In the quiet plains of Idere, where grass swayed like songs and the sky changed colors like a storyteller’s robe, there lived a cow named Nma. Her coat was the color of evening clay soft brown with white patches along her belly. She was neither the oldest nor the strongest among the cattle, but there was something in her eyes that made others pause. Calm. Deep. Steady.
Nma had just one calf. His name was Obie. He was born during the cold rains, when thunder cracked the heavens and the earth was soft enough to hold new life gently. From the beginning, Obie was different. He did not follow sound. He did not blink at light. His eyes were cloudy, almost gray, and when he walked, he often stumbled.
The other calves played in circles, kicking dust and leaping into the wind. Obie stayed near his mother’s side, ears twitching, nose sniffing, steps unsure.
“He’s blind,” one of the young bulls whispered.
Nma didn’t respond. She stood taller.
Others watched with tilted heads.
“What use is a calf that cannot see the wolves?”
“He’ll never keep up when the herd moves.”
“He’s better off left behind.”
Nma heard every word. She never raised her voice. Never fought back. She only lowered her head to feed Obie, to nudge him softly toward the warmest spot beneath the trees, to shield him when thunder rolled again.
When the dry season came, the grass withered and the river pulled back like a shy child. The herders decided to move the cattle to greener lands—far to the east, across hills and valleys.
“We leave at sunrise,” said the lead bull, whose name was Orji. “Every cow must keep pace. We cannot afford to carry the weak.”
Nma said nothing.
That night, under a sky full of stars, she lay beside Obie.
“You won’t be left behind,” she whispered. “Not while I have breath.”
When morning came, and the sun spilled gold across the plains, the herd began their long journey.
Obie walked slowly, head low.
By midmorning, he began to fall behind.
The calves ran ahead. The bulls shouted.
But Nma stayed beside her son.
When he stumbled, she guided him.
When he froze in fear, she hummed low and slow.
By afternoon, they were far behind.
Then Nma did something no cow had done before.
She knelt.
And with careful strength, she shifted her weight, lowered her head beneath Obie’s belly, and lifted him onto her back.
He cried out in surprise, but she steadied him.
And she walked.
Step by step.
Dust rose behind her.
The sun beat down.
But she walked.
When the herd stopped at night to rest, they turned and saw her in the distance—head low, legs trembling, but still moving, with her blind son riding like a king.
The calves went silent.
The bulls stared.
Even Orji blinked in disbelief.
“She carried him,” one of them whispered. “All this way?”
And still, Nma said nothing.
She found a patch of shade, lowered Obie gently, and lay beside him.
That night, no one questioned her place in the herd.
The journey continued for days.
And every time Obie faltered, Nma carried him.
Until finally, they reached the green valley. Tall grass waved in the wind. The river danced across stones. Birds sang like they were welcoming old friends.
Nma lowered Obie to the ground. He sniffed, walked, listened. He knew he would never see the colors. But he felt the warmth. He heard the kindness in the wind.
And he smiled.
Years passed.
Obie grew strong—not in body, but in heart.
He never forgot the one who carried him when the world said he couldn’t make it.
And whenever a calf was born with a limp, or a voice too soft to shout, or eyes that looked but saw nothing, the herd remembered Nma.
They told her story.
How one mother carried not just her calf, but the weight of every whisper that said he didn’t belong.
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Moral Lessons:
1. True strength is found in those who carry others when the world walks away.
2. A mother’s love doesn’t need applause to be powerful it just needs a reason.
3. Compassion is louder than judgment, and quieter than pride.
