The Obiter Truth: A precious world

The Obiter Truth is a catalogue of everyday experiences in the life of a young lawyer hoping to find humour in the bizarre and sense in the chaos. A hat tip to the comical struggles of young lawyers everywhere.

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The air today breathes fresh and light. No sign of smog, no dust in sight

Can you believe what you see afar? That perfect, precious, world of ours

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A nervous youngster knots his band. Fingers crossed, things go as planned

He worries about his booming voice. It makes a whisper so much noise

Courts are proper, he’s been told. Speak softly lest you seem too bold

No antics please, they’ll turn you out. No politics, drama, don’t scream and shout

For etiquette rules both bench and bar, in that perfect, precious world of ours

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A judicial magistrate drums his fingers. He is patient but worry lingers

It’s barely noon, his board is done. A handful decisions, he’s dictated each one

Alone in court, one eye on the door. Is someone aggrieved? You need something more?

More cases, judgments – that’s the only way ahead. Elevations these days hang by a thread

No time to spare, to waste the hour, in that perfect, precious, world of ours

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His lordship hastens to clear his board. The Habeas Corpus cannot be ignored

Now, Court Master, all else shall wait. No question of adjournment, we’ll hear it today

Out comes the verdict by the end of the week: its illegal detention, set the poor man free

He knows full well the nature of his job. The weak need protection and wronged men, hope

That might shall never prevail over law, in that perfect, precious, world of ours

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Later in the evening, roster in hand. Attentive but tired, alone sits a man

His only concern, power must be dispersed. Justice should be seen, just as it is served

They heap criticisms, he doesn’t mind the least. His task is done if the people freely speak

That he goes by ‘chief’ is almost an irony, he’s a servant of the court, a watchman of its legacy

Beyond this description, he wields little power, in that perfect, precious, world of ours

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The clock strikes midnight and all is peace. By a pledge redeemed, a free country sleeps

Could it be real or just some lark? That perfect, precious, world of ours?