In every homestead, there comes a time when a farmer must make a decision that tests his courage. The decision to keep or to change the bull. It looks simple, but it is not. A bull is not just muscle; it is memory. It reminds the farmer of seasons past, of calves born, of struggles overcome. So when the time comes to let it go, the heart fights the mind. The mind says, “It is time to change,” but the heart whispers, “Keep it a little longer.” And that, my friend, is how foolishness begins.
Keeping the same bull after it has failed you is like pouring water into a broken pot and expecting it to fill. It will never work. You will waste time, effort, and hope, and still end up thirsty. Yet many people do exactly that — in their farms, in their homes, and worst of all, in their politics.
When the bull gives weak calves, a wise farmer acts quickly. But a foolish one says, “Maybe next season it will improve.” He feeds it more, praises it more, and even prays for it, but nothing changes. The calves remain weak, the cow remains tired, and the field remains silent. Still, he refuses to accept the truth. Why? Because he has grown attached to the bull. Attachment blinds judgment. Love, when misplaced, becomes a trap.
The same happens with leadership. People grow attached to certain leaders the way a farmer grows attached to a familiar bull. They say, “He has been here for long; he knows us.” They forget that knowing someone is not the same as helping them. Familiarity is not progress. A farmer may know his old bull very well, but if it cannot mount, what use is that knowledge?
In our village, there was once a man named Karanja. Every farmer around him had changed their bulls at least twice, but not him. He kept the same one for nearly fifteen years. The bull had grown slow, weak, and stubborn. It would sometimes refuse to work or wander off into the forest. But Karanja loved it too much. He said, “This bull is part of my family.” One day, a young farmer came to him and said, “Uncle, your bull is too old. Let me give you one of mine for free.” Karanja smiled and said, “No, my son. I know this bull. I cannot trust another.”
By the next season, all his cows were barren. The old bull could no longer perform. His herd began to shrink. The same neighbors who had advised him started whispering, “Poor Karanja, he trusted his bull more than his brain.” That is the folly of keeping the same bull — it feels loyal, but it is costly. It destroys slowly, silently, until one day you wake up and realize the whole herd is gone.
Our people make the same mistake at the ballot box. They keep voting for the same leaders — the same “bulls” — who have already failed them. Year after year, they hope for a different result. But life does not work that way. You cannot plant maize and expect beans. You cannot keep the same bull and expect new calves.
The villagers know this truth on the farm, yet forget it at the polling station. They say, “Maybe this time, he will change.” But bulls do not change; they only grow older. Once a bull has shown you its weakness, believe it. Once a leader has shown you his greed, believe him. Do not let smooth talk and loud songs confuse you.
Keeping the same bull is not just foolishness — it is self-harm. It is refusing to heal a wound because you are afraid of the pain of cleaning it. You keep covering it, hoping it will heal itself, but it only grows worse. That is how bad leadership spreads — through fear, habit, and denial.
When a people keep the same failed leaders, they become like farmers who keep a weak bull and then complain about weak calves. They forget that they are part of the problem. They cry about corruption, but vote for the corrupt. They complain about poverty, but defend the thieves who caused it. They mourn bad roads, but clap when the same bull returns to promise more. And so, the cycle continues — generation after generation.
Sometimes I sit with the village elders and listen to their stories. They speak about the old days when bulls were strong and men kept their word. They say, “Things have changed.” But I tell them, “No, things have not changed; people have.” We have become lazy in our thinking. We have replaced wisdom with emotion. We choose leaders by songs, not by results. We praise them for talking, not for working. We keep them even when they have failed. That is not loyalty — that is blindness wrapped in tradition.
If your cow is not producing milk, you do not pray to it; you change how you care for it. If your bull is not performing, you do not build it a bigger shed; you change it. If your leader is not serving, you do not sing for him; you replace him. That is how progress happens. That is how wisdom speaks. But people fear new bulls. They say, “At least we know this one; we don’t know the next.” Yet life itself is change. The sun sets so that morning can come. The rain falls so that the soil can rest. Even the river changes its course over time, but still it flows. Change is not the enemy; stagnation is.
