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.