The media butchered his name. They wrote his name as Issack Hassan. “That’s not my name,” he says, “that’s my father’s name.” His grandfather was Hassan. His name is Ahmed. Ahmed son of Issack who was the son of Hassan; Ahmed Issack Hassan. So, the media has been writing about dead men.
Even if you don’t know his name, you undoubtedly recognise his face. In person, he’s the spitting image of ‘Isaack Hassan’ that you have seen on TV screens during the nation’s most critical moments: election time.
Is there a face on TV that elicits such a wide spectrum of emotions, contingent on one’s political stance? Joy, anger, relief, anxiety, betrayal, disbelief.
For 30 years, he has practised law and legal consultancy. He was the face of the Independent Electoral Boundaries Commission (IEBC), from 2011 to 2017, the chairperson of the Interim Independent Electoral Commission of Kenya (IIEC), from 2009 to 2011 and a commissioner of the Constitution of Kenya Review Commission, 2000 to 2006. Now he is the chairperson of the Independent Policing Oversight Authority (IPOA).
He has a book out, 'Referee to a Dirty Game', an insider account of his experience in Kenya’s electoral system. The interview happened in his office with a cliche decor of power.
This blood-red colour of your office — do you get used to it?
[Shrugs] I found it here when I came in December. I was just telling your colleague before you came in that red is associated with power—typical of offices like this. I’m not sure, but I think the former chairperson, Anne Makori, chose this décor.
Are you at liberty to change the décor?
It’s too expensive. Why would we want to incur so much money just for aesthetic purposes?
Well, because if you spend a substantial amount of time here, you might as well make it comfortable for yourself. No?
Yeah, but it’s not my house — it’s a public office. You come and go. Besides, there are a lot of austerity measures in place, so they wouldn’t even approve new carpets or sofas.
You just wrote a book. If you were to recommend one chapter, which would it be?
The last chapter — Reflections. It’s a summary of the whole book, my reflection on the Kenyan political landscape. In that chapter, I echo a statement made by Prof Anyang’ Nyong’o in 2013 after the election.
He talked about shared power—that if a candidate receives 50.4 percent, they take everything, while the loser goes home empty-handed. That system is flawed. It gives the loser no incentive to concede, even though nearly half the country voted for him. He may not be president, but that vote share should still be recognised.
Do you recall your first interaction with power?
That was in 2000, when I became a commissioner in the Constitution of Kenya Review Commission. Yashpal Ghai was our chair. We were 15 appointees. We held lots of meetings with ministers and MPs and engaged with the public.
What was your impression of power then, and has it changed?
I think power, when used positively, is a formidable force for change. In 2002, we travelled the entire country, collecting views. All of us could sense Moi was going to lose. Yet, no one told him. Not even those close to him. I’ve learned that power can make you deaf. People won’t tell you the truth if you’re powerful—either out of fear or self-preservation.
Have you always aspired to be in politics?
No. My father was a businessman and an Imam. He taught the Quran and ran his businesses successfully. Then he entered politics—and it destroyed him. He never recovered. That gave me a very nasty experience as a child. I didn’t like politics.
Yet you find yourself here, in this office with a powerful red carpet and red seats. What happened?
[Chuckle] I’m not a politician. I’m just passionate about the work I do as a public officer—as a lawyer. I went into law because I witnessed injustice in my childhood.
I assume it’s hard to be in your role and not play politics.
I know what you mean — but you’d be surprised. I’m actually an introvert. I’m a very private person. I don’t like publicity. But because of the roles I’ve taken, I’m often forced into public life. When I’m not in these positions, I return to my quiet, private world. That’s how I prefer it.
How has occupying offices like this impacted you as an individual?
First and foremost, it’s a privilege. There are many other Kenyans who could have served in these roles. I thank God that I was chosen. From early on, I served in the CKRC.
Later, I was part of the Presidential Commission of Inquiry into the Armenian Brothers. I worked as a UN consultant on constitution-making. Then came IIEC, IEBC…in between, I worked with the UN in Somalia, Afghanistan, and South Sudan. I’ve been fortunate, both as a public servant and an international civil servant.
Tell me about some of the significant turning points in your life.
The first was the death of my father in 1986. I was 16. Before he went in for surgery that Thursday, he called me. Back then, doctors only visited once every three months.
