Okiya Omtatah: How a Man With No Law Degree Became Kenya’s Courtroom Warrior

Nairobi, June 21 – The story of this playwright begins in a little known village of Kwangamor in Busia County, at 9 p.m. on November 30, 1961. Inside a thatched-roof mud house dimly lit by a kerosene lamp, his grandmother helped deliver a baby boy, earlier than expected. In the next room, his father was glued to the BBC radio, listening to Winston Churchill celebrate his 87th birthday. The boy will share his birthday with Britain’s wartime bulldog, his father chuckled.

From a seminary dropout to chains-and-padlocks activist, his life reads like a political thriller. His epilepsy seizures, completely cured by a Congolese refugee’s herbs, became his first fight he won against the odds. His early plays, like the one on Luo legend Lwanda Magere, the seemingly invisible warrior, seemed to foreshadow his own rise as a political leader impossible to ignore or suppress.

Decades later, that premature child would rise as one of Kenya’s fiercest activists, his warrior spirit coming to life in January 2008. “We were never meant to suffer,” he tells me, as we settle into his Nairobi Upper Hill office for this interview. He gently fingers the same rosary beads he wore during that protest, when he chained himself with a 14-foot, 110-kilogram chain outside police headquarters. It was his dramatic way of exposing alleged extrajudicial executions that was being planned at the height of the post-election violence that almost pushed the country to the edge

The man behind these bold acts was baptized Andrew, but his ancestors claimed him as Okiya Omtatah through a ritual involving flying cock. “Because I was born on a Monday, our neighbour gave me the name Barasa, as was customary,” he recalls. “However, at baptism, the priest named me Andrew, in honour of Saint Andrew’s feast day.” My grandfather did not like the name Barasa, so I dropped it and kept Andrew.

While named by both Church and tradition, the naming still continued. Days later, his grandmother performed a sacred ritual passed down through generations. “She told me that three ancestors were spiritually competing to name me,” he says. She used three cocks, each representing an ancestor, and waited to see which one would fly off the roof and enter the house first.

“The cock representing Okiya Omtatah Obango Namasese, my long-dead great-grandfather, was the first to enter. That is how I got that name,” he states. From his father, he inherited the name Okoyit. Each of the name given carried its own lineage and weight.

His full name became Andrew Churchill Okiya Okoyit Omtatah Obango Namasese Barasa. Quite a mouthful. “But since official documents could not take all that,” he laughs. “So Obango, Namasese, and Barasa were dropped.” Today, his legal name reads Andrew Okiya Omtatah Okoyit. But in his village, where memory runs deeper than paperwork, he is simply known as Churchill.

Omtatah spent his early life in the village. He attended local primary and secondary schools there. “It was during my time at St. Paul’s Amukura Secondary that Catholic missionaries on mission to scout potential priests identified me,” he remembers.  “They transferred me to St. Peter’s Seminary in Form 3, to be groomed into priesthood.” The teachings by the missionary priests on ethics and morality left a lasting impression on him

He performed exceptionally well and earned admission to study Business Commerce (B.Com) at the University of Nairobi. But by then, he was already convinced that priesthood was his calling. So he chose to study philosophy at St. Augustine in Mabanga, Bungoma County instead. But just as he was preparing to join theology, everything changed.

“I was diagnosed with epilepsy – grand mal seizures. Doctors at Aga Khan Hospital told me I could not pursue priesthood due to the health risks. I was shattered. The doctor said the condition would be with me for life,” he says. “I returned home and took up teaching at a nearby school in the village while receiving treatment, a process that strained my father financially.”

One day, during a local football match, he suffered another seizure. Then something unusual happened. “After I recovered, a local refugee teacher who had moved to our area from Goma [Congo] approached me,” he says. “His grandfather, he said, had passed on four herbal steam remedies for epilepsy.”

The traditional medicine was prepared by boiling herbs in a pot. “They would then cover you with the pot and steam you with it, like a deep cleansing,” Omtatah recalls. “After hours of sneezing and sweating profusely, the seizures left and never returned to date.”  That encounter on December 17, 1987 marked the start of a journey, not just of healing, but of transformation, for the man who is now Busia County’s first-time senator.

After the herbal healing, he enrolled at Kenya Polytechnic (now the Technical University of Kenya) to pursue a diploma in Mechanical and Automotive Engineering. “We were part of the first Nyayo Pioneers cohort, but the project never took off, so I left,” he says.

Omtatah grew up loving books but was also motivated by a strong sense of justice. He never stopped questioning authorities. Before his current legal activism, as a young man, he wrote plays exploring deep philosophical questions.  “I have always believed in doing the right thing, even back then while writing plays on the side in my early life,” he says.

