From my study to you, a reflection born of years of observation, experience, and a deep love for this noble profession.
Every year, as the ceremonial robes are donned and the air fills with the unmistakable hum of accomplishment, I find myself standing, sometimes in the crowd, sometimes in my chambers, watching the same scene unfold. I have witnessed it year after year, Call after Call. And each time, my heart swells with pride for the new lawyers, only to sink moments later as the familiar chorus begins.
This year, I was present at the Maiden March Call to the Bar, held at the Cedi Auditorium of the University of Ghana. It was a sight to behold. Families beamed with pride, their faces alight with joy as their loved ones, freshly minted lawyers, took their first official steps into the noble profession. Mothers wept tears of joy. Fathers puffed out their chests in quiet pride. Children cheered for their parents. It was a celebration of sacrifice fulfilled, of dreams realized.
I sat there, watching the ceremony unfold, and my heart was full.
Within that time, I did what many of us do in this age: I opened my social media to check the feeds. I expected to see the same warmth reflected in the digital space. Instead, I was met with a familiar sting. The comments section, which should have been a place of congratulations, had become a battleground of scorn. The same voices, the same sneers, the same tired refrains. It was as if I had been transported back to every Call to the Bar I had ever witnessed.
I had a déjà vu.
There it was, the ritual I had come to know all too well. The phenomenon I have watched repeat itself year after year, ceremony after ceremony. The predictable chorus of ridicule, guilt-tripping, and thinly veiled contempt.
It is a chorus that sounds like this: “Ah, another lawyer. Just what we need.” “So, are you going to start exploiting people now?” “The market is saturated; good luck finding a job.” “These ones will never go to court; they will always be in the office.” “Anybody can be a lawyer now.” “More certificates and nothing to show for it.” “They are getting ready to go to parliament to steal our money.”
They direct this venom at the newly minted advocates, the seasoned practitioners, and even the students still chasing the dream.
I call this phenomenon Lawyer Shaming.
It is a ritual as predictable as the swearing-in ceremony itself. And for years, I watched it in silence. But today, from my study to you, whether you are a fresh graduate with a trembling heart, a weary practitioner wondering if the struggle is worth it, or a law student questioning your path, I am here to expose it for what it truly is: a projection of secret admiration, a misunderstanding of history, and a psychological defense mechanism that should never make you look back.
To the new lawyer, the old lawyer, and the law student: let this serve as your armor. Let my words be the voice you wish someone had given you when you first faced the mockery.
Before we dissect the motives of the shamers, let us remind ourselves of what it actually took to get here.
I remember my own journey. I remember the library at 3:00 AM, surrounded by textbooks that weighed more than my conscience, trying to reconcile the nuances of obiter dicta with the exhaustion of a body running on caffeine and ambition. I remember the financial burden—the exorbitant fees that emptied family coffers, and the silent prayers that it would all be worth it.
I remember the days of ill health, recovering from a miscarriage and an evacuation procedure, barely six weeks to my Part One Bar exam.
Perhaps you have a similar story. Perhaps you are living it right now.
They did not see those moments. They did not see the tears, the sacrifices, the days you wondered if you had made a mistake. They only see the title, “Esq.” And because they did not walk the path with you, they feel entitled to diminish the destination.
Becoming a lawyer is not a casual decision; it is a crucible. You did not just “get a degree.” You underwent a transformation. You earned the right to stand before the distinguished men and women who have been called to sit in judgment over their peers, the learned, esteemed, and revered law lords of our beautiful country, Ghana. You earned the title.
When someone tries to shame you for that achievement, they are not critiquing the profession; they are dismissing your suffering and your victory. Do not let them.
One of the most common refrains in lawyer shaming is the lament of saturation: “There are too many lawyers.”
Let me tell you something I have learned over the years: this argument is a red herring. The idea that there is a finite number of justice-seekers allowed in a society is absurd. No one ever says there are “too many doctors” when a pandemic hits, or “too many teachers” when literacy rates are low. Access to justice is a cornerstone of civilization. A society with many lawyers is not a society in crisis; it is a society that is serious about order, rights, and accountability.
The shamer hides behind this economic argument because it sounds pragmatic. But from my observation, it is merely a mask for something deeper.
Why do people mock what they secretly admire? I have pondered this question for years, and I have come to understand it deeply.
Psychologically, when a person encounters something they deeply desire but feel is unattainable to themselves, whether due to the cost, the intellectual rigor, or the sheer grit required, cognitive dissonance sets in. To protect their ego from the discomfort of “I could not do that,” their mind substitutes the feeling of admiration with contempt.
They pooh-pooh the very thing they secretly admire.
I have seen it time and again. The loudest critics are often those who, in a different life, would have given anything to stand where you stand. Their mockery is not an attack on you; it is a conversation they are having with their own unfulfilled ambitions. Do not allow yourself to become the target of their internal struggle.
