(The second in a fictional sequel that started with “Love Re-ignited”)
James’s first veterinary class was a whirlwind of excitement laced with mild panic. Accustomed to the precision of blueprints and the cold, unyielding logic of machinery, he now found himself in a room filled with anatomy charts, surgical tools, and a startling array of animal skeletons. It felt as though he’d wandered into a peculiar museum exhibit titled The Secret Lives of Livestock.
Jero, the instructor—a seasoned vet with a dry wit—set the tone with a hands-on demonstration. Holding a life-size sheep model like a trusted companion, he struck a casual “buddy pose” and quipped, “Their organs are just like ours, you know.” The conspiratorial pat he gave the sheep earned him a few bewildered looks. “First, you check the pulse and gums,” he continued, his tone as nonchalant as if he were explaining how to operate a vending machine.
James, meanwhile, approached his model sheep with the intensity of an engineer troubleshooting a structural failure. His attempt to locate the pulse resembled someone fiddling with the dials on a temperamental old radio. Around him, younger classmates were clearly having fun—one mimed performing CPR on their model, while another pretended to feed theirs an invisible carrot.
A chuckle escaped James despite himself. At least the sheep aren’t judging us, he thought.
“Alright, James,” Jero said, approaching with a knowing smile. “Let’s get you comfortable with the basics.”
Standing tall and broad beside the smaller instructor, James stepped aside to give him better access to the model sheep.
“Ever checked neck glands before?” Jero asked, his tone friendly.
James shook his head. “Not yet.”
Jero gestured toward the model. “The neck glands—like the submandibular lymph nodes—can tell us a lot. If they’re swollen, it might mean an infection or something more serious. Here…” He guided James’s hand beneath the jaw. “Feel for lumps for irregularities.”
James pressed his fingers against the synthetic material with tentative care. “Like this?”
“Almost. Use a bit more pressure, but not too much. Think about the animal’s comfort. You are feeling for something firm but not hard, smooth but not too large. A healthy node should be small and mobile.”
James adjusted his grip as instructed, and Jero nodded approvingly. “Better. Now, what about pulse and gums? Why do you think they matter?”
James paused, considering. Their organs are just like ours, you know, he remembered. “Pulse for circulation, I guess? And gums for hydration or maybe oxygen levels?”
“Spot on,” Jero replied. “Here’s how you check the pulse—” he demonstrated on the model’s leg. “And the gums should be pink. If they’re pale or blue, something’s wrong. Give it a try.”
Confidence growing, James followed the steps. “Like this?”
“Exactly. You’re getting the hang of it. Keep practicing. One day, you’ll save lives with these hands.”
Soon, he corrected the instructor, but only in his mind. For…no, with Prisca.
James smiled, feeling a quiet resolve take root. He was out of his depth, but he was ready to learn.
As the lecture shifted to common livestock diseases, James’s analytical mind clicked into gear. Terms like rumen and brucellosis were unfamiliar, but he jotted them down with the methodical precision of an engineer mapping out a complex system. By the end of class, he was exhausted but fulfilled.
The knowledge James was gaining felt pivotal, drawing him closer to the clarity and purpose he needed to make a meaningful impact among the Pokot—the people Prisca had devoted herself to serving. Sitting among aspiring veterinarians, he felt as though he were scaling a steep hill, one that promised a panoramic view of the paths leading to a transformational journey—for both him and Prisca.
***
James’s first appointment was with his boss, Anders Holmgren, to finalize the details of his new working arrangement. The setting was Anders’s office on the 10th floor of the Equator Engineering headquarters, a space as meticulously arranged as the blueprints James had spent years poring over. Shelves lined with engineering manuals. Architectural models showcased the company’s accomplishments: a geothermal power station, a suspension bridge, and a sleek water treatment plant. Framed photos of projects under construction adorned the walls, blending with the muted tones of gray and deep blue that gave the office a modern but understated elegance.
As James knocked lightly on the half-open glass door, the faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifted toward him, mingling with the clean scent of polished wood.
