Introduction

My Brothers at the Bar, I greet you: fees be with you. Fame be with you. Fortune be with you.

When I was invited to speak on fatherhood and leadership, I began with a deceptively simple question: what makes one a father?

The obvious answer is biology. A father may be one whose genetic material gives life. Yet my own experience has taught me otherwise. I am a man who has had countless fathers.

Life has impressed upon me that fatherhood transcends blood. Blood may create a child, but it does not necessarily create a father (except, of course, in the biological sense of the word). Nature gives us a biological origin; fatherhood gives us direction.

A father may therefore be one who:

1. adopts a child and gives him a home;

2. fosters a child and gives him protection; or

3. mentors another and gives him direction, which I guess is the sense in which the word is used in the theme for today’s seminar.

Personal Experiences of Filial Fatherhood

My most enduring lesson on fatherhood arose from a conversation with my biological father, Thiankolu Kaibi Thirua, twenty-six years ago, in April 2000.

One morning, he sat me down and declared that having brought me into the world and educated me, he had discharged every obligation a father owes to his son. He then instructed me to proceed through life on the assumption that he was dead.

Not estranged. Not distant. Dead.

This was not abandonment. It was emancipation.

Our conversation unfolded as follows:

Thiankolu: My son, did I bring you into this world?

Muthomi: Yes, Father.

Thiankolu: Have I educated you and met the expenses of your upbringing?

Muthomi: Yes, Father.

Thiankolu: Is there any duty that a father is expected to perform for his son in our culture that I have failed to perform?

Muthomi: None that I can think of.

Thiankolu: You know our friends Henry and Ben, do you not?

Muthomi: Of course. I know them well.

Thiankolu: Are they not of your generation, even if slightly older?

Muthomi: Yes, they are.

Thiankolu: Their father died when they were still young boys. Yet I have watched them grow into responsible and respected men. They obtained an education, acquired property, married, raised families and achieved many of life's milestones without the guidance, support, or provision of a father.

Muthomi: What are you trying to get at?

Thiankolu: Having fulfilled every obligation that a father owes to his son, I now require you to assume full responsibility for your own life.

From this day forward, regard me as though I were no longer available to provide for your needs. I shall not furnish you with food, clothing, shelter, money, or any other necessity of life. Nor shall you look to your mother for such support. Accordingly, I direct that she shall no longer prepare your meals, serve you tea, or attend to your daily needs.

If you desire a woman to cook for you, marry and establish your own household. If you require food, earn it. If you require shelter, secure it. If you require clothing, provide it for yourself.

From this day forward, conduct yourself as men conduct themselves when they have no father upon whom they can depend. The time has come for you to stand on your own feet and bear the responsibilities of adulthood. From today going forward, assume your father is dead.

At the time, I thought my father was withdrawing from me. Only later did I realise that he was giving me the final gift of fatherhood. For every true father must, at some decisive hour, commit an act of intentional vanishing.

He must recede so that his son may advance.

He must grow silent so that another voice may form.

The greatest gift a father gives is not provision; it is withdrawal at the appointed time.

The nest exists for the bird. But the bird was never made for the nest.

The Ancients, Echoes of the Same Truth

Across time, civilisation has whispered immutable truths about the essence of fatherhood in story after story.

Odysseus, Telemachus and Mentor

The Odyssey is arguably the best illustration from antiquity that fatherhood is just as much about biology as it is about mentorship. Homer begins the story not with the hero (Odysseus), but with the hero’s son (Telemachus).

Telemachus wanders through uncertainty, haunted not by ignorance of the world, but by ignorance of himself. He struggles to discover who he is because he does not know his father. He spends much of his youth searching for his father.

For before a man asks where I am going, he must ask who am I.

And before he knows who he is, he must know whose he is.

Telemachus’ 20-year search for a father is, in its deepest sense, the search for identity.

And when the biological father is absent, the world, mercifully, sends a substitute. Mentor. That was the name of Odysseus’ old friend, unto whose care and tutelage the clever and cunning Odysseus had entrusted his son Telemachus before embarking on the Trojan war and the odyssey. The name of Odysseus’ friend is the origin of the English word “mentor.” It is no accident that we call guides and advisers mentors.