He wrote and performed plays that explored themes of justice and resistance—echoing the activism he is now known for. His notable works include Lwanda Magere, a play about a legendary Luo warrior whose only weakness, he says, was his loose tongue.  His other works include, March to Kampala, Chains of Junkdom, An Exchange for Honour, and Voice of the People, his last staged play in 2008. Some of his plays, he adds, have been published and are reportedly taught in the United States colleges under the Black Drama Series curriculum. He is currently working on a fictional book exploring Chinese influence in Kenya.

Perhaps the character in Lwanda Magere play mirrors Omtatah himself – brave, persistent, and never silent. “You see, Lwanda Magere was invincible until he revealed his secret,” he says. “That is the danger we all face when we get too comfortable with power.” It is a lesson that would come back to haunt him.

January 2008 is etched in Kenya’s memory. As post-election violence raged and threatened to plunge the country into civil war, Omtatah claims he received chilling intelligence about a covert police killer squad allegedly planning to carry out extrajudicial executions in Kisumu, Eldoret, and Kakamega in a bid to “restore order.”

“At the time, the government, under the late John Michuki, as the Internal Security minister, had banned live TV coverage and press conferences were not allowed,” he recalls. “I knew I had to do something urgently to leak the information to the public.”

Clutching his wooden rosary tightly, Omtatah walked into Holy Family Basilica in Nairobi’s city centre. As he knelt before the altar to ask God for clarity on what to do, he whispered the Hail Mary over and over. There, in the quiet of the cathedral, he found his answer. With his last Sh10, 000, in his pocket, he walked to the hardware in the city and bought 14 feet of heavy industrial chain for Sh7, 000 and a padlock for Sh2, 700—the tools of a protest that would stop the alleged planned police massacre. The remaining Sh300 paid for his fare to Vigilance House the following morning. Omtatah arrived at the police headquarters armed with his damning documents on the planned police operation, and rosary in one hand, he chained himself to the metallic gate and locked in.

“I carried with me my rosary and the confidential documents I needed to expose,” he says. “I chained myself to the gates of police headquarters with the documents in my hand. Police snatched the papers, but it was too late, the media had picked up the story. “Sometimes truth needs drama to be heard,” he shrugs.

His dramatic act broke through the media blackout, drawing instant local and international coverage. Police arrested him, but the evidence was already out. His bold move exposed police brutality and forced the government to respond. He had achieved his mission not with weapons or riots, but with faith, courage, and a chain.

“This form of protest was just one of the many styles I have adopted over time to communicate urgent truths,” he adds. “Sometimes it takes drama. Other times it takes reflection.” One can write poetry, prose, plays, or even dream a better world into existence and turn that vision into action, he adds.

Omtatah says his values have never shifted over time. “There is never been a clear transition in my life, not in terms of values, at least,” he says. “My convictions are the same as they were when I was younger.” He believes what he does today has real consequences, not just for him, but for others too. “We live in a consequential universe. You do not harvest guavas from orange trees or apples from mango trees. What you sow, you reap, he says. “That truth anchors everything I do. That is the principle I carry with me daily. It defines who I am and what I stand for.”

More than anything, he believes in happiness, not just his own, but that of others. “Seeing people in pain troubles me deeply. I find it hard to watch human suffering without being moved,” he explains with a tinge of sadness. “I cry easily when I witness distress, especially when it feels avoidable. It is something I have carried since childhood.”

While he does not shy away from his own suffering, but he deeply resists watching others suffer. “We were never meant to suffer. I believe it is wrong for anyone to be in such pain,” he says. “We were meant to experience joy and happiness that Jesus Christ called ‘the kingdom of heaven on earth’ in the Lords prayer. That is what I strive for.”

Being born in Kenya, often categorized as part of the ‘developing world’ or the ‘Third World’ he says should not limit anyone. “I don’t accept that narrative. Kenya can rise—just as other countries have, he says. “Development does not rely on magic. It requires discipline, hard work, proper planning, good governance, and adherence to the rule of law. The same foundations that works elsewhere can work here too.”

Much of that grounding came from his grandfather, with whom he was very closer than even his own father. “He had a tractor, and I loved being around that machine. But it was his wisdom that stayed with me most,” Omtatah recalls.

His grandfather’s life lessons were simple but profound. “The purpose of life is to leave the world better than you found it,” he used to say. “He told me, ‘Improving the world doesn’t mean doing big things. Even something small, like removing a thorn from the road, matters a lot,’” Omtatah, recounts.

“He would say, ‘If you are walking and see a thorn, even if you are wearing shoes, remove it. Do it for the person walking barefoot. If you don’t, and someone gets hurt, you are responsible.’”

“That deeply shaped my worldview,” Omtatah reflects, “that I am, in every sense, my brother’s keeper.”

