The morning was bright and full of promise. The glorious sun of the Samburu savanna set the yellowing grass aglow. The sturdy semi-arid shrubs, mostly stunted acacia, hardly stirred in the caressing breeze that descended from Kirisia Hills, down Baawa Valley. This silent, almost immobile breeze yet so refreshing, extended to Kisima and beyond Suguta Mar Mar, eventually ending up in the Laikipia plains. And this unaccidental breeze sent profound messages of care and tenderness between the two uniformed men and their environment.
The two were walking leisurely along the one lonely road. It was a deserted road since it was Sunday. Even the Nissan matatus expected to ply this Nyahururu-Maralal highway later in the day would be few and far between. Its condition notwithstanding, many knew it was a highway because they had been told so. And so it had to be. More so, according to the books of some men and women, so it was rumoured, the road was marked as a tarmacked highway.
They walked on silently, each man secure in his own thoughts. One of them, the taller, twirled a stick and almost unthinkingly gazed at the electric fence that went round the Mugie Ranch. The ranch was located approximately forty kilometers from Maralal town. The one who was shorter but more heavily set was thinking. He was wondering why the Mugie Ranch was not in Samburu District. He had left his home in Luo Nyanza several months earlier knowing he was going to work in Maralal. He later learnt that Mugie was in Laikipia rather than Samburu. He had been a little disappointed and he considered his first letter home boring because he could not then express the wonders of Samburu. But he was happy still that Maralal was nearby and he could go there any time he was free.
A Landcruiser was approaching them. It was the official vehicle of the manager of the ranch. The big man from Switzerland drove on and pulled up when he reached them.
“Dan,” he called out after lowering the glass window.
“Yes sir,” responded the taller man.
“Am not going to be in today but I hope you guys have enough sense in your heads to remember patrolling in the east of the ranch,” he laughed.
“Rogger that sir,” he responded.
“And you, Steve, I take it you are not going to go back to camp and begin disturbing that cute girl you came with from leave.”
“Rogger that too,” the shorter man smiled, “it is time for duty.”
“And it is Sunday too. Save the sanctity of the day,” he said starting to drive off.
The dam measured about three football fields. It lay under the mid-morning sun like an expansive glistening sheet. Geographically and otherwise, this dam was the centre of the natural habitation that was Mugie Ranch. It was something of the heart that pumped the lifeblood into every being in the ranch. There, upon the concrete banks, stood the white man. Even from far, he appeared like a man lost in his own thoughts. Punctuating his rather calm attitude were the anxious glances he cast sideways.
He nestled himself behind the graying bush and looked at the man from this safety of distance. The man started moving along the bank. He stood a little. He cast a glance again. He then started moving along the two-foot perimeter of the dam towards the side where the wall was highest and the dam deepest. He turned round, three hundred and sixty degrees, scanning as far wide as his eyes could go. All this while, behind a scanty acacia shrub another man waited.
He started to unfasten the Rolex watch from his wrist and laid it quite carefully on the concrete embankment. He went for his wallet in the back pocket of his pants and proceeded to do the same. The man behind the bush was worried. The first impulse told him to shout, while the second to rush forward and save the white man. He did neither. The man did not seem to have the agitation of one who desired to commit suicide. The man behind the shrub held his breath as the man dove into the corner of the dam.
The hiding man harnessed enough patience to hold on to his curiosity. It may have been as long as it takes to complete a marathon; or as short as one minute. But he felt the same relief as one who was worried about the drowning of a loved one when the white man came to the surface. Holding onto the bank, the man hauled his mass out of the water. He stood on the bank and wiped his face. After that, he began towing a string. At the end of the string something that looked like a canvas sacking started to appear.
To be continued........
