Last week, Kenya honoured Pheroze Nowrojee; a man who stood for the rule of law when it was risky, and for national conscience when it was inconvenient. 

His passing did not go unnoticed. It stopped the country. Every major newspaper carried a tribute or reflection. Not out of sentiment. Out of respect. Because when someone who never chased power earns that level of recognition, it tells you something. 

At the Supreme Court, Chief Justice Martha Koome presided over the closing of the file. The full bench was present. So were former Attorneys-General, senior counsel, clerks, legal officers, and young advocates. It was a moment of institutional memory. Quiet. Deliberate. 

Pheroze was not defined by title or trend. He was defined by consistency. He defended detainees when others stayed silent. He took on the hard cases. He challenged detention without trial. He was not aligned to any regime, but held all of them accountable. He did not confuse silence for strategy or principle for performance.

When court adjourned, he went home. To write. Books. Essays. Speeches. Poetry. newspaper columns. Clear, rigorous, and deeply informed. He was as disciplined with language as he was with the law. He wrote not to impress but to record. He documented the unfinished story of this country with all its contradictions, and with hope. 

The next day, the National Museum hosted a broader reflection. Lawyers. Diplomats. Academics. Public servants. Civil society. Former political prisoners. Students. Family. And Gen Z. They didn’t just attend. They participated. They sang, spoke, and stood with intent. This wasn’t generational tokenism. It was alignment. Because what they are demanding — accountability, credibility, moral clarity — is exactly what Pheroze spent a lifetime upholding. 

Too often, we reduce young people to disruption. But what they brought that day was recognition. They saw in him what they are still trying to find in many of their leaders: Integrity without theatrics. Courage without agenda. 

Academics who had taught and studied his work spoke not just of his brilliance but of his depth. His ability to move between law and literature. Justice and language. Then, on the final day, a smaller gathering took place in a garden in Nairobi. Lawyers gave tribute. Judges reflected. His family read from his books. It was calm. Unforced. True. By then, it was clear this was more than mourning. It was calibration. 

Because Pheroze Nowrojee was not just a great lawyer. He was a voice of the country. One of the few who could speak with credibility across generations. Who had seen power come and go and never once adjusted his values to survive it. He understood the weight of words and didn’t waste them. He was brilliant. But also decent. Funny. Quiet. Exacting. Thoughtful. He kept to a standard in his work, his writing, and his way of living. He did not need an audience. He needed purpose. 

And that is what we lost—a man who believed public life could still mean public service. His legacy is not a quote. It is a record. One of steady advocacy, measured defiance, and total discipline. In an era where trust is fragile and attention spans short, he showed us what endurance looks like. That credibility is earned slowly. That the most powerful voice in the room is often the one that doesn’t need to be raised. 

To the lawyers, judges, teachers, writers, organisers, students, and civil servants, this is what you inherit. Not just his memory. His standard. Pheroze Nowrojee lived for justice. He asked for nothing in return. And he left behind a standard. Now it is ours to meet it.