They say the path to the bar is paved with resilience, but they rarely tell you about the heartbreak that tests that resilience before you even wear your first collar.
My journey began with a flood of sent emails, unanswered applications, and the deafening silence that every law graduate dreads. But the biggest blow came from a place I called home. As an LLB student, I had worked with a reputable law firm in Nairobi. I was forward-thinking; I referred arbitration clients to the senior partner, built relationships, and leveraged my background in a real estate company to position myself as the perfect fit for a branch they wanted to open.
Then came the interview for pupillage. The Senior looked me in the eye and said, "We don’t have the budget, and we don't even have desks for pupils."
It was a crushing rejection. But the real heartbreak came a month later. Walking past the firm, I bumped into my law school classmates—six of them—happily doing their pupillage there. When I went back inside to confront the Senior, his tune had magically changed: "Why didn't you apply earlier? We’ve already taken six."
It was a painful lesson in the fickle nature of legal networks. But looking back from my vibrant office in Nairobi’s UpperHill, I realize that rejection was not a dead end; it was a redirection to the very place that would make me the advocate I am today.
Out of nowhere, my phone rang. It was the Judiciary of Kenya, asking a simple question: "Would you consider doing your pupillage at a Tribunal?" I didn’t know a single soul there. I had no "connections." But I had an open mind.
The Rent Restriction Tribunal (RRT) Nairobi welcomed me with open arms.
Doing pupillage at the RRT meant having the Chairperson himself as my Pupil Master. It was an intense, immersive masterclass in real estate, tenancy law, and dispute resolution. I wasn't just observing; I was in the trenches.
However, my time there also exposed a glaring, painful truth in our legal system: The Judiciary must pay its pupils.
Organizations like the AG’s office, the ODPP, and Kenya Ports Authority compensate their pupils. Yet, the Judiciary—the ultimate custodian of justice—often pays its pupils in "tea and bread." We were a vital engine of that station. We researched for the bench, drafted rulings and judgments, prepared daily certificates of urgency for orders, managed the registry, and ran errands to the finance department. For pupils with families to feed and bills to pay, it was a baptism by fire.
While the RRT as a station did everything they could to be fair and supportive to us, they too openly agreed that their employer, the Judiciary, was failing its young legal minds. To the Judiciary of Kenya: Please, pay your pupils. Do not exploit the manpower that keeps your wheels turning.
Despite the financial strain, the RRT gave me something money couldn't buy: a family and an unbreakable foundation.
Today, as an Advocate of the High Court running a fast-growing, vibrant law firm in UpperHill, I regularly find myself walking back into the Rent Restriction Tribunal. But now, I walk in wearing my robes, holding a briefcase, appearing before my former Pupil Master.
It is a surreal, beautiful experience. Every time I submit a case before the Chair, it feels like a teacher following up to see if his student listened. I have lost a few cases before him—and learned rapidly from them—but I have won many more. And when those rent cases escalate to the Environment and Land Court (ELC)—the very court that supervises his—I like to think he looks on with pride, seeing his pupil shine on a bigger stage.
There is no greater pleasure than appearing before a court you once called home. To every struggling pupil out there: the desks might be missing now, and the tea and bread might taste bitter, but keep going. The fire you are walking through today is forging the advocate you will become tomorrow.
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