Oh, Kenya, land of stunning savannahs, vibrant jua kali spirit, and… a legal system that seems to have missed the memo on independence. Sixty-two years after waving goodbye to the British, we’re still waltzing to colonial-era laws like it is 1925, and the governor is sipping tea at Muthaiga Country Club.
Add to that the shiny bills assented on October 15, 2025, and it’s clear our lawmakers have a PhD in recycling the past. Grab your pith helmet, folks; we are time-traveling through Kenya’s legal jungle, where the ghosts of Empire meet the hustle of 2025.
Let’s start with the classics. The Penal Code (Cap 63), a dusty relic from the 1860 Indian Penal Code, is the gift that keeps on giving. Want to criminalise someone for “loitering”? Easy—call them “idle and disorderly” and watch the police pounce like it’s a Mau Mau raid. Never mind that our 2010 Constitution screams equality; this law loves to harass street vendors and the homeless, keeping colonial vibes alive.
Then there is the Public Order Act (Cap 56), a 1953 gem designed to squash Mau Mau rallies. Today, it’s the police’s favourite toy to block protests. Want to march for better healthcare? Sorry, you need a permit, and the OCS might just say “no” because it’s Tuesday. Article 37, which guarantees freedom of assembly, must feel like the Constitution’s neglected child.
Follow The Standard
channel
on WhatsApp
The Vagrancy Act (Cap 59) and Official Secrets Act (Cap 187) are no better, turning poverty into a crime and transparency into treason. It’s like the British left a playbook titled “How to Keep Kenyans in Check, Volume I.”
But wait, there is more! On October 15, 2025, while we mourned Raila Odinga, President Ruto signed eight new bills into law, proving we can multitask grief and governance—or at least governance that smells suspiciously like 1900s bureaucracy. In many ways, assenting to some of the bills was a symbolic death to constitutional rights and a betrayal of the general will of the people of Kenya.
Take the National Land Commission (Amendment) Bill, 2023. It promises to fix colonial land grabs, giving the NLC five years to unravel a century of injustice. Noble? Sure. But with elite capture lurking like a hyena, expect the bigwigs to snatch the best plots while pastoralists in Kajiado get another committee.
The Wildlife (Amendment) Bill, 2023 sounds eco-friendly, but it’s a colonial rerun in green camouflage. It’s meant to protect elephants, but communities near Tsavo and the Aberdares are still waiting for compensation when those jumbos trample their shambas.
Meanwhile, the Computer Misuse and Cybercrimes (Amendment) Bill, 2024 is the digital equivalent of a colonial whip. Want to tweet about government waste? Careful—vague terms like “extreme religious practices” could land you a Sh20 million fine or a blocked account. Freedom of expression is gasping for air, and #RejectCyberCrimeLaw has been trending on X. The National Police Service Commission (Amendment) Bill, 2024 promises merit-based hiring and cop therapy sessions, but whispers of executive meddling make Command of the NPS (Article 245) independence a pipe dream.
The Virtual Asset Service Providers Bill, 2025 regulates crypto but prices out small players with hefty taxes and red tape, crushing the hustler’s blockchain dreams. And don’t get me started on the Privatisation Bill, 2025. Selling off Kenya Pipeline Company for Sh 100 billion? It’s like auctioning the family silver to pay off a loan shark, with corruption risks so blatant they’d make a colonial governor blush.
Why are we stuck in this legal time warp? Parliament is too busy with shiny new taxes to dust off colonial relics. The Executive has likened the 2010 Constitution’s transformative promise to a Wi-Fi signal—strong in theory, spotty in practice. Courts chip away at these laws but without a vigilant and assertive citizenry, we are stuck. X users are screaming “reforms!”, but will our leaders listen, or are they too busy polishing their colonial heirlooms?
Here’s the kicker: these laws and bills aren’t just outdated—they are a spite to the hustler nation. They entrench inequality, silence dissent, and keep land in the hands of a few. To decolonise, let’s send these laws to the archives and craft bills that don’t feel like a British sequel. Until then, Kenya’s legal system will keep us dancing to anarchy’s tune — God Save the Hustler? Not quite.
Follow The Standard
channel
on WhatsApp
By Lawi Sultan Njeremani