From the name of Odysseus’ friend, we derive an eternal truth: Fatherhood is not a biological category. It is a civilisational function.

The Odyssey also tells us that the goddess Athena would often assume the form of Mentor to guide young Telemachus during the 20 years his father was away. This tells us that fatherhood, in the sense of mentorship, is a divine calling. The overall lesson from the Odyssey, however, is that fatherhood is less about procreation and more about mentorship and character formation.

Alexander, King Philip II of Macedon and Aristotle

Alexander the Great, standing at the intersection of conquest and legend, is credited with the following words:

I am indebted to my father for living, but to my teacher for living well.

In that sentence lies a profound hierarchy:

1. we receive existence from one;

2. we receive excellence from another;

3. the first makes us possible; and

4. the second makes us formidable.

Whether Alexander the Great uttered the exact words quoted above is uncertain. Historians agree that the quotation comes to us through later ancient sources rather than contemporary records. Nonetheless, the quotation teaches as an immutable lesson: While we owe our parents our existence, we owe our professional fathers our craft.

Aeneas, Anchises, Ascanius and Burning Troy

Those of us who watched Troy may remember that as Troy burns, Aeneas carries his aged father, Anchises, on his shoulders while leading his son, Ascanius, by the hand. The scene gives us one of the greatest images of fatherhood; it is not merely about family; it is about civilisation itself:

1. the old man represents memory;

2. the child represents hope; and

3. Aeneas stands between them, preserving one generation while preparing the next.

That, in many ways, is the task of every leader and every father.

Every generation walks forward burdened by memory and pulled by hope. We carry the dead behind us and the unborn before us. Leadership consists in preserving one without betraying the other.

Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus and the Roman Republic

Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus (5^th Century BCE) is a celebrated figure of early Roman history, renowned as a model of civic virtue, duty and humility (attributes that seem rare in third-world leadership in political, professional and other contexts).

Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus is remembered primarily for his service as Dictator of Rome during two crises. In the first crisis, the Aequi, an enemy tribe, threatened the Republic. Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus was called while on the plough at his farm and made Dictator. He quickly organised the Roman army, defeated the enemy in about 15 days and restored order. Instead of clinging to power, he resigned immediately and returned to his farm.

In the second crisis, Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus was called again to serve as Dictator to suppress a political conspiracy. Once more, he dealt with the crisis efficiently and stepped down voluntarily.

The Romans admired Cincinnatus because he knew when to let go. He accepted power when duty called and relinquished it when the work was done. Power reaches its highest form not when it is acquired, but when it is relinquished. The true test of authority is not whether one can hold the torch, but whether one can place it in another's hand without fear. Many men know how to ascend. Few know how to descend.

Fathers are those who shape us, who see us, claim us, discipline us, challenge us and eventually release us to “go and subdue the earth.”

Personal Experiences of Professional Fatherhood

I have personally experienced and enormously benefited from fatherhood at the Bar. I have had many professional fathers and will mention only a few this morning.

Looking back at my experiences with my professional fathers, I now understand that fatherhood is a relay race conducted across generations. None of us begins at the starting line. We receive a baton already in motion. Our task is not merely to run our leg of the race but to ensure that those who follow us run farther than we ever could.

What makes one a professional father?

1. it is not age;

2. it is not seniority; and

3. it is not title.

A professional father is one who invests in another lawyer’s growth, often at personal cost and without expectation of reward.

A professional father:

1. corrects;

1. recommends;

2. opens doors; and

3. knows when to hold on and when to let go;

Dr Ben Musau

From Dr Ben Musau, my Pupil Master, I learned a commandment austere in wording but infinite in implication:

Thou shalt not be sloppy.

For sloppiness is not merely untidiness; it is a failure of respect:

1. for the craft;

2. for the client;

3. for the court;

4. for the law; and

5. for oneself.

Dr Ben Musau taught me that excellence is not an act. It is a habit, quietly forged in repetition.

Dr Ben Musau introduced me to legal practice at the highest levels, exposing me not only to traditional advocacy but also to the increasingly global dimensions of legal work, including emerging fields such as legal consultancy.

