Laikipia
As our farm manager Celestino Sikuku drove home with two other workers last month a gang of bandits waylaid their vehicle. It was an inside job. Somebody had revealed that the car was carrying the payroll. At the first gunshots Celestino halted the car, slipped the others the cash and urged them to run. He predicted the attackers would pursue him, so he sped in the other direction.
They quickly caught him, frisked him and became enraged when they found his pockets empty. When Celestino recognised one of his attackers, the man, carrying a machete, yelled to his better-armed accomplices, ‘Shoot him! Kill him!’ They refused. ‘Money,’ they said. ‘Where is the money?’ They smashed Celestino’s face in with a knobkerrie. ‘In the house,’ he said, playing for time.
Thankfully, Claire and the children were at the coast, while I was in India. But Silas, the farm clerk, was in the radio room at home. On hearing the gunshots he managed to broadcast a mayday to our neighbours. Seconds later, the bandits swarmed in. They bashed him on the head and vandalised the radios. But the alarm had been raised and the neighbours were already racing to our aid.
Meanwhile, the bandits menaced Celestino, demanding to know where ‘the money’ was. He knew there was nothing but he said, ‘Try the bedrooms.’ They smashed the windows and ransacked the house. Now hysterical, they turned on Celestino. He might have died for his brave stalling tactics. But when my friend and neighbour Tom’s vehicle was heard approaching, the gang cut and run.
By now Claire and I had got the news and were making frantic calls. Hours later the police appeared. They lacked fuel for their cars, so were given supplies.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in