
Laikipia
‘Let us go in amongst the cattle and talk,’ said the Councillor Jeremiah. That means a serious matter is to be discussed. It was evening, and the cattle were already in the boma. We went in, and Jeremiah let me know we must prepare for cattle rustling at Christmas. After the worst drought in half a century, pastoralists are out to restock and we have a fine Boran herd. It brings back memories.
‘Stolen!’ yelled the cowboy Lopiyor after lunch two Boxing Days ago. ‘Bandits! Cattle!’ I took seconds to respond. ‘What?’ Lopiyor, now leaning on his knees, panted. ‘Samburu! Rustled! Guns! Steers!’
I looked where Lopiyor pointed and saw a great plume of dust about two miles away. I tried to radio the authorities for help. ‘This is Whisky Eight and we have a cattle raid.’ Silence. So I radioed my neighbours. The rustlers might attack the farmstead to divert attention from the cattle raid, so I decided to evacuate the family.
‘Hurry!’ I urged.
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