Dr Ben Musau’s influence shaped not merely the way I practised law, but the standards by which I measured professional conduct.

Prof Githu Muigai and Mohammed Nyaoga

Prof Githu Muigai and Mohammed Nyaoga have been the most influential professional fathers in my life. Over the years, they entrusted me with opportunities far beyond my age, experience and imagination. I owe much of whatever reputation and modest success I have attained to their professional fatherhood and confidence in me.

My First Car

Four months into my admission to the Bar, I mentioned to Professor Prof Githu Muigai that some journalists had seen me boarding a matatu at a chaotic terminus in Nairobi on a rainy evening. I told him that I was less concerned about my own circumstances than about the impression the image might create of the firm and its partners. His response was immediate:

I recently bought a car to take my son to school, but I no longer need it. It is a very good car. I am selling it. Go and have a look at it. If you like it, tell the dealer that I said he can give it to you.

And just like that, I became the owner of a four-wheel-drive, 2.0-litre car, barely four months after my admission to the Bar.

Affirmation to the High and Mighty

During my formative years at the Bar, Prof Githu Muigai and Mohammed Nyaoga frequently entrusted me with representation in proceedings, meetings and conferences attended by heads of state, international organisations, multinational companies, cabinet ministers, members of parliament, principal secretaries, chief executives of leading corporations and various national and international dignitaries.

Prof Githu Muigai and Mohammed Nyaoga did more than simply include me in these forums. They ensured that, despite my early stage of practice, I was given meaningful opportunities to speak whenever I accompanied them.

On one occasion, Prof Githu Muigai told a VIP client:

This young man is not merely my assistant or sidekick. Do not be misled by his youth. He is excellent at his work. There is no need to revert to me on your file. He is entirely competent. Deal with him directly.

Few gifts are more valuable to a young lawyer than a top-flight senior willing to stake his own reputation on the junior's ability. Confidence, when bestowed by a master, becomes a source of courage.

Deep End Swimming

On many occasions during my early years at the Bar, Professor Prof Githu Muigai and Mohammed Nyaoga would ask me to prepare their briefs for litigation in the superior courts, as well as presentations for high-level conferences and consultancies. I would spend days immersed in the authorities, refining arguments, arranging documents chronologically and preparing speaking notes for what I assumed would be their performance.

On the morning of a hearing or conference, while I was assembling the files and accepting the junior advocate's familiar burden of carrying them, my phone would ring. The caller was usually Prof Githu Muigai, though on occasion it was Mohammed Nyaoga:²

Prof Githu Muigai: Good morning…

Muthomi: Good morning, Sir. How are you?

Prof Githu Muigai: I am quite well, thank you. Are we ready for today's business?

Muthomi: Yes, Sir. I have prepared your speaking notes, arranged the file chronologically, printed the bundle of authorities and prepared the skeleton arguments.

Prof Githu Muigai: Excellent. Unfortunately, I woke up feeling under the weather. Remind me: didn't we agree that you are a qualified advocate?

Muthomi: Yes, Sir.

Prof Githu Muigai: And have I trained you properly?

Muthomi: Yes, Sir.

Prof Githu Muigai: Good. Then I shall not be attending today. Pick up your file and go.

Muthomi: But Sir, you were supposed to be lead counsel. This is a complex and high-stakes matter. I thought…

Prof Githu Muigai: I said, "Pick up your file and go." Which part of that instruction is unclear?

And just like that, the rookie in me would find himself alone in the biggest arenas of legal practice, at the stratosphere of it, facing titans like James Orengo, Fred Ngatia, Pheroze Nowrojee, George Oraro, John Ougo, Evans Monari and other giants of the Kenyan bar. Without the comfort of standing behind the towering figure of Prof Githu Muigai or Mohammed Nyaoga. And just like that, I would find myself armed only with preparation and facing the terrifying freedom to crumble or fail.

Looking back, I realise that my professional fathers were engaged in a subtle act of disappearance. They were withdrawing their visible presence so that I might discover my invisible strength. The apprentice who forever walks behind a master never learns the dimensions of his own shadow. That is why my professional fathers were forcing me to trust the preparation they had taught me to undertake and the judgment they had taught me to cultivate.

