For centuries, open justice has been preserved through public galleries in courts and tribunals, allowing ordinary people to witness justice being delivered in real time. In Ancient Rome, the centumviral court (centumviri) handled what we now call civil law—marriages, contracts, property, and other private disputes that shape daily life. During a recent visit to the Primary Court in Kicukiro District, Kigali, I was reminded of this Roman legacy, and how profoundly the courtroom continues to shape the destinies of those who pass through its doors. Inside the modest building on a quiet Kicukiro street, I observed a carousel of human conflicts not so different from those faced by Rome’s plebeians centuries ago—ordinary people awaiting verdicts that would alter the course of their lives. A divorcing couple drew my attention. Once bound together with pomp and scripture—“they are no longer two, but one flesh”—they now sat focused on dividing property and wealth. As the heavy metal band Metallica once sang, “nothing else matters.” Only here, the lawyers—the “penguins” in their black-and-white robes were ready to collect their fees. Standing casually beneath a eucalyptus tree, lawyers in street clothes slipped on their penguin-like attire and ushered their clients into the courtroom. The scene was devoid of romance or ritual: only the cold mechanics of law. Under Rwanda’s Law Governing Persons and Family, marriages end not with music or blessing, but with legal decrees. The penguins perform their ritual, the judge delivers the verdict, and one becomes two again. Elsewhere, a woman stood with an infant beside her, quietly speaking to a man in a pink prison uniform. His handcuffs were briefly removed as he awaited his turn. Again, the penguins led the way, guiding both prisoner and witness to the wooden benches before the judge. Testimonies were exchanged, decrees were issued, and the prisoner was escorted back into custody. The woman and child watched silently as he disappeared—a scene heavy with melancholy. Then, almost suddenly, the mood shifted. A stylishly dressed woman appeared, striking in her poise, chatting lightly with a lawyer before drifting into the waiting crowd. She moved through the space with the air of someone at a cocktail party, reminding me that even in the shadows of justice, life’s other pursuits—romance, chance, human connection—linger. The Romans understood this duality. The poet Horace urged us to carpe diem—seize the day. Ovid, in his Ars Amatoria (The Art of Love), even suggested that law courts could be fertile ground for finding partners. Watching that woman in Kicukiro, I could almost hear Ovid whispering across time. And so, the Penguins of Kicukiro stand as heirs to an ancient tradition—part guardians of justice, part reluctant actors in the theatre of human love and loss. The empire is long gone, yet its rituals continue—repeated daily in law, and occasionally, in love.
