Weregoi Plains
Three shots rang out in the night air. Rustlers had attacked my neighbour’s boma a few hundred metres from home. At the time, our children were watching a cartoon before bedtime. Thankfully, the bandits were only after the cattle. They got away with a couple of dozen steers. Cow theft is a noble pastime for the Samburu youth. Stealing televisions is still beneath them.
When called, the police announced that they were not permitted to work in the hours of darkness in case of ambush. It was a revelation I sense might help ne’er-do-wells plan efficiently. After hours of milling about, we set off in the pre-dawn chill to pursue the raiders. We had torches and water. It gave me the chance to witness again the incredible talent even ordinary people here possess of tracking.
‘Look, there are four of them,’ said my friend Celestina. They wore thousand milers — sandals made from old tyres. ‘And, see, one is very big, like a giant,’ said Celestina. True enough, I saw the fellow had enormous feet. When the rustlers got away, the moon had not yet risen. But they ran with huge strides. They moved ahead very fast, unfazed by the herds of elephant we now encountered in the valley. Losing several cattle on the way, they advanced out on to the flat high plains and headed towards the forested hills on the horizon. They zigzagged, perhaps because they had become slightly lost, but they raced against the dawn. They had to get into the trees while it was still dark. If caught out in open country in the day, all would be lost. Vehicles and aircraft and posses of men were after them.
The sun rose.
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