More than once, senior counsel who had encountered me in those battles would later call either Prof Githu Muigai or Mohammed Nyaoga and inquire about the young advocate who had appeared against them and made life unexpectedly difficult. My professional fathers’ response was often delivered with unmistakable pride:

That's my newest Rottweiler. Be careful the next time you cross me. I might unleash him again, this time with even greater ferocity.

Letting Sons Step into the Arena, Alone

Letting me step into the biggest arenas, alone, was my professional father’s way of teaching one of the most important lessons in professional life: every apprentice must eventually step into the arena alone. A mentor's task is not to create dependence, but confidence. The day a master withdraws his shadow is often the day a disciple discovers his own stature.

Every apprentice must eventually become a master. A true mentor measures success not by the number of disciples he retains, but by the number he equips to stand on their own.

Facilitating Growth and Attainment of Full Potential

When I was awarded a Commonwealth Scholarship to pursue an LLM in the United Kingdom in 2008, there was understandable concern that I might succumb to the temptation, common among many young African professionals, of settling permanently in the West. Mohammed Nyaoga asked whether I intended to take up the scholarship. When I answered in the affirmative, his response was immediate and unequivocal.

Go and study for as long as you wish. Your position at the Firm will be preserved. All you need to do is give us a few days' notice before your return flight so that we can prepare your office.

To a young lawyer, that assurance was more than an employment guarantee. It was a profound expression of confidence and belonging. It conveyed a simple but powerful message: go and grow and when you are ready, there will always be a place for you here.

Prof Githu Muigai was equally direct.

Mr Nyaoga has communicated the Firm's position. You now have a choice. You may remain in Europe, pushing paper and living on the margins of a foreign society, or you may return home and build a stellar career. The choice is entirely yours.

Whether that advice was ultimately right or wrong is beside the point. What mattered was that my professional fathers cared enough to offer it. Fathers do not make every decision for their children, nor are they always correct. Their role is to share their judgment, illuminate the available paths and then trust their children to choose for themselves.

Providing Security and Guidance Rather than Control

The conversation about the commonwealth scholarship taught me another lesson about professional fatherhood and mentorship: genuine support does not seek to control. It provides security, offers guidance and leaves room for independent rational choice.

Fathers often support their children in ways that are practical, unexpected and deeply personal. Yet fatherhood is not merely encouragement and generosity. It also requires accountability.

Rebuking Little Spoilt Brats

It is easy for a son, especially one who knows he is loved by his father, to become spoilt, entitled and complacent. One of the most important questions Prof Githu Muigai ever asked me arose after I had caused considerable commotion over annual commissions and bonuses. Listening patiently to my grievances, he interrupted me with a question that cut straight to the heart of the matter:

How many files or clients have you brought to this Firm to warrant the heavy weather you are making over this issue? How much revenue have those clients or files generated for the firm this financial year?

The question was devastating in its simplicity. It forced me to stop measuring what I was receiving and begin measuring what I was contributing.

Embedded within Prof Githu Muigai’s question was a profound lesson: a father must cultivate a sense of contribution rather than entitlement. A son, apprentice, or protégé must learn not only how to receive value, but also how to create it. Rights and rewards are important, but they cannot be divorced from responsibility and contribution.

Leaving the Nest

In many ways, the idea of establishing my own law firm was born after the rebuke on commissions and bonuses. Prof Githu Muigai had compelled me to confront a question that every professional must eventually answer:

If I believe I deserve more, what would I be prepared to build for myself?

With that question still ringing in my ears, I walked into Mohammed Nyaoga's office two years later to discuss my intention to resign and establish my own practice. Our conversation unfolded as follows:

Muthomi: Good morning, JMN.

Mohammed Nyaoga: Good morning, MT. How are you?

Muthomi: Very well, thank you.

Mohammed Nyaoga: What can I do for you?

Muthomi: There is a matter I would like us to discuss.

Mohammed Nyaoga: Please, go ahead.

Muthomi: In my Meru community, a young man eventually reaches the point where he believes he can provide for himself and for a family of his own. When that day comes, he identifies a bride and returns to his father to announce that he wishes to establish his own homestead. The father then shows him where to build his hut, blesses him, assists him with bride price and sends him forth to begin life on his own.

