By Dayib Sheikh Ahmed

In Feast to Famine, Understanding the Root Causes of Hunger article, published on June 7, 2024, I sought to expose the structural failures behind the Horn of Africa’s perpetual food crises. Today, I return to this subject not with abstract analysis, but with the raw testimony of a Somali pastoralist whose entire existence has been erased—first by unrelenting drought, then by a single night of catastrophic rainfall. The Herder’s Lament, A Legacy Lost in One Night “I had 400 goats. Only 14 are alive. I had 100 camels—all killed by heavy rain in one night.” These words, spoken by a gaunt herder in a viral video, encapsulate the cruel duality of Somalia’s climate crisis. His animals did not perish from drought alone. For months, they endured a slow, agonizing decline—their ribs protruding, their strength waning as grasslands turned to dust. Then, when the rains finally arrived, they came not as salvation but as executioners. Torrential downpours flooded parched valleys, drowning weakened livestock in their pens. What drought had spared, the deluge finished.

This man’s story is not an isolated tragedy. Across Somalia, pastoralists are witnessing the collapse of a way of life that has sustained generations. Livestock are not merely economic assets; they are living archives of indigenous knowledge, social status, and cultural identity. Each camel represents years of selective breeding, each goat a node in networks of kinship and trade. When they died masse, they take with them something far more precious than meat or milk—they erase irreplaceable strands of Somalia’s social fabric.

The Climate Trap, Drought and Heavy rain Deluge in Vicious Cycle

The Horn of Africa—specifically Somalia—has always endured climatic extremes, but the rules of survival have changed. Where droughts once followed predictable cycles, they now persist for years, leaving soil so desiccated that it cannot absorb sudden rainfall. In Somalia alone, over 3.8 million livestock have perished since 2018—not from any single catastrophe, but from the grinding interplay of scarcity and excess.

Consider the recent floods in Isku-Shuban district. After months of drought, flash surges in the Carro-weyn valley swept away homes and lives, including a woman and two children whose bodies were recovered downstream. Meanwhile, in Puntland, the same spring rains season brought temporary relief, replenishing wells between Garowe and Godobjiraan. This dichotomy—rain as both killer and savior—illustrates the central paradox of climate change in pastoralist regions: the timing and intensity of weather now determine whether precipitation brings renewal or ruin. Somalia’s early warning systems have sounded alarms for years. Satellite data, climate models, and indigenous forecasting all agree: the region is becoming hotter, drier, and more prone to erratic rainfall. Yet these warnings have collided with systemic inertia at every level. At the domestic level, the absence of livestock insurance programs leaves herders with no safety net.

Water infrastructure projects stall in bureaucratic limbo, while corruption diverts funds meant for drought-resistant fodder banks. The federal government, rather than delivering aid or investing in preventative measures, has often resorted to dismissive language and deflection—blaming nature or local administrations—while failing to provide timely or meaningful support to the communities most affected. Internationally, the picture is equally damning. Wealthy nations continue to prioritize short-term humanitarian relief over long-term adaptation, as if Somalia’s suffering were a natural inevitability rather than a consequence of global emissions. The result is a perverse cycle, emergency food aid keeps people alive today, but without investment in water catchment systems, veterinary services, or climate-smart agriculture, each subsequent drought leaves communities more vulnerable than the last.

Systemic Neglect, A Failure of Governance and Global Responsibility

The failure is not accidental—it is systemic, entrenched, and unforgivable. Somalia’s early warning systems have cried out for years, forecasting droughts, urging preparation, and predicting devastation. Yet both the federal government and state-level authorities have failed to translate those warnings into meaningful action. Where are the comprehensive livestock programs that support climate-affected communities? Where are the regional fodder banks designed to protect herds during dry spells? Why is water storage infrastructure still a dream in rural communities after decades of crisis?

This is not a matter of lacking solutions—it is a matter of abandonment. Bureaucratic inertia, corruption, and short-sighted planning have condemned millions to avoidable suffering. Donors and international partners have contributed to the mess, flooding the region with emergency rations while ignoring sustainable adaptation. The surviving animals now die not just from the brutality of nature, but from the negligence of leadership. Flooded roads block aid. Rotting carcasses poison already-scarce water sources. And displaced herders—once proud custodians of Somalia’s rural economy—are left to bury their livelihoods in the mud, unacknowledged and unaided.

This herder’s story must not vanish into the digital void. It is not just a tragedy—it is an indictment. We must demand action, not platitudes. Build water catchment systems. Deploy mobile veterinary clinics. Invest in drought-resilient infrastructure. These are not luxuries—they are the bare minimum owed to a people who have given everything. We must listen to pastoralists—not merely to document their pain, but to integrate their indigenous wisdom into national policy.

Above all, Somali authorities must wake up. Federal and state institutions must stop relying on crisis management and start governing with foresight. Ignoring rural communities until catastrophe strikes is not just poor leadership—it is criminal neglect. Meanwhile, wealthy nations, whose emissions have triggered this climate chaos, must fund adaptation not as a favor, but as overdue reparations.

The solutions are neither mysterious nor unaffordable. Mobile veterinary units could have saved the herder’s camels from waterborne diseases after the floods. Small-scale water harvesting projects—like those successfully implemented in Kenya’s arid north—could store seasonal rains for future droughts. Most crucially, Somalia’s pastoralists must be treated as partners in resilience-building, not passive recipients of aid. Their traditional knowledge of grazing patterns and weather signs remains the most sophisticated adaptation tool available—if only policymakers would listen.

But technical fixes alone are insufficient. The deeper failure is one of moral imagination. When a Somali child drowns in a flood caused by emissions from distant industrial economies, that is not misfortune—it is injustice. When governments and donors shrug at preventable livestock deaths, that is not pragmatism—it is complicity.

Epilogue, The Rain Will Come Again

As I write these words, new clouds gather over the Horn of Africa. Somewhere, a herder watches them with dread rather than hope, knowing that the next rains may finish what the drought began. In a land where rain was once a blessing, it has now become a bearer of sorrow—too late to save the dead, too violent to nurture the living. What once signaled renewal now threatens to complete the destruction.

The question is not whether the cycle will repeat—it will. The true question is whether the world will finally muster the will to break it. That choice lies not in the clouds but in boardrooms, government halls, and international summits. It is a question of political courage, moral responsibility, and economic justice.

For Somalia’s pastoralists, survival no longer depends on rainfall alone. It hinges on human decisions—on whether federal and state governments invest in infrastructure and climate resilience, on whether international actors deliver more than band-aid aid, and on whether indigenous voices are empowered rather than ignored. It hinges on leadership, empathy, and long-term commitment.

The herders of Somalia have withstood centuries of hardship, navigating droughts, wars, and displacement. But even their resilience has limits. Without structural change, without systems that protect rather than abandon them, the next downpour will bring not relief—but ruin.

The rains will come again. That is inevitable. But whether they bring life or loss—that, at last, is up to us.

Dayib Ahmed
Email: Dayib0658@gmail.com

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Dayib is writer, political analyst and WardheerNews contributor.