“Good morning, James,” Anders greeted, gesturing toward a side table where a sleek coffee machine stood next to an assortment of mugs. Anders poured himself a cup and raised an eyebrow in silent invitation. James, already full from breakfast, accepted out of camaraderie. He picked up a plain white mug, appreciating the warmth in his hands and the earthy bitterness of the first sip.
The two men settled at the desk, its surface a perfect blend of function and style, with neatly stacked papers, a laptop, and a scaled-down model of a geothermal plant serving as a centerpiece. Behind Anders, the large floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a sweeping view of Uhuru Park, where the city’s greenery seemed to breathe life into the urban sprawl of Nairobi.
Anders leaned back in his ergonomic chair, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp. James adjusted his chair slightly, angling his body to create a more conversational angle, though he couldn’t ignore the faint tension of the moment.
“I got your letter,” Anders began, his voice carrying its usual mix of authority and approachability. “But I wanted to hear about your plans directly. Why the big change?”
James hesitated, momentarily caught between what he wanted to say and what he could share. I love a girl there, he thought. I want to be where she is, serving the people she has committed her professional life to. But instead, he took a steadying breath and replied, “They need me. I want to contribute to something meaningful.”
Anders raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “Meaningful how? Designing cattle sheds? Boreholes?”
James smiled faintly, appreciating the levity. Whatever Prisca needs, he thought, but he kept his tone practical. “I’m not sure yet. I’m studying veterinary medicine, to start with.”
Anders’s brow furrowed slightly. “Wait—formal training?”
“Exactly,” James confirmed, his voice steady. “A diploma course?”
Anders leaned forward, his hands resting on the edge of the desk. “That’s impressive. I didn’t realize you were that committed.” He paused, glancing at one of the framed photos of a completed project. “It’s a worthy cause. I wish more people dedicated themselves to work like that. How’s it going out there?”
“It’s going well. I repaired a broken borehole pump — my only contribution to date,” James said, smiling modestly. The memory of the pump whirring back to life in the middle of the dusty Pokot village filled him with quiet pride. “But I’ll make sure to keep all my responsibilities here on track.”
Anders nodded, a faint smile softening his sharp features. “I’ve never doubted your work ethic, James. We just need a structure that works for both sides. How much time do you think you’ll need in Pokot?”
James placed his coffee mug down carefully, the ceramic clinking softly against the desk. “I was thinking about a week each month. I’d leave on the last Friday, attend church with the community, work with the elders Monday through Wednesday, and return on Thursday.”
Anders swirled his coffee thoughtfully, gazing out the window for a moment before turning back. “That sounds reasonable. As long as you stay ahead of your workload here, I don’t see a problem. Let’s make sure we have clear goals for both roles so neither is compromised.”
James nodded, relief washing over him. “Thank you, Anders. I’ll plan ahead and keep you updated on any potential conflicts.”
Anders extended a hand across the desk, his grip firm but warm. “You’re welcome, James. I admire your determination to make a difference. It’s important work.” He glanced at his watch before standing. “I’ll talk to HR about updating your contract. Anything else?”
“No, that’s all,” James replied, rising to his feet. He adjusted his jacket, feeling lighter than he had when he’d walked in.
As he stepped out of the office, James allowed himself a moment to take in the view. The vibrant green of Uhuru Park contrasted with the muted grays of the city beyond, a reminder of the balance he hoped to strike in his own life. The path ahead wouldn’t be easy, but he felt a renewed sense of purpose.
For Prisca. For the Pokot people. For himself.
***
A Mission of Healing
This time, the long drive to Sigor felt different—lighter, almost joyous. The anticipation coursing through James stirred him up like the giddy energy of a young man who’d just discovered love.
