15 years of the Constitution: Kenya's journey of promise and paradox

When Kenyans overwhelmingly endorsed the 2010 Constitution, one word carried the hopes of millions, it was devolution. For long neglected regions, it promised roads where dust once ruled, clinics where mothers had despaired, and schools closer to forgotten villages. In many respects, devolution has delivered. Health facilities have mushroomed in rural landscapes, bursaries have reached students who might never have stepped into class, and local leaders have gained platforms once monopolised by the elite.

However, devolution has also revealed its jagged edges. What was meant to cure marginalisation has at times entrenched local fiefdoms, where governors are kings and county assemblies serve as their loyal courtiers. Billions are lost to ghost projects, inflated tenders, and politics that often places tribe above service. The dream of devolution remains alive, but its promise still dances on a knife’s edge between empowerment and plunder.

Bill of Rights, A Living Charter?: The Constitution’s soul lies in its Bill of Rights, a bold catalogue guaranteeing not just civil and political freedoms but also economic and social entitlements. For the first time, the right to housing, health, education, water, and clean environment were constitutional imperatives, not political favours.

Courts have since breathed life into these promises; decisions halting forced evictions, judgments securing access to healthcare for vulnerable groups, and decisions affirming dignity for marginalised communities. But rights on paper do not always translate into bread on the table. Informal settlements still drown in sewage; hospitals often lack basic medicines; drought-stricken regions wait for relief that never comes. The State’s refrain of “progressive realisation” has at times sounded like a licence for delay. While litigation has advanced rights, enforcement lags, leaving the Bill of Rights suspended between aspiration and reality.

Judicial Independence, a fortress under siege: If the Constitution has a crown jewel, it is judicial independence. The Supreme Court, Court of Appeals, High Court, and specialised tribunals have transformed governance in Kenya by boldly checking executive overreach. From nullifying a presidential election in 2017 to striking down unconstitutional laws, the Judiciary has stood taller than ever before. In doing so, it has restored faith that justice need not bend before political power.

But this fortress is never safe for long. Budget strangulations, open political attacks on judges, and delayed judicial appointments reveal an enduring discomfort with an independent bench. To forget not the challenges of case backlogs and echoes of real and perceived corruption in the Judiciary. The spirit of Chapter 10 gave us courts that can stare down the mighty, but the backlash shows that independence must be defended daily. For citizens, the Judiciary remains both shield and battlefield, a reminder that justice in Kenya is a constant contest.

Representation and Inclusion, the missing half: The Constitution envisioned an inclusive Kenya where leadership reflects the nation’s diversity. It outlawed discrimination, protected minorities, and mandated gender balance. Yet, 15 years later, the “two-thirds gender rule” remains the Constitution’s most glaring unfulfilled promise. Parliament has danced around it with committees, Bills, and political theatrics, but women remain grossly underrepresented in key decision-making spaces. Beyond gender, the struggle of persons with disabilities and marginalised groups for meaningful political inclusion persists. While some progress is visible, that is nominated seats, county assemblies with more women, and a public discourse sensitive to diversity, the deeper transformation is stalled. Representation was supposed to be a constitutional floor; instead, it has become a ceiling we are yet to break.

Integrity and accountability, the broken compass: Perhaps the Constitution’s most audacious chapter is Chapter Six on leadership and integrity. It demanded that those in public office be beyond reproach, serving with honour, accountability, and fidelity to the law. The dream was simple: a Kenya where thieves do not sit in Cabinet, where looters do not become legislators, and where power is not a shield for impunity. Reality has mocked this dream.

Leaders facing corruption charges campaign under slogans of victimhood and win elections. Institutions mandated to enforce Chapter Six have been outmaneuvered by politics or weakened by resource constraints. Ordinary Kenyans, disillusioned, have normalised impunity as part of political life. Fifteen years on, Chapter Six reads less like law and more like a lament, a broken compass pointing to a destination we never reached.

Fifteen years after its birth, the 2010 Constitution remains both Kenya’s boldest achievement and its most unfulfilled covenant. It has shifted power from the centre, protected rights, expanded judicial might, and planted seeds of inclusivity. Yet, corruption, political sabotage, and half-hearted implementation keep its full promise out of reach.

Its survival depends on civic vigilance. Citizens must refuse to be spectators and instead demand fidelity to the constitutional vision. This requires defending institutions under siege, holding leaders accountable despite tribal loyalties, and insisting on inclusion beyond tokenism. Without active ownership by the people, the Constitution’s promise will wither into rhetoric instead of remaining a living shield of justice. But constitutions, like nations, are living organisms.

They mature, stumble, and rise again depending on the will of their people. The Kenyan Constitution is not failing, it is being tested. And every generation must decide whether to betray its promise or to fight for its fulfillment. Fifteen years on, the verdict is clear: the Constitution gave us wings; whether we soar or crawl depends not on its text, but on us.