Matrimonial property disputes are now common before courts. [Courtesy]
There is nothing more intoxicating than love. It blinds, it binds, and it drives men and women alike into solemn vows of eternal devotion. But when the glitter of romance fades and the harsh light of reality sets in, what is left is often litigation, bitter, protracted, and bruising. Matrimonial property disputes, those battles fought over villas, apartments, bank accounts and household chattels, are now the staple diet of our courts.
Ironically, part of the solution has always been hidden in plain sight, a prenuptial agreement. A recent decision by Justice M Thande in FZA v RB (Civil Suit E001 of 2020) [2025] KEHC 11848 has reignited the debate. In dismissing an application by a wife who sought to claim properties acquired by her husband prior to marriage, the learned judge turned to one document that carried the day, a prenuptial agreement executed a month before the wedding. The wife alleged coercion, injustice, even deception. But the court was unyielding. Both parties had signed. Independent witnesses were present. The terms were clear and equal.
One cannot, Thande reminded us, later disown a contract on flimsy grounds simply because the romance is over. A prenuptial agreement, often called a “prenup,” is simply a contract that two people sign before getting married to decide what will happen to their property if the marriage ends, whether through divorce or death. It sets out who owns what before the wedding, how any new property acquired during marriage will be handled, and whether either spouse will have a claim to the other’s assets. In other words, it is a financial safety plan for both partners. Far from being a sign of mistrust, a prenup brings clarity and prevents bitter arguments later, ensuring that love is celebrated freely while money matters are managed fairly and transparently.
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The Matrimonial Property Act, 2013, offers clear statutory shelter for such agreements. Section 6(3) provides that parties to an intended marriage may enter into an agreement before marriage to determine their property rights. Section 6(4) allows the court to set aside such an agreement only if it was influenced by fraud, coercion, or is manifestly unjust. In short, the law recognises that adults in love may also act as adults in law, arranging their financial affairs with foresight rather than fury.
For a prenuptial agreement to stand the test of law, certain ingredients must be mixed into the recipe. First, it must be entered into before marriage. By definition, it is a contract of anticipation, not of regret. Second, the agreement must be in writing and signed by both parties. Third, the signatures must be properly witnessed, preferably by advocates, to seal its solemnity. Fourth, its terms must not be unconscionable, courts will not enforce a contract that reeks of oppression or injustice. And finally, the parties must be of sound mind, free from undue influence, and fully aware of what they are signing.
Herein lies the irony, lovers who can hardly imagine a future apart are advised to sign a document that presupposes precisely that possibility. Cupid may scoff, but the law nods approvingly. After all, life has a habit of surprising even the most star-struck couples. What begins as an enchanting honeymoon may later unravel into a cold courtroom duel. The prenuptial agreement is therefore not a prophecy of doom but a parachute of prudence. You hope never to use it, but when turbulence strikes, it saves lives and assets.
If history is a guide, the future belongs to prenuptial agreements. Matrimonial property litigation is costly, exhausting, and corrosive to whatever dignity remains after a failed union. A carefully drawn prenup short-circuits years of wrangling. It sets clear boundaries, separates what was “mine” from what is “ours,” and spares children the agony of watching parents drag each other through endless proceedings.
In truth, it transforms divorce from a war into an administrative formality. Justice Thande’s decision is a stern warning too, a spouse cannot later dismiss a prenup by claiming, without any evidence, that they “did not understand” or were “coerced” in vague terms. Courts will not rewrite contracts simply because one party regrets the bargain. The burden lies on the challenger to prove fraud, coercion, or manifest injustice with cogent evidence, not mere suspicion. After all, marriage may be emotional, but contracts remain stubbornly unemotional.
This is not to say prenups are invincible. The law provides surgical grounds for impeachment. If the agreement was procured by outright fraud say, hiding assets or lying about ownership, it can be struck down. If coercion is demonstrated, that is by threats, pressure, or lack of independent advice, the contract may crumble. If its terms are grossly unfair, leaving one party destitute while the other bathes in wealth, the court may refuse to enforce it. But absent these conditions, the sanctity of contract prevails.
Prenuptial agreements may sound unromantic, even cynical, in a culture where love is still idealised as eternal. But as Thande’s decision illustrates, they are lifelines of clarity in a sea of uncertainty. They do not kill love; they preserve dignity. They do not predict failure, they prepare for possibility. And in the grand irony of life, it is precisely by acknowledging the risk of separation that couples can enjoy their union with greater peace of mind. For the law, like love, is best when it is honest.
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By Ndong Evance