In the heart of Nairobi, where corridors smell of polished wood and old verdicts, Justice Isaac Lenaola sat behind his bench in the Supreme Court. He was a man of disciplined routine, measured speech, and, in his mind, an unblemished record. Yet reputation, he had learned over the years, is a fragile thing perhaps more fragile than the law.
One morning, a video clip began circulating across social media — TikTok, WhatsApp, Twitter. A well-known businessman, Captain Kung’u Muigai, was speaking in an animated tone. He spoke of “judges taking bribes,” of allegedly corrupt deeds in parking lots, of a wider “mega bribery scandal.” He named names. Among them, Justice Lenaola’s.
The clip claimed that in a long-running commercial dispute involving properties, banks, and broken promises, Lenaola had accepted one million shillings in a supermarket parking lot an allegation scandalous in its brazenness. It accused him of bias in rulings, of being part of a judiciary “corrupt to the core.” The more the video circulated, the more the whispers in cafés, on buses, and in waiting rooms grew: could it be true?
Justice Lenaola’s heartrate in his chambers quickened, but not for fear. The matter was gaining traction, trust in the judiciary under strain. He called his lawyers, Ngeri, Omiti & Bush. They drafted a demand letter: retract the statements, publicly apologize, or face defamation proceedings. They said the claims were “false, malicious, and defamatory,” intended to injure his reputation and erode public trust.
Captain Muigai did not immediately comply.
He stood by his statements. He claimed truth, public interest. He said he had sources, affidavits, audio recordings that evidence had been ignored. He insisted that if the judiciary wished to respond, let the proof be seen. Let the accusations be tested in court.
Thus began a legal battle not just of facts, but of perception.
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