He had gotten himself a new car. His Lexus had stayed behind in Nairobi, and now he drove a rugged Land Rover 110. It wasn’t nearly as comfortable as the Lexus, but its utilitarian build suited the task ahead. Beyond Nakuru, the faint hum of the Land Rover’s engine resonated with the uneven rhythm of the gravel road, and the smell of dust mixed with the faint scent of the vehicle’s new interior. Behind him, the backseat and cargo space were loaded with supplies: sacks of maize flour, crates of tinned food, vaccines safely stowed in a cooler, and medical supplies. It was a practical collection, yet it felt almost sacred—a delivery of hope to a people in need.
The rainy season had come to the Rift Valley, softening the rugged landscape with bursts of green. The once-dry fields glistened with the tender shoots of new grass, and acacia trees were dotted with pale yellow blossoms that seemed to sing in the sunlight. Bees danced around the brilliant yellow flowers of acacia trees, collecting nectar and pollen like faithful workers who did not need supervision.
James rolled down the window, letting the warm breeze carry in the scents of wildflowers and damp earth. The last time he’d driven this route, the beauty had gone unnoticed, buried beneath a cloud of anxiety and uncertainty. This time, it was different. He allowed himself to soak in the scenery—the rolling hills, the jagged escarpments, the occasional bursts of birdsong.
He glanced at the passenger seat, where a well-worn veterinary textbook lay, its corners curling from use. He’d spent hours poring over its pages, memorizing details about diseases common to livestock in arid regions.
His thoughts wandered to Prisca. Just thinking of her stirred a warmth in his chest. Her strength, her quiet resolve, and her ability to thrive where others faltered inspired him. She had stayed in Pokot, even after Arnold’s tragic death. Where others might have seen only loss, Prisca saw purpose. And she had invited James into this purpose, trusting him to join her in a labor of love among the marginalized. Anders was right. “It’s a worthy cause,” he had said, wishing more people dedicated themselves to work like that.
As the Land Rover rumbled into Sigor, the sun dipped lower, casting golden hues across the horizon and softening the rugged landscape. James smiled, seeing a parallel between the vibrant colors and the impact he hoped his plans would have on this unforgiving wilderness. He had a clear purpose and a dedicated partner in Prisca. The grueling journey had been worth it.
He envisioned the work they would do together: Prisca educating women and children, addressing their health needs with her calm authority, while he collaborated with the men—building dams to capture precious rainwater, vaccinating livestock to protect against disease, and teaching sustainable methods of hay storage to prepare for drought. His mind buzzed with ideas, each carrying the promise of transformation. Together, they would bring hope and healing to this marginalized corner of the world.
A Shattering Arrival
He pulled into the same petrol station as before and immediately recognized the tall, lean Nilotic attendant. His dark skin seemed to blend seamlessly with the encroaching shadows of the evening, but his brilliant white smile was unmistakable.
At last, I am here! James thought with a surge of triumph coursing through his emotions. This was not just a refueling stop; it symbolized the beginning of a great mission. With Prisca and a clear vision ahead, he was ready to embark on this journey of change and renewal.
“Please fill her up,” James called, stepping out of the Land Rover to stretch his legs.
The attendant glanced at the vehicle and grinned, flashing his teeth. “This one’s a he,” he said, his voice laced with admiration for the rugged Land Rover.
James chuckled lightly, grateful for the familiar exchange. But, in an instant, the attendant’s expression shifted. Recognition dawned, and his face darkened.
“You…” the attendant began, thrusting out an accusatory finger, his voice thick with hostility. James took a step back, his body tensing.
“What’s wrong?” He asked, puzzled by the sudden change.
“You,” the man repeated, his tone sharp now. “You are the friend of… of…!”
“Prisca?” James finished for him, his confusion deepening.
“Go!” The attendant shouted. “I want nothing to do with you (in Swahili: “Sitaki uhusiano wowote nanyi!” — you in plural; James included!)
“Why? What’s happened?”
“She—she’s selling us out! I’m sure you’re part of it!” James froze, the accusation slamming into him like a lightning strike.
“Selling you? To whom?” he managed to ask.
“Don’t play innocent!” the attendant retorted spitefully.
“I don’t understand,” James said, his voice calm but firm. “What are you talking about?”
