The sun was already high when the villagers gathered again, not for a church service, but for the opening of the Missions Conference. Muthoka stood near the entrance of the church, his Bible clutched in one hand, watching as the missionaries from overseas inspected the compound like land surveyors measuring a plot for purchase.
There was Reverend Tobias from England, young, pale, and with a jaw always clenched. There was Margaret—stiff, matronly, with tight lips and a clipboard. Pastor Hans from Germany walked with a military gait and only spoke when necessary. The fourth, an older American man named Donny, chewed gum constantly and called everyone "buddy."
They had only been there two hours, but already, something felt wrong.
"I like the enthusiasm," Margaret told Muthoka with a tight smile. "But there's a lot to fix. The altar is facing the wrong direction. The choir robes don't match. And… well, your Swahili accent is a little thick, even for a translator."
Muthoka smiled politely. "The Lord still hears."
She didn't laugh.
Tobias leaned toward Ridgeway. "Are you sure this young man is suited to lead? I mean, is he ordained… in any real sense? What seminary did he attend?"
"He was called," Mr. Ridgeway said, a little awkwardly.
"Ah," Tobias said. "A village calling. I see."
Inside the church, the congregation had gathered for the first session. Ridgeway introduced the visitors. The claps were polite. Muthoka stood by silently, eyes moving from one missionary to the next.
Tobias stepped up to preach.
The moment he opened his Bible, the air in the room shifted. His words were sharp, mechanical, filled with colonial undertones dressed in King James English.
"You must be taught," Tobias said, eyes on Muthoka. "You must submit. For a flock without proper shepherds becomes a wandering herd."
The congregation didn't say "Amen." Even the children were still.
Muthoka felt something cold run down his spine. He had felt evil before. But this wasn't evil in the demonic sense. It was pride cloaked in piety.
Later that day, under the shade of the sycamore tree, Muthoka sat with Mr. Ridgeway.
"Why are they really here?" Muthoka asked.
Ridgeway sighed. "The mission board has concerns. They think… you may not be ready. They're sending Tobias as an interim replacement. Just for a trial."
"A replacement?" Muthoka repeated slowly.
"I tried to push back," Ridgeway said, voice low. "But I was outvoted."
Muthoka looked past him, toward the church where he had baptized children, prayed for the sick, and wept in the presence of God.
It wasn't a building.
It was his calling.
His sheep.
That night, as crickets sang and fires dimmed, Muthoka couldn't sleep. He knelt beside his mattress.
"Lord," he whispered, "They want to take your sheep. Do I fight? Do I stay silent?"
And then, gently, clearly, unmistakably:
"I have called you by name. The sheep know your voice."
Muthoka stood. Slowly. Calmly.
Outside, thunder rumbled. But no rain fell.
The next day, a new sign was delivered. It read:
"Coming Soon: Kalimani Ridgeway Mission – Lead Pastor: Rev. Tobias Cromwell"
The village children began whispering, "Is Muthoka being fired?"
And far away, under the mango tree, the old bicycle rim rang on its own.