Laikipia
I have a mob of finished Boran steers ready for the holidays. The butchers are suddenly chasing me and that’s a fine feeling. A year ago, we were in the worst drought for 50 years, with invasions of armed herders and 2,000 cattle. We were left with not a blade of grass. Our cattle were heartbreaking to see. Since then we’ve had rain every month. The animals have grown fat on rippling seas of red oat pasture. Now I must sell up, or I shall be penniless at Christmas. Or the Samburu will go mad with the temptation, rustle them and scoff the lot in the forest.
The butchers come knocking. One says that in the name of the Lord he can’t pay a shilling more than one-oh-five per live-weight kilo. A Somali broker, working for a baron sitting cross-legged surrounded by cellphones in a distant town, has diddled me on prices once before.
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