Legal Does Not Mean Right: Power, Morality, and the Limits of Law

 

One of the most dangerous assumptions in any society is the belief that legality and morality are the same thing. They are not. They never have been. History is full of moments where the law—the very instrument meant to protect justice—was instead used to justify cruelty, inequality, and exploitation. It was once legal to buy and sell human beings. It was legal to deny women the right to vote. It was legal to colonize nations, seize land, and silence entire populations. Legality has always been shaped not by what is right, but by who holds power at a particular moment in time. And whenever we confuse legality with righteousness, we give power the ability to disguise oppression as order.

The idea that law equals morality is appealing because it simplifies life. It allows people to outsource their conscience, believing that as long as they follow the rules, they are good citizens. But laws are written, amended, and enforced by human beings—fallible, biased, and often driven by self-interest. Legal frameworks reflect the priorities of those in power, not the moral aspirations of the human spirit. A law can uphold justice, but it can also legalize injustice. The difference lies not in the rule itself but in the motives behind it.

In Kenya, this tension between legality and morality plays out in almost every sector of society. It is legal for politicians to earn extravagant allowances in a country where millions struggle to access basic healthcare. It is legal for Parliament to pass supplementary budgets that balloon public debt without public approval. It is legal for leaders facing corruption charges to run for office, and in some cases, even win. These actions may be lawful, but they are not right. They may meet procedural requirements, but they violate the moral fabric of a society that expects accountability, fairness, and responsibility from its leaders.

When the law becomes an accessory to power rather than a guardian of justice, the public begins to internalize a dangerous message: that injustice is acceptable as long as it is legal. This is how societies slide into numbness. People stop asking whether actions are ethical and start asking only whether they are permitted. Citizens slowly normalize exploitation, corruption, and inequality, because the legal system—by failing to punish them—signals that nothing is wrong. But legality is a poor measure of righteousness; a silent legal system can coexist with loud moral decay.

Globally, the same pattern emerges. Apartheid was legal. The Holocaust began with legal decrees. Segregation in the United States was upheld by law. Colonial governments imposed laws that allowed them to seize land, suppress resistance, and extract resources. Tyranny always begins with legislation—crafted to look orderly, written in the language of “peace” and “security,” and justified as “necessary.” Oppression rarely identifies itself openly; instead, it hides behind legal processes, courts, and bureaucratic language that makes exploitation seem reasonable.

Even today, many governments use legality as a shield. Surveillance laws violate privacy. Anti-protest laws silence dissent. Immigration laws dehumanize migrants. Whenever a group in power wants to control, suppress, or diminish others, it does not always resort to brute force. It drafts laws. It creates rules. It packages domination in the wrapper of legality. And because the average citizen has been conditioned to believe that legal equals right, they often comply without resistance.

This is why morality must always be larger than legality. Laws should be grounded in ethics, not the other way around. A society must judge its legal system not only by what is written in statute books but by whether those statutes reflect justice, equality, and human dignity. When the law fails to meet that standard, morality demands that citizens challenge, critique, and push for reform. After all, every major step forward in human rights began with people rejecting legal norms. Abolitionists broke the law. Freedom fighters broke the law. Suffragettes broke the law. Anti-colonial heroes broke the law. Their defiance was not criminal—it was moral.

In modern democratic societies, the responsibility to align law with morality falls on both citizens and institutions. Courts must interpret laws with a deep regard for justice, not merely technicalities. Legislators must craft laws with ethical foresight, not political convenience. And citizens must remain vigilant, refusing to accept unjust laws simply because they carry the authority of the state. Democracy demands active moral participation, not passive obedience.

Kenya’s own history offers valuable lessons. The struggle for independence was, by colonial law, illegal—but it was morally justified. The fight for multiparty democracy was criminalized—but it was the right thing to do. The push for the 2010 Constitution grew from a public moral demand to dismantle legal frameworks that perpetuated inequality and centralized power. Our progress as a nation has always come from questioning laws, not blindly obeying them.

Ultimately, we must remember that legality is a moving target. What is legal today may be illegal tomorrow. What is illegal today may be celebrated in the future. Law evolves—but moral truth has a way of revealing itself more enduringly. We must not let the shifting sands of legislation replace the timeless compass of conscience. To build a just society, we must assess not only what the law permits but what morality demands. Legal does not mean right. It never has. And until our laws consistently reflect justice, equality, and human dignity, it never will.