One year ago, a young lawyer’s name was read in a courtroom, marking his official entry into the Ghanaian Bar. Since then, he has spent months moving between the Court of Appeal, the High Court and the Circuit Court, learning the rhythms of each court and the habits of the judges who preside over them.
The rules of procedure provide the skeleton of a case, but the living body of a courtroom is shaped by the judges’ routines and the registries’ schedules. A motion that looks flawless on paper can still be delayed if service never reaches the other side. The lawyer now confirms cause lists the day before and carries spare copies, a habit that has saved him from last‑minute surprises.
He notes that the High Court rewards authority and tidy bundles of documents, while the Circuit Court, especially in family matters, sits closer to the people whose lives are at stake. A petitioner in a matrimonial case wants to know when the matter will end, and the lawyer has learned to meet that expectation with honesty and promptness.
Litigation often waits for the other party to be served, and a date three months away is announced as if it were good news. Clients do not always understand the delays, and the lawyer now shares the blame for the adjournment culture that arises when time is requested without necessity. He now aims to be ready on the day and to tell clients the truth about potential delays early.
The first day at the Bar was a turning point. A senior lawyer called him to a Circuit Court on a Monday, alone, to argue a judgment that was due that day. No one hands a junior lawyer anything to argue on judgment day, yet he walked into the courtroom as if the whole building had come to watch him. He took a seat, opened a new notebook, and listened as the judge read the judgment. He wrote furiously, knowing that his senior would plan the next move from his notes. That Monday taught him that the profession expects a junior to hear correctly and report faithfully.
His first solo motion was for substituted service. After rehearsing for two days, he stumbled over the opening sentence. The judge asked a simple question: what exactly did the court need to do, and why could the other side not be served normally? The lawyer answered, and the rest came easily. He learned that if you cannot state your application in two sentences, you do not yet understand it.
The Court of Appeal is another world, quieter, with questions coming from three directions at once. On appeal, you argue whether the law was applied correctly before a panel that has usually read the record more closely than you would like. He recalls going alone to hear a judgment before the three pillars of Justice, feeling the distance of the court’s gravitas.
Money is not a dirty word at the Bar. Rent must be paid, and a junior who pretends otherwise is either supported by someone else or is not honest. A lawyer chasing the quickest fee will pay for it later. The brief that pays fast often teaches nothing, and a junior who takes every matter soon learns how expensive cheap money can be.
The early years are an apprenticeship. Every hour in court behind a senior and every draft returned covered in corrections is training no tuition could buy. The Bar has its shortcuts: undercutting colleagues, accepting matters beyond your competence, promising results no honest lawyer can promise. Each action spends reputation, which a young practitioner cannot buy back. Take the money you are fairly owed, and do not let it become the reason you stopped learning.
Alongside practice, he has kept up his passion for writing, mostly on football. The two have competed for the same hours. A hearing in the morning and a piece due by evening looks manageable in a diary, but at half‑past ten at night, the law is a jealous profession. No deadline is a good reason to walk into court half‑prepared, so the days belong to the practice and the writing takes what the nights will give. Yet he would not give up either. Writing has made him clearer in submissions, and court has made him wary of publishing any claim he could not defend.
The profession is smaller than it looks. The opponent who frustrates you today will be the colleague you need next month, and the clerk or bailiff who sees your manners will remember them. Be courteous without being soft, and never tell a court anything you would be embarrassed to defend. Credibility is the only capital a young lawyer truly owns.
He owes much to his seniors, his brother Andrew Khartey and Elikem Adisenu‑Doe, who let him watch before they let him speak, and who corrected him in private and praised him in front of others. Having been taught that way, he intends to teach that way. He is not yet the lawyer he means to become, but he knows what the work demands: preparation no one sees, honesty that costs something, and patience. The Monday after his call was a quiet beginning, and he is grateful it began with listening.
Congratulations to the 1,400 to be called to the Bar on Friday, especially his cousin David Andreas Hesse Jnr and his friends Samuel Kyeremeh, Daisy Hanson‑Nortey and Anne Adjasah. The years of study and the sacrifices of the family members who will fill the auditorium all arrive at a single morning, and you have earned every minute of it. Enjoy it, and thank the people who carried you here. Then on Monday, go and find a courtroom, sit behind someone who knows more than you do, and listen. Be patient with the money and serious with the work.