Mohammed Nyaoga: And where is this cultural story leading on such a busy morning?

Muthomi: Let me come to the point. I have faithfully served this Firm for five years, much as the son in my Meru story serves his father in his youth. I now believe the time has come for me to establish a small practice of my own. It may begin as little more than a kiosk, but I hope to build it into something worthy of the example set by Mohammed Muigai Advocates one day. And if that day comes, I hope you will look upon it with the pride of a father.

Mohammed Nyaoga: Muthomi, I am delighted to hear that. But you are mistaken about one thing.

Muthomi: What is that, Sir?

Mohammed Nyaoga: Prepare letters for my signature to be sent to all the clients you currently serve. Inform them that you are leaving with our full support and blessing. Each letter should state that we have authorised you to take over all the files you are currently working on and to continue serving the relevant clients through your new firm. Also indicate in each letter that any outstanding fees in those matters may be paid directly to your new practice.

And just like that, my professional fathers helped me establish a law firm, complete with clients, active files and earned fees. Before I even left!

Some men build empires. Greater men build successors. The first seeks permanence for himself. The second seeks permanence for his values. One leaves behind structures. The other leaves behind generations.

The conversation with Mohammed Nyaoga taught me more about professional fatherhood than any lecture could have done. Lesser men seek to make themselves indispensable. Great fathers and great mentors do the opposite. They cultivate competence, demand responsibility, encourage independence and then take genuine satisfaction in watching their sons and protégés build houses of their own.

Prof Karuti Kanyinga

Prof Karuti Kanyinga teaches political science and development studies at the University of Nairobi. Just like my biological father, he and Prof Githu Muigai attended Meru School in the late 1970s. He has become both a good friend and a mentor to me. He encouraged and pushed me to complete my PhD and took it upon himself to clear away any snares that detractors sought to place in my path.

At one point, an older professional colleague took to disparaging me on professional WhatsApp groups with remarkable consistency and little apparent justification. The real grievance, as far as anyone could tell, was that I happened to represent his opponent in a senatorial election.

Friends and colleagues would occasionally challenge him, asking why he felt the need to attack a younger lawyer who had shown him no ill will. He would dismiss the question with a line that was equal parts criticism and reluctant compliment:

I know he is brilliant, but he does not have to ring cathedral bells to announce his brilliance.

The hot-blooded Tigania man in me would, with predictable regularity, answer provocation with provocation, until Prof Karuti Kanyinga intervened with the quiet authority of both age and institution:

Muthomi, as you well know, I am of your father’s generation and a member of the Njuri Ncheke Council of Elders. From this moment forward, I forbid you from any further engagement in this altercation, indeed, in any altercation of this kind. This matter is closed. You will cease and desist forthwith.

I obeyed.

In the fullness of time, I came to understand that what Prof Karuti Kanyinga offered me that day was not counsel. It was discipline in its purest form, the kind that does not persuade but reorders a man from within. For he discerned what I could not then see:

Not every arrow loosed in our direction demands a shield and not every insult justifies a reply. Some battles diminish the very man who wins them.

There is, in the life of every advocate, a subtle temptation: to treat every contest as worthy, every provocation as urgent, every arena as deserving of entry. But wisdom, hard-earned and rarely instinctive, teaches otherwise.

Public stature is not built solely in the arguments we win, but also in the quarrels we refuse to dignify.

Reputation grows as much in silence as in speech.

Strength reveals itself as much in restraint as in response.

And sometimes, the most decisive act a man can perform is not to step forward, but to stand still and decline the summons to lesser battles.

Brotherhood as Fatherhood

As a Millennial who grew up in rural Meru, I learned early that a brother can, in many respects, be a deputy father. Back in the day, a brother exercised delegated authority to chastise, rebuke, correct and instil discipline. With time, I have come to appreciate that the legal profession also requires a brother-father: a trusted peer who offers candid counsel, correction, accountability and mentorship.

Samuel Karanja

Samuel Karanja is my business partner. We first met in October 2001 as freshers at the University of Nairobi Faculty of Law. Over the years, he has become far more than a colleague. He has been a brother, confidant and one of the principal anchors of my professional life.

