This summer, Akosua Matthews opened a solo practice with a clear mission: to take on a caseload of her own choosing, in her own way, for her own reasons. It’s a calculated bet. Now 13 years into her legal career, she attracts a stable influx of clients in two arenas. The first focuses on cases that hold the state—police boards in particular—accountable for civil negligence or unconstitutional conduct, often on behalf of the marginalized. The second is a niche area within the world of workplace investigations. When an institution hires someone for a role that’s meant for an Indigenous person, she substantiates that the candidate is indeed Indigenous. It’s a unique combination of files.
Her motivation is partly personal. “I haven’t encountered the state in the same ways that my clients have,” she says. “But as a person of colour, both of Ghanaian descent and as a Métis individual, I am keenly aware of the impact of state actions on people from different backgrounds.” More broadly, Matthews is drawn to work that demands a high level of cultural competence. That’s plainly the case in her workplace-investigation practice. “You have to recognize that the process is, in and of itself, traumatic, and that you are going to do your very best not to add to the trauma,” she says. “You have to communicate that you have an independent thinking process that will not be influenced by any one party. You have to respect the process and give people a fair shake, a fair opportunity.”
Of course, passion and business don’t always align. You may want to take on a certain file, but the client has no money to afford your counsel. Or perhaps you lack the skill to handle it. Or perhaps you’re too exhausted, after weeks of long hours on another high-stakes matter, to accept it. It’s difficult to launch a social-justice practice that’s also sustainable in the long term. Yet that’s what Matthews has done.
When Matthews began law school at the University of Toronto, in 2010, she hoped to one day build a career that centred on social-justice litigation. She’d already accomplished a mind-boggling amount. After an undergraduate degree in philosophy at the University of Manitoba, she spent two years with the Manitoba government: first as a legislative intern, then as a policy analyst. Next, on a Rhodes Scholarship, she studied comparative social policy at Oxford. To reach her ultimate goal, though, she needed something that law school generally fails to provide: practical courtroom skills. “The earlier you can develop those fundamentals, the better,” she says. “It gives you a bedrock.”
As a law student, Matthews volunteered at Downtown Legal Services, where she represented low-income clients who faced minor criminal charges. After graduation, she articled in the civil division of the Ontario Crown Law Office, another role that brought her into the courtroom. Her training took on a new intensity, however, when she landed her first associate position at Falconers LLP.
Over a seven-year tenure at the small firm—which specializes in civil, constitutional and criminal litigation—Matthews worked on a bevy of state-accountability cases. At coroner’s inquests, for instance, she advocated for the families of people who had died at the hands of the police. She also represented First Nations governments on a range of matters, from public inquiries to human-rights complaints. “That kind of practice requires taking time, building up relationships first, not being the typical lawyer in the room and thinking that you know best,” says Matthews. “The client knows a lot. It’s really important to pay attention to their knowledge.”
When she left Falconers, she moved to Kastner Ko LLP, a small shop with its own focus on state accountability. Clients began to seek her out to handle anti-Black racism cases, on the basis of her personal, lived experience. It was also here that her long-standing work with Indigenous communities led to a surge in referrals to handle workplace investigations. Over time, she came to realize that she largely operated “as a solo practitioner within a firm.” Her recent decision to strike out on her own made it official.
Workplace investigations have become the economic foundation of her business model. Matthews lands those files on a regular basis, and each one pays well. That steady revenue protects her ability to challenge state actors on behalf of people who lack the means to fund a coroner’s inquest or a civil suit against the police. “Financially stable institutional work ensures that I can take on files that are really important but less lucrative,” she says, “without compromising the viability of my practice.”
For Matthews, business development is a low-key affair. Because nearly all of her files come from referrals, it’s important to consistently deliver the sort of top-notch legal work that might prompt a client to recommend her in the future. She also nurtures her professional relationships—with mentors, colleagues, former clients. “A lot of us came up thinking we need to have flashy marketing campaigns and put our faces on billboards, but I find it’s actually quite the opposite,” she says. “You can be quiet and create a thriving practice. It’s one file, one client, one referral at a time.”
That strategy has paid off. Her reputation proves it. “Akosua is an incredible lawyer,” says Maggie Wente, a partner at Olthuis Kleer Townshend LLP, one of the top firms in Canada when it comes to representing Indigenous peoples. Wente, a member of Serpent River First Nation, met Matthews on a case almost a decade ago, and the two of them became friends. “She’s intelligent, she’s tenacious, she’s diligent and she’s extremely respectful about both her clients and Indigenous self-determination.”
Matthews has also managed to avoid a mistake that’s endemic to the social-justice world: taking on too much. “I’m not just a lawyer. I’m also a mom and a partner,” she says. (The couple welcomed their second child in May.) “Those aspects of my life are important to me, and also help me be a better lawyer, so I am making space for that.”
It’s crucial, she’s learned, to diversify her attention. Not only for family—but for interests outside of legal practice, too. She’s an active volunteer at the YMCA of Greater Toronto, having sat on the board for close to a decade. (She was the chair from 2023 to 2025.) She also teaches an undergraduate course on the business of social-justice law at Trinity College. “You need to ‘touch grass,’ as the kids say,” she explains. “You can’t only interact with lawyers and others in the legal profession. Keeping one foot in the real world has been really, really critical for me.”
Such a balanced approach is hard to achieve. “I find it very admirable,” says Emily Lam, who runs her own multi-faceted solo practice, a blend of criminal defence, workplace investigations and special projects with First Nations. She’s known Matthews for roughly five years now, and she knows how prevalent burnout is among sole practitioners. “You need to learn how to say ‘no.’ You need to be okay with letting go of clients, people and cases that don’t foster your growth, development and potential.”
When deciding whether to accept a file, Matthews tries to be that selective. “Part of the story of burnout for a lot of people is that they’re not actually showing up in a way that feels authentic to them,” she says. “We have to genuinely bring our whole person to the profession.”
Illustration by Jacqui Oakley.