He told me, “I’m going to Garissa for surgery. If I don’t return, you’re in charge. Run the business and take care of your sisters. This is my last will.” He had four wives. We are 20 siblings. I have 12 sisters. I’m the first son of the second wife.
He was toughening me up—I used to herd cattle with my uncle during holidays. That Thursday, when I heard women crying at the police station—the buses from Garissa stopped there—I knew he had died.
Independent Policing Oversight Authority (IPOA) Chairperson Ahmed Issack Hassan during an interview at his office in Nairobi on April 14, 2025.
Photo credit: Lucy Wanjiru | Nation Media Group
The second turning point was at the University of Nairobi when we went on strike over meatballs and were sent home. While there, I received word through my sister — from General Mahmoud—that the army was recruiting cadets. “Don’t go back to university,” I was told. “It’ll take four years, no guarantee of a job. Join the army. We need the money.”
Wait — your mom had also died?
No. In our community, we call ourselves orphans when the father dies. We’re quite patriarchal. Anyway, I consulted my uncle—a district education officer—and he told me not to go. “Wait the four years.” That was a critical moment. Had I joined the army, I wouldn’t be here.
In 1992, I got a job with an NGO— EPAG (Emergency Pastoralist Assistance Group) — in Mandera, working in Somalia and Kenya. I rose to deputy project manager.
I was supposed to attend a training in Bangladesh, sponsored by UNICEF. I came to Nairobi to apply for a passport and visited my role model, Mohammed Ibrahim, at his law firm, Ahmed Ibrahim & Associates. He took me for lunch and said, “Don’t go. We have very few lawyers from our community. If you go into NGOs, you’ll be swallowed.” His firm was new, and he invited me to join at half my salary. I did.
My third turning point was in 1997 when I applied for a scholarship to the University of Amsterdam for an LLM. I came in second, but in January they called to say the top candidate had turned it down. I accepted. I was also offered a 20 percent partnership at the law firm, but I declined and went to study. My fourth turning point was becoming a commissioner at CKRC in 2000.
What kind of father are you?
I have four children. I’m not a hands-on parent, unfortunately. I’m a typical Somali man— we leave the hands-on work to the “county governor” [my wife].
I take pride in what they do, but when they came of age during my IEBC years, I made a conscious decision not to expose them. I didn’t attend PTA meetings or school activities. That was for my wife. But I always got their report forms and followed their progress.
What informed that decision?
My instincts. I’ve never allowed my family to be exposed to the public. Only now, in my book, do people know their names. My eldest daughter, Zamzam, is studying medicine. Zaytun wants to be a pilot. Alia is in high school. Jamal, the youngest, is in primary school.
What does a man like you fear now?
My fears are for my children. Especially when they’re out of the country. In Kenya, I worry about their safety outside the home. The country has a lot of anger. My fear is: when does that anger turn to physical violence? It’s a thin line.
I’ve seen what happens when civil war erupts—in Somalia, in Afghanistan. Institutions collapse. In Kenya, we keep pulling back from the edge. But one day we might not. We need to be careful.
What new skills are you learning at this stage of life?
Patience. And the ability to accept criticism as part of feedback.
What are your interests outside all this? What do you do for fun, if there's fun in your life?
I like playing table tennis but my actual love is reading books. I’m a bookworm. I read extensively. I prefer biographies. I've just finished Obama’s book and I’m starting on his wife’s book Becoming.
I also like books on leadership. I can be awake until 2am reading a book. What I have discovered is if you disable your social media accounts or you just close them you get a lot of time to yourself to read.
If somebody reads this article about you, what emotion do you want them to leave with about you?
I hope that they appreciate where I have come from and what I’ve gone through. And that they should not judge me by the headlines.
I believe in the media also in this book, in fact, I have a chapter on the media, on the corruption and the dishonesty of the mainstream media.
I was made the face of Chickengate, everyone thinks I was involved. I wasn’t. You know, I’m a pastoralist. If I were to give a code name for a bribe, it would not be chicken, you know, it would be something else like a camel or a cow.
What’s been your biggest failure?
Failing to heed the advice of my mother. In 2011.
What was the advice?
I was chairman of the Interim Independent Electoral Commission. We had a referendum in 2010. When IEBC was formed and they were appointing new commissioners my mother came all the way from Garissa to Nairobi specifically, telling me, don’t apply for this other job. Get out of it now. “I left Garissa on a bus for six hours just to come and tell you this right in person. Don’t do it.”
