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Gitiri poured a small measure of thick, dark, viscous liquid from the jug into the cup, before replacing both vessels in their original position. His presence in the chapel was an act of intimidation.ДЄn earthenware jug, a battered tin cup and a length of rope had been placed by the head of the goat. His hair was plaited into tight braids that were gathered in a ridge that ran from the back to the front of his scalp like a soldierвЂ™s forage cap. His eyes were permanently narrowed, forever searching for possible threat. His face was criss-crossed with thick welts of scar tissue. He was shorter in stature than his commander, but he was as barrel-chested as a bull.

Wilson Gitiri was malevolence personified. He was highly intelligent, confident in his ability to win people over by reason and charm as well as fear. Kabaya was a tall, handsome, charismatic man. As he did, his second in command, Wilson Gitiri, sat beside the goat, placing the wickedly sharp, long-bladed panga knife with which he вЂ“ like all of KabayaвЂ™s men вЂ“ was armed, on the floor by his right hand. Kabaya stepped back to leave the young man alone in the middle of the floor. Whether a soldier, a criminal or a terrorist, their boss had a genius for leadership. The gangsters had become rebels and still they followed Kabaya. Their gang was one of many that emerged in the teeming shanty towns that had sprung up around the Kenyan capital, Nairobi, but it swiftly became the most powerful. When they came home to East Africa to discover that their military service had earned them neither human rights, nor decent jobs, Kabaya and his men had turned to crime. And for each of them there had been times when Kabaya had found the words to keep them going in times of hardship, or given them courage when the fighting was most fierce. They had watched as he had been promoted from private to company sergeant major within five years. They had all served with Kabaya in the KingвЂ™s African Rifles, a British colonial regiment, during World War Two, campaigning in Ethiopia against MussoliniвЂ™s Italian armies and then in Burma against the Japanese. The five men Kabaya had brought with him to the ceremony glanced at one another and gave nods or smiles of recognition as they watched the young man straighten his back and hold his head up high, his confidence restored. вЂThereвЂ™s nothing to fear,вЂ™ he said, speaking quietly so that only the youngster could hear him. Kabaya approached him and put a fatherly arm upon his shoulder. But as the gravity of his decision weighed upon him, his courage was giving way to anxiety and trepidation. With a young manвЂ™s reckless bravado he had volunteered to be the first to take the oath. He was thin and gangly, no more than eighteen years old. Kabaya cast his eye towards a separate group of around twenty squatters, men and women alike, who had been selected to take part in tonightвЂ™s ceremony, and he nodded to the one at the head of the line. For no matter how hard a squatte r worked no matter how long he, or his father, or even grandfather had lived on the farm no matter how skilfully he had built the hut in which he and his family lived: he only stayed on the farm with the farmerвЂ™s blessing and could be expelled at any moment, with no right of appeal. There were around sixty of them, members of the Kikuyu tribe and вЂsquattersвЂ™, as the white farmers called their black labourers.

In the flickering, smoky light cast by torches of burning brushwood, Kungu Kabaya looked past the slaughtered goat lying in the middle of the abandoned missionary chapel towards the men, women and children watching in fearful expectancy. I love and adore you, my best girl, words cannot express how much. I truly do not know what I would do if she were not by my side.

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