Academia and the legal profession are steeped in hierarchy, so law students are no strangers to power dynamics. But lawyer Christine Olando argues that the hierarchies faced by law students in Kenya are uniquely complex. Across the country, she interviews law students to understand how power dynamics in higher education are affecting those on the bottom rungs.
“In law we work with seniority. There is literally no way you expect me to reprimand my senior. This guy has been practicing for 30 years. He has done the presidential election petitions twice. I have only appeared in court 3 times…”
Silento*, a postgraduate student, quotes the Dean of her law school at a public university in Kenya, and the words hang heavy over the focus group.
Around her, the other students nod in agreement. They know that in Kenya’s law schools, power is not simply about academic rank, it is also about professional hierarchy, social standing, and connections in the legal world beyond the campus gates.
For law students, these intertwined hierarchies shape not only how they learn but also how safe, confident, and free they feel to speak. Classrooms and lecture halls that should be a space of intellectual discovery have become, in many cases, zones of caution and self-consciousness for students.
A hierarchy imported from the courtroom
Hierarchies and power dynamics may exist in all universities and classrooms, but in Kenyan law schools they take on a unique and troubling character. Data collected in my doctoral research shows that the hierarchical culture that defines the legal profession in Kenya is directly imported into the university.
Unlike many other law schools around the world, in Kenya, many lecturers are also practising advocates. And Kenya’s legal field is stratified.
At the top sit Senior Counsel who have practised for more than 15 years and made notable contributions to the profession. Beneath them are advocates of varying seniority, whose professional rank is often determined by the year of admission to the bar.
So, law students encounter these lecturers not just as teachers, but as gatekeepers of the profession they are hoping to enter. Lecturers who are advocates and Senior Counsel not only hold sway over their grades and references, but over their future professional opportunities.
In one of 10 focus group discussions I conducted across five Kenyan law schools, engaging more than 60 students, Marcello* lamented:
“We have untouchable senior lecturers. No matter how much you complain, you’ll be told they taught even the Dean. Some are Senior Counsel. There’s nothing that can be done.”
A fear-based learning environment and competing interests
Students spoke of lecturers who belittled them in class, and of a pervasive sense that teaching was a distraction from their more lucrative legal practice.
“You can tell they feel we’re wasting their time,” said Bandile*, an undergraduate student. “They say, ‘I should be making money elsewhere.’ If that attitude changed, maybe we’d have real quality education.”
This attitude mirrors a deeper conflict, as many law lecturers juggle heavy teaching loads with active legal practice. Legal practice rakes in more income and seems to be more worthy of their time than teaching. The classroom, in these circumstances, becomes secondary, and students feel like an inconvenience rather than a priority.
For Khayilisa*, who shares a class with Bandile and took part in the same focus group, the problem is both structural and psychological:
“Someone’s self-esteem gets lowered just because they’re on the other side of the classroom. Having a Master’s or doctorate doesn’t give anyone the right to bring another person down.”
When hierarchy silences justice
The overlap between academia and the profession has another, more dangerous consequence. It can shield misconduct. Students don’t speak out due to fear of jeopardizing their chances of graduating and, more critically, their professional life upon admission to the Bar.
Many said they would rather focus on finishing their studies and graduating instead of attempting to tackle issues in the law school that have for so long remained unaddressed. A cost-benefit analysis of reporting lecturers, they said, proves that it is safer not to report.
One student, Hadassah*, recalled being advised by her mentor, a prominent figure in Kenya’s legal profession and formerly a top official in the Judiciary of Kenya, to avoid courses taught by lecturers known for sexual harassment.
“…she said that the best way to deal with this is to avoid the courses that these people are teaching. As a young girl, if you know that this lecturer is a pervert, just avoid his course because nothing much will happen. No matter how hard you try. Unless you are the President’s daughter.”
When probed on the circumstances in which she received this advice, Hadassah said of her mentor:
“She is really big on human rights, women’s rights. And I think at that point, she felt a bit helpless because these people were senior to her. So, powerplay.”
This advice, coming from someone who has held a senior judicial position highlights how deeply entrenched these power structures are. The hierarchy in the university is heavily informed by the hierarchy in the profession.
Such advice also demonstrates an avoidance of conflict rather than confrontation of injustice. The advice is chilling precisely because it came from someone who understood the system’s power.
The message to students is clear: survival depends on silence.
This kind of “responsibilization,” where students must protect themselves instead of relying on institutional safeguards, has become normalized in Kenyan law schools.
It is reinforced by Kenya’s broader culture of deference to authority, a value deeply ingrained in both social and professional life. A 2021 report seeking to understand respect in the Kenyan context found that obedience, submission to authority and humility are among the most commonly understood signifiers of respect among Kenyans.
My methodology in conducting the research responded to this. Each focus group was asked a series of questions about power dynamics and hierarchies. But for each one, it was only after I presented the students with a vignette depicting a scenario of lecturer-student hierarchy that they opened up about their own experiences.
This methodology created distance between the students’ reality on campus and their views on the matter, allowing them to discuss power dynamics and gendered relationships in a way that they would not ordinarily have felt able to.
For Kenyan law students, speaking out is often equated with disrespect or career suicide.
In a culture of deference, students desire to maintain a cordial relationship with their lecturers, and this hinders their ability to seek redress. There appears to be a general fear of burning bridges and of being seen as antagonists by people who have great potential to impact their professional lives.
“Even if they don’t influence what happens here,” said Khayilisa, “they can influence what happens to you outside. The legal profession is a close-knit community.”