Keeping the same bull makes the farm sick. The herd loses energy. The cows lose trust. The calves stop playing. The farmer loses motivation. And when new bulls pass by the fence, strong and ready, the old bull snorts angrily, as if saying, “No one can replace me.” But time always wins. You can delay change, but you cannot escape it.
In some villages, people keep the same bull because of fear. They fear the unknown. They fear being wrong. But fear is a poor teacher. Fear whispers, “Stay,” even when you know you should move. Wisdom whispers, “Go,” even when your heart trembles. And between those two voices, the future of the village is decided.
When a leader fails to lead, the land begins to show signs. The crops fail. The youth migrate. The songs of hope turn into murmurs of complaint. But instead of acting, people adjust. They learn to live small. They lower their expectations. They say, “This is how things are.” But that is not how things are — that is how we have allowed them to become.
The folly of keeping the same bull is not just about leadership; it is about the human heart. We all struggle to let go. We cling to the familiar, even when it hurts us. We stay in broken systems, broken routines, broken beliefs, because they feel safe. But safety in failure is still failure. A wound that does not heal will eventually poison the whole body.
The courage to change the bull is the beginning of healing. It is the sign of a thinking farmer, a thinking citizen, a thinking nation. If we can learn to say, “Enough,” then we can begin again. If we can learn to let go of weak bulls, we can raise stronger calves. If we can stop worshiping old bulls, we can start building a better herd.
My brothers and sisters, the time for excuses is over. The cow is tired. The field is ready. The future is waiting. Do not waste another season keeping a bull that has already failed you. Do not trade your children’s tomorrow for comfort today. The calves you save will be the strength of your village tomorrow. But if you keep the same bull out of fear or habit, do not be surprised when the next harvest brings the same disappointment.
A wise farmer once said, “The greatest mistake is not using a bad bull once — it is using it twice.” We, too, must learn that lesson. It is better to face the uncertainty of a new bull than the certainty of failure from an old one. Because a new bull carries hope, but the old one carries history. History is good for remembering, not for repeating.
So, when election day comes, think like a farmer. Look at the bull carefully. Ask yourself: “What did it give me last season?” “Did my cow grow strong?” “Did my milk increase?” “Did my herd prosper?” If the answer is no, then you already know what to do. Do not let songs, handshakes, or tribe confuse you. Remember the simple rule: A bull that gave you a weak calf last season will not give you a strong one this season. That is not prophecy — that is wisdom. That is life.
Keeping the same bull after it has failed you is like pouring water into a broken pot and expecting it to fill. It will never work. You will waste time, effort, and hope, and still end up thirsty. Yet many people do exactly that — in their farms, in their homes, and worst of all, in their politics.
When the bull gives weak calves, a wise farmer acts quickly. But a foolish one says, “Maybe next season it will improve.” He feeds it more, praises it more, and even prays for it, but nothing changes. The calves remain weak, the cow remains tired, and the field remains silent. Still, he refuses to accept the truth. Why? Because he has grown attached to the bull. Attachment blinds judgment. Love, when misplaced, becomes a trap.
The same happens with leadership. People grow attached to certain leaders the way a farmer grows attached to a familiar bull. They say, “He has been here for long; he knows us.” They forget that knowing someone is not the same as helping them. Familiarity is not progress. A farmer may know his old bull very well, but if it cannot mount, what use is that knowledge?
In our village, there was once a man named Karanja. Every farmer around him had changed their bulls at least twice, but not him. He kept the same one for nearly fifteen years. The bull had grown slow, weak, and stubborn. It would sometimes refuse to work or wander off into the forest. But Karanja loved it too much. He said, “This bull is part of my family.” One day, a young farmer came to him and said, “Uncle, your bull is too old. Let me give you one of mine for free.” Karanja smiled and said, “No, my son. I know this bull. I cannot trust another.”
By the next season, all his cows were barren. The old bull could no longer perform. His herd began to shrink. The same neighbors who had advised him started whispering, “Poor Karanja, he trusted his bull more than his brain.” That is the folly of keeping the same bull — it feels loyal, but it is costly. It destroys slowly, silently, until one day you wake up and realize the whole herd is gone.
Our people make the same mistake at the ballot box. They keep voting for the same leaders — the same “bulls” — who have already failed them. Year after year, they hope for a different result. But life does not work that way. You cannot plant maize and expect beans. You cannot keep the same bull and expect new calves.
