Farming Doesn't Make Cents, But Does It Make Sense?

Last week, I heard two conversations that quietly followed me around long after they had ended.

The first was a YouTube podcast. One of the guests made a statement that sounded simple at first, almost like one of those lines people say casually before moving on to the next topic. He said, "Farming doesn't make cents—but it makes a lot of sense."

I laughed.

Partly because it was clever. But also because farming people have a strange habit of wrapping painful truths inside jokes. Perhaps it is a survival mechanism. If farmers stopped laughing, some of them might just sit in the field and stare at onions for three hours.

Later that same day, while driving back to Nairobi from Meru, I switched on the radio and landed in the middle of an agriculture discussion. One of the presenters made a bold statement. He argued that making money in farming is almost impossible unless there is some form of compromise or dishonesty involved somewhere along the way.

I remember becoming unusually quiet.

Because whether I wanted to admit it or not, something inside me recognized the discomfort of that conversation.

Perhaps it struck me because of my own journey.

I own a small farm in Kajiado with about ten acres under cultivation. I bought the property in 2022 and, like many people who begin farming, I entered with optimism and a head full of plans.

Actually, "plans" may be an understatement.

Like many new farmers, I had visions.

You know the type.

I imagined healthy crops stretching endlessly across the fields. Happy animals wandering around looking unusually cooperative. I probably imagined myself occasionally walking through the farm with my hands behind my back, nodding wisely at tomatoes as though I personally taught them how to grow.

Reality, however, had prepared its own presentation.

Over the years I invested heavily in the farm.

The farm has cows, sheep, goats, geese, chickens, guinea fowl, and a hatchery for incubating chicks. Most of the land is under drip irrigation except for the grazing area. There is a borehole, water storage tanks, greenhouses, shade nets, open-field cultivation, and permanent staff, alongside casual workers during busy periods.

On the crop side, there are tomatoes in greenhouses, onions, spinach, watermelons, passion fruit, bananas, basil, and several other fruits and vegetables.

If someone visited for the first time, they would probably walk around and say, "This looks like a successful operation."

And to be fair, from a distance it does.

Social media would probably love it.

A few drone shots, a sunset in the background, some slow music playing, and suddenly I would become "young visionary farmer transforming agriculture in Africa."

The only problem is that drone cameras rarely film bank statements.

The reality has been different.

Every month, I still find myself reaching into my own pocket and injecting nearly US$1,000 just to keep the farm operating.

After four years, I have had to admit something that has been difficult to say aloud:

I have never truly made money from it.

Recently, I carried out a detailed soil analysis and finally uncovered one of the problems quietly working against me all this time.

The borehole water contains high salt levels, and over time it has gradually increased the sodicity of the soil. Restoring the land will require significant investment in gypsum and other soil amendments. I am now considering leaving sections of the farm fallow and allowing natural rainfall over the coming seasons to slowly flush out the salts before returning to intensive cultivation.

When I received the report, I did not feel anger.

Mostly, I felt humbled.

And slightly offended.

Because after all the money, planning, infrastructure, meetings, and effort, I discovered that I had been quietly competing against salt.

Not market prices.

Not weather.

Not poor management.

Salt.

Sometimes life has an interesting sense of humor.

You prepare for lions and discover you have been fighting ants.

Farming also has a way of reminding us that nature does not negotiate.

It does not care about our budgets, our ambitions, our timelines, or the amount of money already invested.

You can work hard and still lose.

You can do many things right and still find yourself asking difficult questions.

Lately, I have found myself asking many.

How do people actually make money in farming?

How does land truly create wealth?

We constantly hear statements like, "No one ever became rich without owning land." But I have begun wondering whether that is entirely true.

Perhaps land itself is not what creates wealth.

Perhaps wealth comes from understanding what to do with the land, when to do it, and how to adapt when reality changes.

Owning land may simply be owning possibility.

The rest is something else entirely.

I also find myself wondering whether we are approaching agriculture with old assumptions while living in a very different world.

Perhaps new technologies will change things.

Technology may never replace the ability to grow an onion or raise a chicken. Nature still demands patience. Seeds still need soil. Animals still need care.

But perhaps technology can change how food is produced, distributed, and managed.

Perhaps there is a middle ground we have not fully explored.

What concerns me most is not even my own farm.

It is the future.

If producing natural food continues becoming more expensive while consumers remain unable—or unwilling—to pay prices that reflect the true cost of production, then where does that leave agriculture?

How do farmers remain profitable while still feeding people?

I still do not know.

Maybe these questions do not have simple answers.

These are simply the thoughts of someone who has invested years, money, and effort into farming and is slowly realizing that farming is not merely about growing crops or raising animals.

Perhaps it is also about growing patience.

Perhaps it is about learning humility.

Or perhaps it is learning that every farm eventually gives its owner two harvests: the one you planned for, and the one that arrives as a lesson.

Unfortunately, the lessons seem remarkably consistent about showing up on time.

The profits, on the other hand, appear to be operating on their own schedule.