You would think admission to the bar would feel like the grand finale. The curtain call of the whole ordeal. I imagined the moment often enough. I would walk into the Supreme Court ceremonial hall in a well-tailored suit, proper colonial wig perched, gown flowing, those cheeky knock-off red bottoms, and hair snatched under a decent synthetic lacefront. The full fantasy.
Instead, I showed up half-dead and underdressed.
The night before admission, I did not sleep. Not for lack of trying. I had a work deadline on the 19th and submission was non-negotiable. So I stayed up all night working, clicked ‘send’ as the sun came up, jumped in the shower, pulled together the “fit”, and called an Uber to town. I was running on fumes, hunger, and the adrenaline of the occasion.
No full glam make-up, just a lil bit. No lashes. Just vibes and flats. But who really cares? I was being admitted to the Bar, not a runway. And even in those raggedy shoes, I was the moment.
After years of lectures, court attachments, bar exams that chew you up and spit you out, this should’ve been the climax. It wasn’t. I felt… nothing. Well, not nothing. But definitely not joy. Not the “this is it” moment I had imagined. The most excitement seemed to be from my parents, and rightfully so, they survived my law school years too. Still, for me, the high of passing the bar exam itself was over everything else. Bar admission felt like the paperwork you fill in after the drama ends.
The ceremonial hall was mostly empty. Only about sixty of us had made it this far, since most of my cohort hadn’t completed their pupillage yet. So the ceremonial hall felt hollow, quiet, formal, stripped of any proper celebration. The Chief Justice was there with officials from the ODPP, AG’s office, CLE, KSL and the rest of that usual cast. It was solemn. Respectable. Historic, sure. But I didn’t feel much.
I signed the Roll of Advocates, said my oath, shook a few hands. Then that was it. Done. Advocate. No fanfare. Just… done.
Afterwards, I grabbed lunch with my aunt and cousin. We had a quiet, lovely meal. Later that evening, I joined more of my “Nairobi family” for dinner at home. They were proud. They fussed a little. They made the day matter more than the ceremony had. And honestly, that’s what saved it.
Law school drains you. KSL tries to break you. The bar exam threatens to finish the job. There’s a kind of fatigue that comes with completing a journey you were not sure you would finish. By the time admission comes round, you are not running on ambition anymore. You are limping on duty and prayer.
But still, I made it. Ugly shoes and all. And that, truly, is the victory.
Law School Diary Reads.