Mary Wambui should seriously consider asking for a refund from the lawyers who sold her the fantasy that Google can be compelled to make Kenyans forget her public record.

The so-called "right to be forgotten" was never designed as a reputation-washing machine for politically connected individuals who have spent years around public office, state appointments, public contracts, and taxpayer-funded projects.

The principle was originally intended to protect ordinary people from having outdated, irrelevant, or unfairly prominent personal information permanently follow them around online. It was not created to help public figures erase scrutiny over matters that remain relevant to the public interest.

That is what makes the entire exercise so puzzling.

Only weeks ago, Mary Wambui was reportedly in court seeking orders relating to online publications about her past Sh2.2 billion tax dispute, a case that was ultimately withdrawn in 2023. At almost the same time, fresh questions have emerged from official audit findings regarding potential conflict-of-interest concerns involving fibre optic tenders linked to Nightingale Enterprises under the government's Digital Superhighway programme.

That is not a case of the internet refusing to forget.

It is a case of public-interest questions continuing to arise.

The argument behind the right to be forgotten is often misunderstood. Even Google's own explanation of the process does not involve deleting history from the internet. At most, it concerns the delisting of certain search results under specific circumstances after balancing privacy rights against the public's right to know.

Courts and regulators in Europe have repeatedly emphasized that public figures enjoy a much narrower claim to such protections, particularly where the information concerns public affairs, public money, public appointments, or matters that remain relevant to ongoing public debate.

That is the key issue here.

When an individual has occupied positions of influence, benefited from proximity to power, participated in public procurement ecosystems, or remains the subject of continuing public-interest discussions, the threshold for removing information becomes significantly higher.

The public is entitled to examine records, ask questions, and connect historical events with current developments. That is how accountability works.

What makes this situation particularly curious is the timing. Seeking to suppress online references to past controversies becomes difficult when fresh audit concerns are simultaneously generating new public discussion. One cannot convincingly argue that a matter belongs exclusively to the past while new questions continue to emerge in the present.

Google is a search engine, not a private laundry service.

It was never intended to help powerful individuals curate a cleaner public image by selectively removing uncomfortable chapters from their history. Nor should it be expected to close its eyes when public institutions, auditors, journalists, and citizens continue to ask legitimate questions.

In a democracy, public records do not disappear simply because they become inconvenient.

And when fresh scrutiny continues to follow old controversies, the challenge is not Google's memory.

The challenge is the public record itself.