law school communications director Evans Ijakaa, made the trip. The 12 hours on the road were filled with laughter, music and the kind of easy joy that comes from knowing you’re about to do something meaningful together. By the time we arrived, we were tired but buzzing with anticipation; we knew the next day would be one to remember.

Dignity Before Everything Else

What made this visit truly unprecedented was who walked beside us. For the first time, the clinic partnered directly with the Busia Law Courts, and we were joined by the Presiding Judge, Justice Mohochi Samuel Mukira, and magistrates themselves, including the Honourable Sarah Manyura from Gichugu Law Courts, whose support made the entire day possible.

The morning began at the law courts, where we sat down with the magistrates and the judge to understand the structure of the court and the people who keep it running. It was a rare privilege, a chance to see the justice system not as an abstract institution but as a room full of people committed to it, willing to open their doors to a group of law students and clinicians eager to learn and to serve. From there, we made our way to the main event, the prison itself

We were not met with silence or formality, but with entertainment. The prisoners had prepared a fashion show and a mock news anchoring performance; moments of genuine creativity and confidence from people the world often forgets. It was clear these performances meant something deeper than the showcase alone. A reminder to the prisoners and us that incarceration should not erase a person’s self-esteem or humanity. They are still part of society. They still have something to offer.

One-on-one legal aid sessions

Afterwards, the prisoners were divided into groups by the nature of their offences, so each group could receive focused, specialised legal aid.

I was privileged to be working with a group of women whose offences fell into three categories: illicit brewing of changaa, manslaughter, and child neglect. What unfolded over the next hour was less legal consultation and more an unguarded, painful conversation about survival.

Many of the women told us the same story in different words. Left without husbands to provide for their families, they turned to brewing (changaa), a cheap, illicit alcohol, simply to feed their children and keep some money coming in. The system they were caught in seemed stacked against them from the start. They described how police would dilute the changaa with water before weighing it, inflating the volume so that the women would face harsher, longer sentences. Before ever standing before a judge, many said they had been beaten and injured while in custody, left too frightened and disoriented to properly explain themselves in court.

The child neglect cases carried their own quiet heartbreak. One woman had her child living with her in prison. Another had left her child behind, now in the care of the child’s grandmother. Remarkably, Magistrate Gona recognised one of the women. She remembered her case specifically and immediately asked the prison wardens to ensure the young woman received proper mental health support. It was a small moment, but it said everything about the kind of attentiveness this partnership was built on.

Among the group was also a twenty-year-old woman held for assault. Honourable Goner did not mince words with her, gently but firmly urging her to think carefully about the situations she puts herself in. Her closing hope for all the women in that group was simple and heartfelt. That they would choose what is best for themselves and their children and find a way to stay far from the circumstances that had brought them there.

After such a fulfilling day, we gathered in the home of one of our very own, Evans Ijakaa. His grandmother prepared for us a hearty meal of traditional greens, ugali and the best chicken. We ate, made merry, and received wise words on how hard work always pays, no matter your circumstances. It was a good reminder that in the law clinic, we are family.

What We Carried Home

It is one thing to study the justice system in class. It is another to sit across from a mother who brewed changaa to feed her children or to watch a judge remember a name and ask, unprompted, for someone’s mental well-being to be looked after. This trip gave us that second kind of understanding, the kind that does not come from a textbook. A conversation between Patrick and Justice Mohochi pushed us to delve further into the Sexual Offences Act, questioning its drafting and whether it upholds the principle of equality.

Ten years into the clinic’s work, this visit to Busia felt like a fitting way to mark the milestone, stepping beyond building new partnerships with the judiciary and sitting with the people the system too often overlooks. It reminded all of us, clinicians, magistrates, and prisoners alike, why this work matters and why we keep showing up to do it. Here’s to the next ten years, and to many more journeys like this one.

Article by Charlotte Mwathi