A human rights activist, public interest litigator, and politician, Omtatah holds the record for the highest number of constitutional petitions and public interest cases filed by a non-lawyer in Kenya. He is regular in court, often in a plain shirt, arguing cases like a seasoned lawyer, though he never studied law. He learned out of necessity, after realizing he could not afford legal fees. With guidance on how to draft pleadings from a constitutional lawyer Kibe Mungai, he filed his first case to block MPs from raising their salaries. Since then, he has taught himself to draft, file, and argue cases solo.

“I don’t have money to hire lawyers,” he says. Since 1995, he has filed over 1,200 cases on his name—suing every government and corporates alike. The vocal activist also made an appearance in the 2022 presidential election petition at the Supreme Court. He was among the interested parties that challenged President Ruto’s win.

All this, without a law degree but just a deep love for the Constitution and justice. Omtatah funds his court battles through his modest trucking business, proceeds from his books, and monthly contributions from a few close friends. Each case costs him roughly Sh50, 000, and he spends nearly Sh1 million a year on litigation. His cases come from newspapers, whistleblowers, and even government insiders who believe the state has gone off track.

The first-term senator shocked many in 2022 when he trounced ODM’s Hillary Itela with over 171,000 votes, running on the little-known National Reconstruction Alliance, defying Raila Odinga’s regional grip and the shadow of former Attorney General Amos Wako.

Now widely known for pushing citizen-first policies like lowering the cost of living and fighting corruption, he has set his eyes on becoming Kenya’s sixth president in 2027. A firm believer in constitutional order and the rule of law, Omtatah remains unfazed by critics. He continues to push his message of full implementation of the 2010 Constitution and national accountability.

His presidential strategy seems to draw from a story his grandmother once told him, about a tortoise who beat a hare by placing “relatives” along the racecourse. “The West says the tortoise was slow but steady. In our African version, it was clever,” he says.

In this version, the tortoise does not run the race alone. Instead, he enlists others, placing them at intervals along the path so that no matter how fast the hare runs, a tortoise is always ahead.

“To some, this may seem like cheating, but it is not,” Omtatah explains. “It is a challenge to the established power structures, a rebellion against a system that pits the slow or poor against the swift without regard for fairness.”

Omtatah believes that challenging an unfair system requires more than individual effort; it demands unity and strategic networks. As he puts it, “When spider webs unite, they can tie down a lion,” quoting an African proverb on resistance, he urges Kenyans to unite and change the country’s political leadership for their children’s sake.

“Stories like this teach us that even the impossible can be overcome,” he says. “They remind us to persist, and that every choice has consequences, whether we act or not.”

Omtatah’s vision for the presidency is rooted in this very tortoise –hare philosophy that the slow, the overlooked, and the ordinary can defy the odds through unity and strategy. For him, running for president is not about individual power but about building a movement for prosperous nation.

His presidential bid is quietly taking shape inside a modest Nairobi office that feels more like a chapel than a campaign war room. At 63, he still wears the same rosary from 1974, draped over his shirt, a symbol of the Catholic faith that anchors his convictions.

As we step into his office on a Sunday midmorning to interview him about his presidential bid, a thick, ship anchor-like chain hangs prominently from the ceiling, directly opposite the doorway—a striking relic of past defiance. Inside, we find Omtatah, a Catholic devotee standing before a large LED TV screen, absorbed in a live church service from St. Peter’s Square in the Vatican, led by newly elected Pope Leo XIV.  Beside the screen stands a striking campaign portrait of himself on a huge canvas with Kenyan flag shade in the background bearing his slogan: “Get It Done” (Tekeleza). On the wall, pencil sketches of Nelson Mandela, Martin Luther, Malcolm X, and Patrice Lumumba echo the ideological pillars of his vision.

The worn rosary beads around Omtatah’s neck speak volumes. “I pray 53 Hail Marys daily,” he says. “It reminds me I am fighting for others, not myself.” He learned the devotion in 1974 from a catechist named Peter Quinn, and it has remained a spiritual anchor ever since.

To him, the Rosary is not just a ritual, but also a daily lesson in humility and justice. “Each Hail Mary reminds me of my flaws and my need for grace and mercy,” he says. However, the “Our Father” [from the Lord’s Prayer] most deeply shapes his activism.

“The prayer is not about individual needs, it says, ‘Give us this day our daily bread,’” he explains. “It is a collective call. It reminds us that faith is not just personal; it is about community. About fighting for a society where everyone has enough, where justice, fairness, and compassion guide our actions.”

From his days of chaining himself to gates in protest to filing over a thousand court cases, Omtatah has earned a reputation as a man who understands the system, right down to its cracks. To many, he knows not just how it works, but where it is broken. But the question now lingering on many Kenyans’ lips is this: can a man who has spent his life challenging the system now lead it, without becoming like the rest?