Chapter 1

His father had been the one to teach him the ways of the land. A quiet man with hands that never stopped working, he had shown J.O.O how to read the sky for rain, how to mend a fence with wire and patience, and how to lead the goats to the best grazing without wearing down the pasture. “The land gives,” his father would say, “but only if you give first.” Those words stayed with J.O.O, even now, years later, when he worked the same fields alone.

The farm sat in a valley that caught the morning sun but struggled for water in the dry months. The soil was sandy and thin in places, but the goats thrived on the scrub brush and thorny acacia that dotted the hillsides. They were hardy creatures, with a stubbornness that J.O.O admired. He had watched them navigate the rocky trails, following paths that seemed impossible, their hooves finding purchase where a man would slip. They taught him that progress was not always fast, but it was always forward.

In those early years, the rhythm of the seasons was his clock. Spring brought the rains, and with them a burst of green that transformed the valley. The goats would fatten, and the milk would flow thick and sweet. Summer was a slow burn, a time of long days and short nights, when the sun seemed to hang overhead without mercy. The herd would seek shade under the lone baobab tree near the dry creek bed, and J.O.O would sit with them, listening to the buzz of insects and the distant call of a hornbill.

But it was autumn that tested them. The rains would fail some years, and the grass would yellow and wither. The market prices for goats would drop as other farmers sold off their stock, desperate to cut losses. J.O.O remembered one such autumn when he was just a teenager, watching his father pace the yard at dusk, the worry etched into his face. The herd had been thin, and there was little feed to carry them through the coming months. His father had sold three of the best does to a trader from the town, and the money had barely covered the cost of hay.

That was when J.O.O learned the first hard lesson of farming: the land did not care about your plans. It followed its own cycles, and you either adapted or you broke. He had promised himself then that he would not break. He would learn the land’s language, its moods and its mercies, and he would find a way to work with it, not against it.

Now, as a young man, J.O.O stood on the same yard, the dust rising around his boots. The herd had grown to more than fifty, a mix of Boer and indigenous goats that he had bred for hardiness. He had built a new shelter with his own hands, a simple structure of poles and corrugated iron that kept the animals dry during the short rains. He had dug a shallow well that provided water even in the driest months, though he had to haul it by bucket when the pump failed. The work was endless, but it was his.

The isolation of farm life was something he had come to accept. The nearest neighbor was a half-hour walk, and the town was a full day’s journey by donkey cart. There were days when he spoke to no one but the goats, and he found that he did not mind. Their bleating was conversation enough. He knew each one by name: the old nanny with the chipped horn, the mischievous kid that always strayed, the lead doe that seemed to understand his commands before he gave them. They were his companions, his teachers, his responsibility.

But the weight of that responsibility was heavy. The market was unpredictable, and the middlemen took their cut. The weather had grown more erratic in recent years, with longer droughts and flash floods that washed away the topsoil. J.O.O had read about climate change, but the word felt abstract compared to the cracked earth under his feet. He had to adapt, to find new ways to sustain the farm and himself.

He remembered a story his grandmother used to tell, about a goat that led a herd through a wildfire. She would say that the goat could smell the change coming, feel the shift in the wind, and it would guide the others to safety even through the smoke. “Be like that goat,” she would say. “See what others cannot see.” J.O.O often thought of that story when he faced a difficult decision. He wanted to be that goat, to sense the path forward when everything seemed lost.

One evening, as the sun dipped behind the hills and the goats settled for the night, J.O.O sat on the porch of his small house and looked out over the land. The valley was quiet except for the crickets. He thought about the future, about the possibility of expanding the herd, of investing in a better irrigation system, of selling directly to customers in the city. These dreams felt both close and distant, like the stars that were just beginning to appear overhead.

He took a deep breath. The air smelled of dust and dry grass, a familiar scent that had become home. He knew that the next season would bring challenges, as every season did. But he also knew that he was not alone. The herd was with him, and the land, and the memories of those who had worked it before him. They were his guides, his unseen shepherds.

As the last light faded, J.O.O heard a bell clink in the darkness. One of the goats had stirred. He smiled and went inside, leaving the door open to the night air. Tomorrow, he would rise before dawn, as always, and begin again. But tonight, he allowed himself a moment of stillness, a moment to feel the quiet strength of the life he was building.

The drought came earlier that year, before the first rains had even had a chance to fall. J.O.O woke one morning to a sky that was cloudless and pale, and he knew that the weeks ahead would test everything he had learned. The goats looked at him with their calm, knowing eyes, and he felt a flicker of fear, but also a deeper resolve. He had chosen this life. Now he had to live it.