Jubilant greetings to you, Celestino! How is the atmospheric pressure in your corner? 

 Laikipia

‘I am old and cannot work again,’ said Celestino. ‘But you are 46 and we have many years to go.’ ‘No. Working for you has made me blind.’ ‘We went over that and the optician said you need reading glasses because you are in your forties…’ He shakes his head: ‘I’m never going to have another job. I’m going home to grow my sugarcane.’ And so the man who appeared at my door without shoes 23 years ago is on his way. Named after one of only two popes to have resigned, Celestino held the fort for me while I went off to Rwanda, Somalia and the Balkans. He couldn’t boil an egg — he once declared eating too many eggs gave one influenza — but he could mix a wicked bloody Mary. He stood by me when my father died and at my wedding. Ten years ago, we carved a farm out of virgin bush together. When we moved in we used donkey carts loaded with our kit, and I will always picture the tired but determined Celestino urging the beasts onwards across the quicksilver land beneath a highway of stars as we trekked all night. And then the sun rose on the farm with all our things spilled out across the grass: carpets, pictures, plastic ducks and teddy bears, computers, tables, chairs and beds. All coated in dust and smelling vaguely of donkey. He sat there staring out over the empty landscape. I asked: ‘What is the matter?’ and he replied forlornly, ‘There are no shops. This is a terrible place.’ But he stayed to help me and together we made water run uphill, built a farmstead from nothing and planted trees and constructed five kilometres of drystone walls. We created so much so fast that it looked as if we’d been here for a long time.