Aidan Hartley: If Santa Claus tried to make a delivery, he’d be shot before he reached the chimney

Laikipia

In the cattle rustlers’ camp, I know as I write this that the warriors are sharpening their blades, staring down the dirty barrels of their rifles, and loading their clips with bullets. Before full moon on the 17th of this month they will set out in their war paint, glistening with rancid butter and ochre. There will be four of them, young men not much more than teenagers. One will carry a bucket of sheep’s fat, and on this disgusting ration they will survive while lurking in the thorn scrub for days, never making a fire, leaving no tracks, sleeping cold on the rocks — and watching us. They will watch us as we go about our daily routines. They will observe the cattle as they emerge from the boma night enclosure as the askaris let them out at dawn to graze and the animals spread out across the plains. They spy on the herds as they water at the springs. They crawl up close enough to see if the cowhands are armed, or if they carry radios. They can see which cattle are easily driven, the fattest steers, the ones that are sturdy enough for the long stampede. At the same time, they look at the ones that are to be avoided because they seem aggressive, or have calves at foot, the ones that will not run. Before dusk, when the animals return to the big stone boma, the bandits will see how the cattle are shut in with two sets of iron gates, three padlocks on a big chain and then coils of razor wire blocking the entrance. I know what happens next and how things unfold because we’ve now been raided six times this year, during robberies in which dozens of bullets have been fired each time. Christmas is the worst time of the year for rustling because the police tend to be off napping, while even bandits want to enjoy the holidays by feasting on mountains of beef.