“When the Herd Was Full”

There was a time when Elijah’s homestead buzzed with life—the kind of life that echoed from the fields, hummed in the cow pens, and rang out in the laughter of children running between grazing goats and bleating sheep. Nestled in a dusty village on the outskirts of Kisii, Kenya, Elijah had built a modest but thriving farm with his own hands and the blessing of good rain.

At his peak, Elijah owned over 50 cows, 30 goats, and 13 sheep. It wasn’t wealth by city standards, but in the village, it was enough to make him one of the most respected men around. People came to him for milk, meat, and advice. And he gave freely. That was just the kind of man Elijah was.

He was the one who paid school fees when a cousin’s child was sent home. He supplied milk to neighbors during drought seasons. He was there at every funeral with a cow or a goat. Weddings? He gave more than asked. His generosity stretched far beyond bloodlines—he was, to many, a living symbol of what community should be.

But then came the slow unraveling.

It began with livestock theft. At first, one cow went missing—he thought it had wandered off. Then two goats disappeared overnight. The security of the farm he had worked so hard to protect was suddenly in question. At first, he tried reinforcing the fence and sleeping with one eye open, but the thieves were clever, and perhaps—just perhaps—they had help from inside. Within months, dozens of his animals were gone.

He went to the local authorities. They took notes, nodded gravely, and promised to “follow up.” But there were no arrests, no suspects. The thieves were ghosts—quiet, calculated, and relentless.

Now, Elijah is left with only 15 cows, 5 goats, and 2 sheep. The once-full pastures now feel empty. The barn echoes with silence.

And worse—he fell sick.

It started with fatigue. Then came the persistent cough. Now, even walking to the end of his compound leaves him breathless. The local clinic diagnosed it as a chronic respiratory illness, worsened by exposure to the dusty air and years of overwork. They prescribed medication, but it was expensive. Too expensive for a man who once had more milk than he could sell, but now couldn’t even afford to buy bread.

When Elijah’s sickness worsened, he turned to the people he had always supported: his family.

But help did not come.

His eldest son, now living in Nairobi, said times were hard and promised to “send something soon.” That was three months ago. His brother, once the one he bailed out of jail, claimed he was “looking for work.” His cousins avoided his calls. A few younger family members even muttered that Elijah had once been “proud,” giving without humility—and now, they said, he should “learn to ask properly.”

It was the church that stepped in.

A group of women from the local Pentecostal fellowship began visiting weekly, bringing hot meals and reading him scripture. Pastor Samuel organized a fundraiser to help cover his medication. One of the youth volunteers now helps feed the animals and clean the compound when he can.

Elijah is grateful, but also quietly heartbroken.

“How did I become the one in need?” he often whispers to himself, lying on the old reed mat beneath the broken ceiling of his once-bustling farmhouse.

He remembers vividly the joy of giving. The laughter of a bride whose wedding he saved with three goats. The tears of a neighbor whose child he helped take to the hospital in his truck. The wide smiles of children he gifted with a liter of milk each day after school. Giving had made him feel alive—anchored in a purpose beyond material wealth.

Now, that purpose feels like a ghost.

The mornings are the hardest. His body aches, but it’s the silence that cuts deeper. Where once the sounds of mooing cattle signaled the start of his day, now only a few tired animals remain. Some days, he doesn’t even have the strength to milk them.

One rainy afternoon, as he sat under the rusted iron roof, Pastor Samuel came again.

“Elijah,” the pastor said gently, “I brought some porridge. Hot, with groundnuts. You need to eat something.”

Elijah tried to smile, but his eyes betrayed him. “Do you think I’m being punished?” he asked.

The pastor shook his head. “No, brother. You’re being refined. You gave your whole life. That doesn’t disappear because of hardship. You’re still the same Elijah—our Elijah.”

“But why is it,” Elijah continued, voice cracking, “that the ones I helped have forgotten me?”

Samuel sighed. “Sometimes, people forget good when it becomes ordinary. But God remembers. And so do the right ones.”

There was a pause. Then Elijah said, “I’m scared of dying without anyone truly remembering who I was.”

The pastor smiled softly. “They’ll remember. Because even now, when you have nothing, you still worry more about others than yourself. That’s your legacy.”

—

In the weeks that followed, Elijah’s health saw moments of light. A volunteer helped him sell some milk. The church youth cleared part of the field, planting kale and onions for food. Someone even brought a radio to keep him company.

One day, as he watched the evening sun dip over the hills, Elijah thought about rebuilding—not in wealth, but in wisdom. Maybe his days of hard labor were over, but perhaps he still had something to give.

He asked the church to bring local boys on Saturdays. He would teach them how to care for cows. How to spot disease early. How to feed animals right during dry seasons. It started small—three boys. Then five. Then more.

He told stories. About honor, about giving without expecting. About not letting bitterness root in your heart.

He may no longer have 50 cows. But he had stories, wisdom, and a fire that poverty and sickness could not put out.

Elijah still lies under that rusted roof. He still struggles some mornings. But now, he is not alone.

The children he teaches call him Mzee wa Hekima—”The Elder of Wisdom.”

The women from the church continue to bring him meals, not out of pity, but in gratitude.

The goats still bleat. The few cows still give milk. The sheep still wander. But more importantly, Elijah lives with a quiet strength. His legacy is no longer measured by the number of cows he owns, but by the seeds of kindness and knowledge he continues to plant.

And somehow, that is richer than any herd he ever lost.