Why Kenya’s case is unique
Of course, similar hierarchies exist in law schools around the world, but Kenya’s situation is distinct for three reasons.
Firstly, as shown, legal education and the legal profession are deeply intertwined. It is very common to find an advocate arguing a case in the courtroom in the morning and teaching a class in the afternoon or evening. Their professional influence follows them into the classroom, creating blurred boundaries between learning and career advancement.
Secondly, professional seniority is codified in Kenyan law. The Advocates Act formalizes hierarchy through the title of Senior Counsel, a title so prestigious it is conferred by the President of Kenya and the names of Senior Counsel are written on a separate roll from that of ordinary advocates. This state-sanctioned prestige fuels a culture of deference that permeates even the most junior levels of legal education.
Finally, Kenya’s legal profession is small and tightly knit. Against a population of 57 million people, the Law Society of Kenya claims there are about 23,000 advocates. So, one advocate for every 2,500 Kenyans. Students, lecturers, and practitioners often know one another or share networks. The fear of reputational damage or retaliation, therefore, extends far beyond graduation.
This structural overlap produces what I call an inverse hierarchy, where authority from outside the university dictates the power relations within it. Deans and administrators may find themselves unable or unwilling to discipline senior lecturers who wield professional prestige.
Silento’s story highlights this. She asked us to imagine reporting a Senior Counsel to someone who had just completed their Master’s degree and become the Dean:
“Our Dean at the time was not a Doctor or a Professor… So now, people had an issue with X but when we tried reporting to the Dean, there was nothing he could do to this man.”
Her testimony shows that even those with administrative authority in the law school defer to ‘senior’ members of the profession.
How cultural deference damages learning
Kenya’s broader pedagogical culture further entrenches these dynamics. Respect for elders and authority is a deeply held value, one that in many settings fosters harmony.
But in the classroom, this respect often morphs into silence. Submission to authority is often conflated with respect, yet the two are not synonymous. This is supported by British Council research that found students were reluctant to speak out about the problems in their universities, sometimes due to fear.
When combined with professional hierarchy, it creates a space where questioning becomes risky, complaints are futile, and intellectual exchange is stifled. Students focus on pleasing lecturers to avoid burning bridges, rather than challenging ideas, an inversion of what higher education should stand for.
The result is an erosion of critical thinking and confidence, qualities essential to the practice of law. So, a profession that should champion justice and equality instead reproduces inequality at the very point of entry.
The right to higher education in Kenya is undermined
The right to higher education, as recognized under both Kenyan law and international human rights instruments, includes more than access to educational institutions. It encompasses the right to learn in an environment free from intimidation, discrimination, and abuse. It encompasses the right to intellectual development, in inherent gain.
When students feel unsafe to question authority or report misconduct, their right to education is violated. When female students must avoid certain courses to escape harassment, gender equality in education is undermined. When lecturers prioritize legal prestige over pedagogy, the integrity of higher education itself is compromised.
The International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights obligates states to ensure that education ‘strengthens respect for human rights and fundamental freedoms.’ Yet, the current structure of legal education in Kenya does the opposite. It teaches submission to hierarchy over courage to confront injustice.
A call for structural reform and independent oversight
The solutions are three-fold, involving structural reform, cultural shifts, and strengthening of institutional safeguards.
In other jurisdictions, including the UK, Australia, Canada, and South Africa, practising lawyers are rarely law academics. Teaching and professional practice exist in complementary but distinct spaces, allowing universities to operate independently of courtroom hierarchies.
Kenya can borrow from these jurisdictions.
Universities should require that those teaching core courses suspend active practice for the duration of their academic tenure. This will significantly reduce cases of conflict of interest on the part of the lecturers and make students more equipped to hold the lecturers and institutions accountable.
This is not to devalue the experience that practising advocates bring, but to recognize that unchecked dual roles create conflicts of interest and undermine student welfare. If there is a need to incorporate real-life practical insights for the benefit of wholesome student learning, this can be done on a case-by-case basis.
To avoid complaints about lecturers being handled internally by colleagues of the accused, especially when professional seniority could bias the process, universities could establish independent reporting and redress mechanisms for students. Bodies such as the Council of Legal Education (CLE) and the Commission for University Education (CUE) could collaborate to create transparent grievance procedures with external oversight.
In the UK, for example, the Office of Students is an independent regulator for higher education, tasked with ensuring students’ rights are upheld, including access to quality teaching, fair treatment and support. It also monitors how universities handle complaints and grievances from students.
There is also the Office of the Independent Adjudicator for Higher Education, an independent organisation that deals with student complaints against universities and colleges.
Time for a cultural shift in Kenyan law schools
A cultural shift from fear and deference to academic respect and integrity would support Kenyan law schools to value academic inquiry over professional intimidation.
Kenya’s law schools are incubators for the country’s future judges, advocates, and legal reformers. If students learn in an environment governed by fear and hierarchy, they risk carrying those same patterns into the justice system.
The stories of Silento, Marcello, Bandile, Khayilisa, Hadassah, and many others reveal a hidden curriculum of fear. One that normalizes silence, rewards conformity, and punishes dissent.
But the classroom can become a place where justice is practised through teaching, where students learn that power can be commanded responsibly, and where lecturers understand that authority is a trust to be exercised with due diligence.
Unless we reform how law is taught, we risk perpetuating the very injustices that the law is meant to redress. The transformation of Kenya’s law schools is not merely an academic concern — it is a matter of justice.
*The names of all individuals have been changed to protect privacy.
All artwork by Lacuna artist Wong Yan Yee.
