This one hurts!

Dorothy Muma once sat in a courtroom in Kitale as a magistrate – robe on, gavel in hand and people trembled when she walked in. Not because she was cruel. Because she was the law. Every word she spoke carried weight. Every judgment she delivered changed lives.

People stood when she entered. Lawyers adjusted their coats. Accused persons held their breath. Families waited for her words to decide their fate.

Today she was laid to rest. And somewhere between those two sentences lies a story that feels heavier than most of us are ready to process.

This is the story of Dorothy Muma. She sent thieves to prison. Settled land disputes that had torn families apart. Looked down at the accused killers and said: “Take them away.”

Then something cracked. Nobody knows exactly when it started. And the public is asking uncomfortable questions. How does someone move from the bench… to the pavement? Was it pressure? Politics? Isolation?

The silent weight of decisions that reshape lives? Or, as many whisper in hushed tones, witchcraft? Revenge from unseen forces? Karma from the courtroom? But the truth? The truth is quieter. And sadder.

Dorothy’s mind, that sharp, precise, law-quoting mind began to betray her. Akawa mwendawazimu- she became mental case.

First, she lost the job.

One day she was on the bench. The next? Suspended. Then dismissed. The robe came off. The gavel went silent. And Dorothy walked out of those courthouse doors for the last time not knowing she would never walk back in.

Then she lost the house. The bank came. The landlord came. The people she had helped, the friends she had made, the colleagues who had laughed at her jokes during lunch breaks? They didn’t come.

Dorothy moved from her house to a smaller room. From that room to a friend’s couch. From that couch to the streets.

Then she completely lost her mind. Not all at once. Slowly. Like water dripping until the bucket overflows.

People saw her walking along the streets and roads, talking to people who weren’t there. Arguing cases with invisible opponents. Delivering judgments to a non-existent courtroom of dust and wind.

“Case number 47 of 2022. Accused person… where is the accused person? Bring them forward!” Mama alijiongelesha! She spoke to herself.

Nobody came forward. Nobody ever came forward again. She was alone – a bitter reminder that power is temporary!

In her final days, Dorothy slept where night found her. Under a kiosk when it rained. On cardboard outside the market when it was dry. Sometimes she would stand outside the law courts, just stand there, watching as magistrates in fresh robes walked past without seeing her.

She was a ghost at her own funeral, walking around before the body was even cold. Today, they laid her to rest. The same people who crossed the road to avoid her? They came. The same colleagues who pretended not to recognise the figure mumbling under the streetlight? They sat in the front row.

They spoke well of her. “She served with distinction.” “She was a woman of integrity.” “May her soul rest in peace.”

Nobody mentioned the voices. Nobody mentioned the cardboard bed. Nobody mentioned the slow, cruel unravelling of a woman who once held the power of the state in her hands.

Here’s the question nobody wants to ask:

If a magistrate can fall this hard – this fast – and end up alone on the streets of the very town where she once judged men… What are we doing to the Dorothys among us?

The ones whose minds are breaking. The ones who used to be somebody. The ones standing right in front of us, invisible, while we scroll past their photos on our phones.

Dorothy Muma is gone now. Buried. Eulogised. Forgotten by everyone except the ones who will whisper about “witchcraft” and “bad judgments” for years to come.

But there’s another Dorothy somewhere. Tonight. Under a bridge. Talking to the wind.

And nobody is delivering judgment for her.

• A Tell Media report / Republished from This is Laikipia social media page