The attendant refused to elaborate, waving him off angrily. James climbed back into the Land Rover and drove off, his tank nearly empty, his mind swirling with questions.
Trouble at the Mission
When James arrived at the Good News Mission, the atmosphere crackled with tension. The sun had long disappeared, but the compound buzzed with raised voices and restless energy. A fire smoldered where Arnold’s funeral tent once stood. On one side of the flickering flames sat two white missionaries flanked by their African counterparts, their faces taut with unease. Opposite them, three irate elders stood firm, their herding sticks pounding the ground and gesturing in sharp, impatient rhythms, their words coming out in heated, fervent tones. In the nearby bush, birds chirped to mark the end of a day happily spent, their melodies jarring against the strained atmosphere in the compound.
Nathan approached as James stepped out of the Land Rover, its rumble dying into silence. After a brief exchange of greetings, Nathan motioned him away from the group, guiding him to Prisca’s house.
Inside, Prisca sat huddled on a low stool, her hands clasped tightly. Mary Cheptoyoi, the formidable matriarch, was at her side, her expression grave. Nathan took a seat nearby, his brow furrowed as always. Prisca’s eyes, rimmed with red, betrayed her inner turmoil.
Upon seeing James, Prisca stood abruptly and moved towards him, arms extended like a child seeking protection. “Oh, James, how nice of you to come. I am so horrified!”
“What happened?” he asked softly, gently wiping her tears with his thumbs. Their embrace, though public, felt entirely natural.
“They came in the night,” she began, her voice steadying. Glancing toward the window, she added, “They took everything.”
James’s stomach sank. “Everything?”
Prisca hesitated, her gaze shifting to the grazing herd just outside her compound. “Except my herd,” she murmured.
Mary’s arms were crossed as she leaned back slightly, her piercing eyes fixed on Prisca. “And that’s why there’s trouble,” she said firmly. “The Turkana don’t leave anything behind. Everyone is asking why they spared her animals.”
Prisca straightened slightly, her voice a fragile mix of frustration and sorrow. “Isn’t it clear?” she said, her words trembling as she leaned into the sanctuary of James’s embrace. “The herd was given by the Turkana elders—a peace offering to atone for Arnold’s death.”
Mary’s face hardened, her lips pressing into a thin line. “That offering has turned into a burden,” she said, her voice heavy with despair.
James sighed, understanding the weight of the accusations. “Prisca, I know you wouldn’t betray this community,” he said gently.
Prisca let out a shaky breath. “Please help them see that,” she pleaded.
***
The elders who had been locked in heated debate around the fire earlier began to disperse, retreating to their homes one by one. The missionaries walked toward Prisca’s house, their faces lined with weariness and concern.
Nathan opened the door, the creak of its hinges breaking the tense quiet of the compound. He ushered them into the small living room, gesturing toward the well-worn sofa set. “This is James, a friend of Prisca and her late husband…” Nathan began, his voice steady but subdued.
The older missionary, Wilson, extended a hand toward James, cutting off Nathan in mid-sentence. “I am Wilson, remember? We met during Arnold’s funeral.”
James nodded, clasping Wilson’s hand. “Yes, I remember. Good to see you again, though I wish it were under better circumstances.”
“And this is Carl,” Wilson continued, gesturing to a tall, bespectacled man standing by the door. “He’s Canadian—recently joined our Bible translation team.”
James offered Carl a firm handshake. “Pole that you are joining at such an unfortunate time.”
Carl gave a faint smile, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “That’s our lot,” he said lightly, his tone laced with a resigned humor. “In adversities, in abundance, in all seasons.”
James recognized the allusion to 2 Timothy 4:2, “Preach the word; be ready in season and out of season.” The verse struck a chord, a reminder of their shared calling amidst the turmoil.
Wilson’s expression grew grave. “We just passed by to let you know we’re not out of the woods yet. Some elders are beginning to listen, but others remain hostile. The situation is… delicate.”
“We’ll resume our talks tomorrow,” he added, his voice weighted with the uncertainty of the task ahead.
A heavy silence settled over the room, the tension almost tangible.
