An Eldoret court has ordered a lonely pensioner, Moi, to pay a staggering KSh1 billion in a land case for a desolate, tiny piece of land

On the surface, it sounds like a routine land dispute. But scratch a little deeper, and the story becomes a masterclass in irony. This is not just any pensioner. This is a man who was allocated the very same land decades ago—by presidential directive—at a time when he was a loyal civil servant in the Republic of Kenya.

Today, Mr Moi lives in quiet deprivation in Sacho. The crowds that once hovered around him have long disappeared. Friends have faded. Foes have moved on. What remains is a modest civil servant’s pension and the meagre returns his lastborn son manages to extract from the weary family land.

And yet, after all these years, the system has come knocking—not to say thank you, but to demand payment.

Moi’s service record

For years, he served. As a teacher in Kabartonjo and Kabarnet, shaping young minds. As a politician from the late 1940s until 2002, navigating the shifting tides of power. He was present, visible, and—most memorably—generous.

Kenyans remember that generosity.

He dished out money at harambees, along dusty roadside stops, and within the gates of State House. He gave freely, and often publicly. Of course, there were always murmurs. Critics whispered that the cash flowed not from generosity, but from state coffers. But those were dismissed as the usual complaints of enemies of development—voices allegedly funded by shadowy foreign interests.

Meanwhile, the giving continued.

There were schools supported. Communities uplifted. And of course, the famous “maziwa ya nyayo,” which nourished a generation. His influence stretched far and wide, touching lives in ways both direct and indirect. Some even recall how certain scholarships—local and international—seemed to appear just when needed, often under circumstances that raised eyebrows but were accepted with gratitude.

His prodigies have not forgotten the art of giving either. One, in particular, has developed a fondness for churches, generously dishing out offerings with theatrical flair. It is said he has been trying to visit the old man, perhaps to pay homage or seek a symbolic blessing. But fate—and perhaps a carefully managed schedule of midday yoga—has kept them apart.

And now, this.

After decades of service, sacrifice, and generosity, the reward is a court order demanding KSh1 billion for land that was, by all accounts, given to him on orders from above.

Is it fair?

Of course not.

But fairness, like memory, can be selective.

Beneficiaries to the Rescue

Which brings us to the real question: where are the beneficiaries?

Where are the many who once stood in line, hands outstretched, receiving from the same man now being asked to give back? Where are those who grew up on his generosity, who drank the metaphorical—and literal—milk of his programmes?

This is a call to them.

To the beneficiaries of yesterday: now is your moment. Be the one who returns to say thank you. Not just in words, but in action. Let gratitude move beyond nostalgia and into tangible support.

Beneficiaries are forming a collective—a simple WhatsApp group—to raise funds and help the Moi land case clear what can only be described as a rather unfortunate inconvenience: a billion-shilling debt.

Yes, the figure is absurd. Yes, the situation is ironic. But perhaps that is precisely the point.

Because in a country where generosity was once a spectacle, perhaps gratitude, too, must now become one.

Leave a comment below to join.

After all, gratitude is a virtue—even when it comes with interest.