The villagers know this truth on the farm, yet forget it at the polling station. They say, “Maybe this time, he will change.” But bulls do not change; they only grow older. Once a bull has shown you its weakness, believe it. Once a leader has shown you his greed, believe him. Do not let smooth talk and loud songs confuse you.
Keeping the same bull is not just foolishness — it is self-harm. It is refusing to heal a wound because you are afraid of the pain of cleaning it. You keep covering it, hoping it will heal itself, but it only grows worse. That is how bad leadership spreads — through fear, habit, and denial.
When a people keep the same failed leaders, they become like farmers who keep a weak bull and then complain about weak calves. They forget that they are part of the problem. They cry about corruption, but vote for the corrupt. They complain about poverty, but defend the thieves who caused it. They mourn bad roads, but clap when the same bull returns to promise more. And so, the cycle continues — generation after generation.
Sometimes I sit with the village elders and listen to their stories. They speak about the old days when bulls were strong and men kept their word. They say, “Things have changed.” But I tell them, “No, things have not changed; people have.” We have become lazy in our thinking. We have replaced wisdom with emotion. We choose leaders by songs, not by results. We praise them for talking, not for working. We keep them even when they have failed. That is not loyalty — that is blindness wrapped in tradition.
If your cow is not producing milk, you do not pray to it; you change how you care for it. If your bull is not performing, you do not build it a bigger shed; you change it. If your leader is not serving, you do not sing for him; you replace him. That is how progress happens. That is how wisdom speaks. But people fear new bulls. They say, “At least we know this one; we don’t know the next.” Yet life itself is change. The sun sets so that morning can come. The rain falls so that the soil can rest. Even the river changes its course over time, but still it flows. Change is not the enemy; stagnation is.
Keeping the same bull makes the farm sick. The herd loses energy. The cows lose trust. The calves stop playing. The farmer loses motivation. And when new bulls pass by the fence, strong and ready, the old bull snorts angrily, as if saying, “No one can replace me.” But time always wins. You can delay change, but you cannot escape it.
In some villages, people keep the same bull because of fear. They fear the unknown. They fear being wrong. But fear is a poor teacher. Fear whispers, “Stay,” even when you know you should move. Wisdom whispers, “Go,” even when your heart trembles. And between those two voices, the future of the village is decided.
When a leader fails to lead, the land begins to show signs. The crops fail. The youth migrate. The songs of hope turn into murmurs of complaint. But instead of acting, people adjust. They learn to live small. They lower their expectations. They say, “This is how things are.” But that is not how things are — that is how we have allowed them to become.
The folly of keeping the same bull is not just about leadership; it is about the human heart. We all struggle to let go. We cling to the familiar, even when it hurts us. We stay in broken systems, broken routines, broken beliefs, because they feel safe. But safety in failure is still failure. A wound that does not heal will eventually poison the whole body.
The courage to change the bull is the beginning of healing. It is the sign of a thinking farmer, a thinking citizen, a thinking nation. If we can learn to say, “Enough,” then we can begin again. If we can learn to let go of weak bulls, we can raise stronger calves. If we can stop worshiping old bulls, we can start building a better herd.
My brothers and sisters, the time for excuses is over. The cow is tired. The field is ready. The future is waiting. Do not waste another season keeping a bull that has already failed you. Do not trade your children’s tomorrow for comfort today. The calves you save will be the strength of your village tomorrow. But if you keep the same bull out of fear or habit, do not be surprised when the next harvest brings the same disappointment.
A wise farmer once said, “The greatest mistake is not using a bad bull once — it is using it twice.” We, too, must learn that lesson. It is better to face the uncertainty of a new bull than the certainty of failure from an old one. Because a new bull carries hope, but the old one carries history. History is good for remembering, not for repeating.
So, when election day comes, think like a farmer. Look at the bull carefully. Ask yourself: “What did it give me last season?” “Did my cow grow strong?” “Did my milk increase?” “Did my herd prosper?” If the answer is no, then you already know what to do. Do not let songs, handshakes, or tribe confuse you. Remember the simple rule: A bull that gave you a weak calf last season will not give you a strong one this season. That is not prophecy — that is wisdom. That is life.