On countless occasions, Karanja has:

1. restrained me from reckless and vanity expenditure;

2. dissuaded me from engaging in contests of ego;

3. taught me enduring lessons in humility, restraint and perspective; and

4. served as the steady, often unseen, force behind most of my professional successes.

If there is a hidden wind behind my professional sail, Samuel Karanja has been a very significant part of it.

Gitonga Kamiti

Gitonga Kamiti is a friend and professional colleague. In many respects, however, he is less a professional colleague than an elder brother.

About a year ago, Gitonga Kamiti encouraged me to apply for membership in an exclusive private members club and kindly agreed to sponsor my application. The application succeeded, even as those of many prominent and influential figures in Kenyan society did not.

At the Gentlemen’s changing room in the club, Gitonga often tells me:

Muthomi, you are like a younger brother to me. I can see your gifts and I believe you will go very far. I want to cheer you on and support your ascent to heights that I may never attain myself. There is great satisfaction in watching a younger brother move from one level of excellence to the next.

More importantly, Gitonga Kamiti often gives me the following warning (again, at the Gentlemen’s changing room in the club):

But because I am your elder brother, I reserve the unqualified right to call out your nonsense, regardless of the distinctions that may follow your name. If you stray, I will correct you without hesitation. And if you succeed, I will celebrate you without envy. You can count on me both to admonish you when necessary and to encourage you relentlessly as you scale the highest heights of the legal profession.

That, too, is a form of fatherhood: unwavering encouragement coupled with the courage to speak uncomfortable truths. The people who care for us most deeply are often those who applaud our successes most enthusiastically while refusing to become blind to our faults. Their loyalty is not expressed through flattery, but through a rare combination of affection, honesty and accountability.

Conclusion

My father taught me to assume he was dead. Prof Githu Muigai and Mohammed Nyaoga taught me why: the purpose of fatherhood is not to create dependence, but to prepare a child for the day he no longer needs it.

As I grow older, I increasingly suspect that civilisation itself is little more than an extended conversation between fathers and sons. One generation whispers lessons into the ear of the next. Some lessons are spoken in words. Others are spoken in example. Others still are spoken in sacrifice.

We inherit languages we did not invent, institutions we did not build, wisdom we did not discover and opportunities we did not create. Every one of us is standing in the shade of trees planted by other hands.

The question is whether we shall plant trees beneath whose shade we may never sit.

The fathers of the Bar planted such trees.

We enjoy their shade today.

The task before us is simple.

We must plant forests.

The ancients understood that every generation receives a flame it did not kindle and passes on a fire it must not permit to die.

The fathers of the Bar carried that flame faithfully.

They have now placed it in our hands.

May we leave it brighter than we found it.

And may those who come after us have reason to bless our names as we bless the names of those who came before us.

Thank you.

Postcript

I must pause to acknowledge a truth that runs quietly, but unmistakably, through the fabric of my life.

I have been immeasurably fortunate to stand under the guidance, mentorship and generosity of many remarkable women. Their absence from this speech is not and must never be construed as, an absence of influence. On the contrary, their imprint upon my character and professional journey is both deep and enduring.

The emphasis in this address on male mentors is therefore entirely deliberate, an act of thematic fidelity rather than exclusion. It reflects the specific purpose of this morning’s gathering, which, as I understand it, is directed toward young men at the Bar and toward questions often framed under the rubric of the plight of the boy child.

But emphasis must not be mistaken for erasure.

For if fatherhood, in the expanded sense I have attempted to describe, is about formation, guidance and the summoning of potential, then many women have, in my life, fulfilled precisely those functions with quiet brilliance and unwavering commitment.

I would be gravely remiss if I did not expressly acknowledge my mother, Lucy Kaimbi, whose influence precedes, permeates and, in many ways, surpasses all others and the many female teachers, lecturers and mentors who have shaped my mind at every stage of my formation.

Their contribution is not incidental. It is foundational.

And if today I speak of fathers, it is not because others did not nurture the tree, but because, for the purposes of this moment, I have chosen to trace the line of one root in a much larger forest.