“We should pray,” James suggested softly, breaking the stillness.
They all bowed their heads.
“Let each of us talk to our Father in heaven about this matter,” James guided, his voice steady but thick with emotion.
One by one, they prayed, their voices trembling under the weight of the crisis. Their words were hesitant, groping for clarity and strength. They prayed for Prisca’s safety, for wisdom in navigating the hostility, and for God’s hand to protect and guide their mission. Though the prayers were faltering, they were sincere—a chorus of faith rising from the depths of their shared fears.
When the missionaries left, the house was enveloped in a fragile silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves outside. Prisca, Mary Cheptoyoi, Nathan, and James remained huddled in the modest house, bound by a quiet, unspoken resolve.
A pot of untouched stew sat on the table, its rich aroma mingling with the cool night air, a stark reminder of the disrupted peace. The tension lingered, a heavy weight that none of them dared acknowledge aloud.
Nathan, mindful of the danger, led James to a small, sparsely furnished room. “It’s best if we all stay together tonight,” he said in a low voice.
Mary and Nathan made their beds elsewhere in the small house – Nathan on the floor in the main room, the matriarch in the kitchen. Prisca retreated to her bedroom. The house, though humble and weathered, now stood as a sanctuary—a fragile shield against the night’s unknown threats.
James lay down, but sleep came uneasily. His thoughts churned, replaying the day’s events. Arnold’s death, though tragic, had seemed the inevitable result of inter-tribal hostility. But this—the suspicion and threats surrounding the reconciliatory herd—was a cruel and unexpected twist.
The mission he and Prisca had hoped to build now felt perilously close to unraveling. The weight of it pressed down on him, heavy and unrelenting. Somewhere in the stillness, a lone bird called into the night, its plaintive song echoing the uncertainty that hung in the air.
And though the house was quiet, James’s heart was restless, praying silently for strength to face whatever the morning would bring.
The Disaster Unfolds
The sun rose hesitantly over the dry Pokot plains, casting long shadows that stretched over the empty livestock enclosures. The silence of the land was oppressive, broken only by the distant cry of a child and the occasional hollow creak of a gate swinging in the wind. Dust hung thick in the air, painting the horizon in a muted haze, and the acrid scent of fear and loss lingered like an unwelcome guest.
Women sat in clusters, their heads wrapped in colorful but dusty scarves, some wailing out loud, others rocking back and forth in grief. Their cries pierced the stillness, raw and guttural, as they clutched their hands to their chests, mourning the loss of their animals—their lifeblood.
Pokot men paced in agitated circles, gripping their herding staffs tightly and striking the dry, cracked earth with frustrated jabs, their faces etched with anger and hopelessness. Lines of exhaustion deepened their brows, and their eyes, bloodshot and unblinking, scanned the horizon as though expecting the stolen herds to return on their own.
Prisca’s small herd grazed peacefully near the mission compound, a stark contrast to the tension rippling through the village. To the community, the untouched animals seemed almost like a taunt, a silent declaration of separation. Bitter murmurs floated on the breeze, quiet but cutting, as suspicion spread like dry grass ready to catch fire.
James lingered at the edge of the compound, his arms locked tightly across his chest, veins taut against his skin. His eyes tracked the villagers’ accusing stares, each glance like a stone thrown at the fragile bridge of trust between the missionaries and the Pokot. The weight of it all bore down on him, a heavy, suffocating presence.
By the goat pen, Prisca stood motionless. Her face was a mask of composure, unyielding even as whispers of distrust curled like smoke around her. She radiated calm, but James knew it was a fragile shell over an inner storm.
He approached her slowly, his boots crunching softly against the parched earth. Halting just a step away, he lowered his voice, steady but strained. “We’ll get through this,” he said, forcing strength into his words, though doubt gnawed at the edges of his fragile reassurance.
Prisca shook her head slowly. Her voice trembled, betraying the strength she fought so hard to project. “How, James? They think I’ve betrayed them. They think I’m… complicit.”
