By Marie-Cyrielle Agbo
When I arrived in Nairobi, I wanted to tell myself that I had no expectations. It seemed like the safest approach: if I expected nothing, I could not be disappointed, however, that would be an impossible task for me. I arrived carrying assumptions and curiosities, while keeping a small excitement about what I would find and experience. What I did not expect, however, were the details that immediately stood out to me: the metal detectors and security checks at the entrance of every shopping centre, or the country’s commitment to reducing single-use plastics, which became apparent almost the moment I stepped out of the airport.
I had not set foot on the African continent since 2008 and, after so many years away, I expected everything to feel unfamiliar. In many ways, I had anticipated change more than familiarity. Yet, one of my first impressions was how so many things reminded me of Montreal: the effortless switching between languages in the middle of conversations, the automatic greeting that follows the moment you enter a shop, and even the potholes that present themselves at every corner.
Although I had never visited East Africa before, the people I met made me feel at home almost immediately, particularly once I arrived in the village of Kianyaga. Before coming, I had been gently warned that being a foreigner in this particular rural area might attract curious looks or unwanted attention. Instead, I found myself blending in surprisingly easily. More often than not, I was the one caught off guard, standing like a deer in headlights when someone confidently addressed me in Kikuyu. I like to think that many still assume I am Kenyan, perhaps simply a member of the diaspora who has grown distant from her roots. On the occasions when I explain that I am Beninese, the reaction is almost always one of genuine curiosity, followed by a great sense of pride from their side that another African person would come to visit and appreciate Kianyaga.
Working as a caseworker for the ELIMU Impact Evaluation Unit in a remote area has also given me an opportunity to learn about Kikuyu-Kenyan culture in ways that I might never have experienced had I stayed in larger cities. I began to notice the subtleties of communication: how softly people often speak, the importance of indirect forms of interaction, and the unspoken social dynamics that shape relationships within the community. I might have missed these nuances by sticking to big cities where people are more exposed to urban western codes.
This growing cultural understanding naturally followed me into my work at the legal clinic. It taught me the importance of adapting not only to different populations, but also to different ways of communicating. It forced me to pay closer attention to the language I use and to prioritise clarity over complexity. After all, there is little value in legal assistance if the people we aim to support feel alienated by technical language or inaccessible legal jargon. There is no value to the work we do if we end up alienating our core clientele in the process through difficult legalese.
Being invited into people’s lives at moments of vulnerability is a privilege that I do not take lightly. Clients often share some of their most personal worries and challenges with openness and honesty, and they are frequently deeply grateful for the assistance we provide. Learning how to handle those conversations with empathy and care has been one of the most important lessons of this experience, yet it is not necessarily something that law school prepares us for.
Much of this work also requires flexibility and creativity. Sometimes it means adjusting appointments around clients’ schedules so they can continue tending to their coffee fields, the region’s primary cash crop. At other times, it means becoming resourceful in entirely different ways, such as walking through neighbourhoods and speaking to local residents in order to locate an address so that a demand letter can be properly served. These moments may seem small, but they have taught me that access to justice often depends just as much on adaptability and human connection as it does on legal knowledge itself.