"I was inspired by Readington's lifestyle," he laughs, referring to a character from the crime series he watched during school holidays. "At first, I didn't want to be on the positive side. I was inspired by the lifestyle and all that. I was like, I want to be on this other side of crime where money is."

But reality has a way of redirecting youthful ambitions. When Wallid entered university to study criminology and criminal justice, he quickly learned that career prospects were limited to police stations or prosecution offices. During his attachment period, when he tried to apply to police stations in Mombasa, an Officer Commanding Station told him bluntly: "The only person who we have here, you have to pass through Kiganjo [police training college] to be here."

Desperate and Googling alternatives, Wallid discovered MUHURI. He applied, was accepted, and on his very first day found himself at a post-mortem examination for three men who had been electrocuted at an Indian company in Changamwe.

"I was looking at the guy, I was like, are you serious? I'm going to see dead bodies. My first day," Wallid recalls. "That day we did three post-mortems."

It was a baptism by fire into the world of human rights work responding to violations, documenting evidence, supporting families seeking justice. But it ignited something in Wallid that his years of shifting career dreams never had.

"I've always had that interest, but I've never put a name to it," he explains. "So finally, here was something that defined that space, and gave it a purpose."

The Justice Gap in Lamu

That purpose became clearer when Wallid returned to work in his home county of Lamu. What he found was a justice system that existed in name only for most residents.

Lamu County is an archipelago of thirty islands off Kenya's northern coast, with populations scattered across remote villages accessible only by boat. The geography alone creates massive barriers to justice. But the challenges run deeper than distance.

"Lamu is one place that defines, if you ask me, that defines and gives meaning to what marginalization is," Wallid says with conviction. "Had I not gone to Western Kenya for education, I would be somewhere here doing manual jobs, for a fact."

The marginalization is comprehensive: inadequate schools, poor infrastructure, absent government services. The court system, such as it exists, operates from a rented building on Lamu Island. Police stations are few and far between. For residents of Lamu East, accessing any justice service can cost 40,000-45,000 Kenyan shillings in transport alone more than many families earn in a month.

"People had no faith in the existence of a government that was serving people, let alone the provision of justice actors and mechanisms," Wallid explains.

Into this vacuum, traditional and religious systems filled the space. Disputes were resolved by elders through masla compensation paid to victims. While this worked for minor property crimes, it failed catastrophically for serious violations like rape, domestic violence, and repeat offenses.

"We had repeat offenders. Somebody today steals, tomorrow steals another place, tomorrow, aggravated crime every day, and now the elders can no longer sit down," says Wallid. "We came to define that there were victims, and it was not only retributive or restorative, justice had various angles."

PLEAD: A Lifeline, Not Just an Intervention

When the PLEAD programme arrived in Lamu in 2019, MUHURI was ready. The organization had identified the gaps; PLEAD provided the resources and framework to address them systematically.

The first innovation was mobile courts. Rather than expecting people to travel to Lamu Island, MUHURI worked with PLEAD to bring magistrates, court staff, and Kadhi courts directly to communities in Lamu East.