James had no answer. Instead, he remained at her side, standing resolutely amidst the suspicion and silence of a land that seemed poised to unload the weight of its grief onto this poor, innocent woman— the one person he would have willingly suffered for.
A Mission of Peace
That evening, the elders gathered again beneath the sprawling acacia tree. The sky bled into shades of orange and purple, and the fire at the center crackled, sending spirals of smoke into the darkening sky. Its flickering light cast sharp shadows on the deeply lined faces of the aged men. The tension from the previous day lingered, thick and oppressive. Even the children playing at a distance had fallen silent, as if sensing the gravity of the moment.
James sat cross-legged before the elders, his throat dry and palms slick with sweat. A few feet away, Prisca, Nathan, Mary, and the two missionaries sat quietly, their expressions a mix of weariness and determination. An invisible wedge separated the two groups: the mission workers and the community elders.
James’s mind drifted back to better times. He thought of the day he had fixed the borehole’s water pump, how the entire community—people and animals alike—had gathered to celebrate. They had embraced him then, treating him and his team as one of their own. He recalled Prisca’s work at the clinic, tending to Pokot and Turkana women alike, healing their wounds, treating their coughs, and vaccinating their children. No wedge had existed then. Arnold, too, had earned trust through his care for their livestock.
So why this hostility now?
His thoughts took him to the story of the Israelites in the wilderness, grumbling against Moses and God despite their deliverance. Jeremiah’s words echoed in his mind: The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked. Anger stirred within him, but he quickly resolved to do better.
James requested permission to speak. All eyes turned to him as he stood slowly, bowing slightly to the elders in a gesture of respect.
“We’ve all suffered loss,” he began, his voice steady though quiet. “Prisca has suffered too. She lost her husband here, yet she chose to stay and serve this community. She treats Pokot and Turkana alike—not because she takes sides, but because she sees all of us as God’s children.”
An elder, tall and thin, raised his staff to command attention. His face was as weathered as ancient bark, and his voice carried the weight of years.
“And that is why we are angry!” he declared, his tone rising. “She serves the Turkana. That is why they spared her animals and took ours!”
James raised a hand in deference. “My father,” he said respectfully, “may I speak plainly?”
“Speak,” the elder replied.
James took a deep breath. “What if we saw the Turkana not as enemies, but as brothers? Arnold believed in that vision, and the Turkana respected him for it. That respect is why they paid compensation for his death. It is why they spared his wife’s herd.”
He paused, watching the elders closely. The tension seemed to waver, ever so slightly.
“Prisca is not against you,” he continued. “She commands respect on both sides—among the Pokot and the Turkana—because she lives out the peace Arnold stood for.”
For a moment, the murmurs around the fire quieted. But then, a stir arose in the crowd. A large woman pushed her way through, breaking protocol to stand before James.
“It doesn’t bring back our cattle!” she cried, her shrill voice cutting through the uneasy silence.
Heads turned toward her in shock, but James remained calm.
“No, Mama,” he replied, his voice resolute. “But it can prevent more loss. Division weakens us. Unity strengthens us. Together, we can overcome this loss and rebuild the wealth of this community.”
The murmurs grew again, a mixture of agreement and dissent. As the debate raged on, James felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He excused himself and stepped aside to answer.
It was Anders, his supervisor in Nairobi.
“Hello, Anders,” James said, trying to mask his unease.
“Sorry to intrude on your off days, James,” Anders began apologetically, “but I need you back a day earlier this time.”
James exhaled quietly. “I’m sure there’s a good reason, Anders,” he replied, glancing back at the meeting, his mind already racing with how to manage both situations. “But please allow me to ask…Why…. “ keeping his voice low he said, “I’m in the middle of a crisis here.”
“We need you back a day early, James,” he said insistently, then explained. “The president is visiting the geothermal plant, and we need you to lead the tour.”
Understanding his boss’s demand and weighing it against the tense situation unfolding around him, James let out a guttural groan that prompted Anders to ask, “Anything I could do to make it possible, James?”
