I was in the bunduz recently, chasing after kaburoti, which I fear is becoming something of an obsession for most Kenyans. This prompted my re-reading of Leo Tolstoy’s philosophical musings about how much land a man needs.
The acreage of my smallholding in Laikipia is in single digits, unlike landlords who hold hundreds of thousands of acres. I wouldn’t care for such, really. Besides, all a man needs, in the final analysis, is a three-by-six hole to take in his grave. Or none at all for those who opt for cremation. Anyway, where was I? A few months ago, almost by accident, an architect discovered the small inheritance in my possession in the remote reaches of Laikipia was smaller than what the title deed declared.
I know Kenya has produced notorious thieves who steal with their eyelids, but I couldn’t figure how my chunk of land could have shrunk without human intervention. And since I was well raised, I restrained myself from labelling anyone a landgrabber.
Instead, through area chief James Eleman, I wrote to Rumuruti Land Registrar John Matheka, and invited him to investigate the matter. I had no idea how powerful a chief can be until Eleman was summoned to a meeting by his superiors, coinciding with the Registrar’s field trip. Our mission had to be adjourned.
Last week, Chief Eleman arrived, smart in his uniform and baton, accompanied by two armed Administration Police officers, as did Matheka and Sub-County Surveyor, one Ndolo. For a few hours, they went through the parcels of land in my neighbourhood. Even longer time was devoted to working out the math.
In the end, they directed us to where the proper beacons should have been. I had encroached on a neighbour and planted trees, a neighbour or neighbours had encroached on my land, and I had surrendered my land for road reserve.
It is affirming that even though many things have gone awfully wrong in this country, the diligent officers at the Rumuruti Land registry inspire confidence that another future is possible.