Consider this: when medical doctors hold their induction ceremony, when engineers are sworn into their professional bodies, when architects or surveyors receive their licenses, where is the chorus of ridicule?
I have attended many such ceremonies. I have watched young doctors take the Hippocratic Oath, and the public celebrates. They say, “What a noble profession.” They commend the years of medical school, the sleepless nights in residency, the sacrifice, as they should. When an engineer is inducted, the remarks are of admiration: “These are the builders of our nation.”
But when a lawyer is called to the Bar, suddenly everyone becomes a critic.
Why the double standard? Why is the law the only profession whose induction attracts scorn rather than celebration?
From my years in this field, I have come to understand that the answer is uncomfortable for the shamers. It is because the law occupies a unique and intimidating space. A doctor treats the body; an engineer builds structures. But a lawyer handles something far more sensitive: power, rights, and accountability.
The lawyer stands between the citizen and the state. The lawyer holds the keys to justice. The lawyer can challenge authority, question the powerful, and hold institutions accountable.
This truth was captured with profound eloquence by the Honourable Chief Justice, His Lordship Justice Paul Baffoe Bonnie, at the very ceremony I attended, the Maiden March Call to the Bar held at the Cedi Auditorium of the University of Ghana on Friday, 27th March 2026. Speaking to the newly called lawyers, he reminded us that the law, if used faithfully and principlly, gives us “something rare; the opportunity to stand between power and vulnerability, between order and disorder, between right and wrong.”
Let those words settle in your spirit.
That is what you have signed up for. That is the grave privilege and the immense responsibility that comes with your new title. And such responsibility does not arrive by accident. It comes only after years of rigorous hard work, sleepless nights, and a depth of learning that few other professions demand.
That power unsettles people. It is easier to mock the lawyer than to acknowledge that the lawyer exists precisely to protect the mocker’s own rights. It is easier to sneer than to admit that in your moment of greatest trouble, when you are falsely accused, when your property is threatened, when your freedom hangs in the balance, the first person you will call is not a doctor or an engineer. It will be a lawyer.
The silence at other inductions and the noise at the Call to the Bar is not a commentary on the value of the legal profession. It is a testament to its unique power. People do not mock what is weak; they mock what they cannot control.
Let me make a bold statement that will ruffle feathers but is backed by history and my own conviction: the law is the only learned profession. And it is undoubtedly so.
Look around you. How many professions have their own distinct vocabulary, their own governance, their own centuries-old traditions that predate modern democracy? How many professionals call each other “learned”?
I have had the privilege of being addressed as “My Learned Friend” by colleagues, and I can tell you, there is nothing quite like it. That title carries centuries of tradition, scholarship, and responsibility. It is not arrogance; it is a historical recognition that the law is not merely a trade, it is a discipline that requires the mastery of language, history, philosophy, and ethics.
Moreover, observe the migration of ambition. How many lawyers do you know who leave the profession to become doctors? In all my years, I can count them on one hand. But how many doctors, engineers, politicians, and business leaders leave their fields to study law to garnish their primary professions? Countless. I have met them in lecture halls, in chambers, in the corridors of the law school. Why? Because law is the lingua franca of power and order. When they retire from the army, police service, or other professions, they set up their chambers and start practicing the law.
The law underpins everything. To be a lawyer is to be the architect of civilization’s framework. There is no shame in that. There is only pride.
So, to you, the newly called lawyer standing at the threshold of your career: I speak to you now from my study, across the years of my own journey. When the shamer’s comments come, and they will, do not let them pierce your resolve.
You did not endure years of sleepless nights to apologize for your success. You did not pay those high fees to feel guilty about your ambition. You walked into that hall to be called to the Bar because you earned it. I know, because I walked that same path. And I am still here, still practicing, still proud.
To the old lawyer, weary from the battles: I see you. I know the weight you carry. Do not let the cynicism of the public dull your sense of purpose. You have stood in the gap for people in their darkest hours. You are a keeper of order. You are needed.
To the law student: I was once where you are now. The noise you hear from the sidelines is not a reflection of the profession’s worth, but a reflection of the observer’s insecurity. Keep your eyes on the goal. The sleepless nights will be worth it.
The next time someone tries to shame you for being a lawyer, or mocks you for being an “office lawyer” who doesn’t frequent the courtroom, recognize it for what it is: a confession. They are telling you that you achieved something they have not, at least, not yet, and they are struggling to make peace with it. Whether you are in the courtroom fighting for justice or in the office structuring the backbone of commerce, you are practicing law, and that is a privilege earned by few.
Keep your head up. Wear your gown with pride. You are not just a professional; you are a member of the only profession qualified to be called learned. There is no shame in being a lawyer. There never was. And there never shall be.
Congratulations to the newly minted lawyers! You have worked for this. You have earned this. Relish the moments. Savour your victory. Enjoy becoming a lawyer.
The views expressed are personal and do not reflect the position of any institution.