“Like what, Anders? I’m in a big fix here,” James replied, exasperated.
“Like… ahh…” Anders hesitated, clearly searching for an idea. “I don’t know. Send you a vet to handle your inseminations while you’re in Nairobi? I can airlift him there with a helicopter!”
The mention of a helicopter underscored the urgency of Anders’s request but also sparked an idea in James. “Anders, can you send a helicopter? And a drone?”
“What for?”
“To help track stolen livestock,” James explained quickly. “The Pokot are in crisis. A helicopter could change everything.”
There was a long pause on the line before Anders responded, his tone steady and deliberate. “Send me your location pin. We’ll be there by morning.”
James ended the call and hurried back to the meeting, his heart racing ahead of his purposeful strides. Raising his voice, he broke through the noise of ongoing arguments. “Help is coming!” he announced.
The murmurs died down as elders and villagers turned to him in disbelief. When he sat back down in his spot, the Pokot elders leaned in, drawing their stools closer. Their leader’s voice, edged with curiosity and skepticism, broke the silence. “What do you mean, help is coming?”
“We’ll have a helicopter and a drone to track the stolen herds,” James explained.
They stared at him in astonishment, their eyes wide with a mix of disbelief and wonder. Slowly, awe gave way to hope. Suspicion softened, and conversations shifted. Plans began to take shape as a glimmer of optimism lit the faces around the fire.
The Morning Miracle
At dawn, the distant hum of a helicopter broke the stillness. Villagers rushed to the mission compound, their faces alight with a mixture of awe and anticipation. Children clapped their hands and ran in circles, their laughter a rare and welcome sound.
The helicopter landed gracefully, kicking up a whirlwind of dust. Anders stepped out, followed by a drone operator and an armed officer from the anti-stock theft squad. James quickly briefed them before boarding with the village chief and an elder.
From above, the barren landscape stretched endlessly, dotted with sparse vegetation and the occasional kraal. The drone complemented their search, sweeping low over the terrain and transmitting live footage to the helicopter.
Hours later, they found the herds—split into groups and guarded by the raiders. As the helicopter descended at the site of the largest kraal the thieves scattered, abandoning the livestock.
The chief summoned those he could reach and gave orders. By evening, the stolen animals were being herded back to the village.
Word spread like wildfire, and the village erupted in celebration. Women sang, men danced, and for the first time in days, laughter filled the air.
A New Bond
As the sun raced towards the Western horizon, painting the sky in hues of gold and crimson, James and Prisca stood quietly by the borehole. The faint hum of the pump blended with the joyous noise of the villagers, their laughter carrying a sense of relief and renewal.
Prisca’s eyes glistened with gratitude. “You saved them,” she said softly. “And me.”
James smiled, a warmth spreading through his chest. “No,” he replied, his voice steady. “We saved them. And there’s still so much we’ll do together.”
He took her hands in his, the gesture laden with unspoken emotions. The pull between them was undeniable, but he held back, willing himself to honor the boundaries their shared mission demanded. He could see the longing in her eyes, the same yearning he felt, yet love—forbidden before Arnold and complicated now by his memory—seemed to hover between them, waiting.
“I must go,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I’ll see you next month.”
The whirr of the helicopter blades filled the air as Anders and James departed, carrying with them the promise of more resources and support. James looked down at the village below, now tinged with cautious hope, its people standing amidst the scattered shadows of the fading sun.
The work here wasn’t finished. Far from it. But as the wind from the helicopter stirred the dust at the feet of the elders and rustled the shukas of the Pokot mamas, James felt a surge of quiet resolve. His gaze found Prisca, her headscarf fluttering as she looked upward, one delicate hand shielding her eyes from the swirling dust and the sharp rays of the setting sun.
Together, he thought, we will rebuild. We will bring growth and healing to this barren land. And perhaps, at last, these resilient, lovely people will find the chance to live with dignity and peace.
Hello, everyone! Feel free to leave a comment below and let me know what you thought of this fictional sequel to Love Re-ignited.
Thank you!
Haron Wachira 