The refugees in my Kenya garden

"I don't believe that," I replied. "Kenyans are peace-loving."

Kamau was unsure who to vote for. Maybe the opposition Orange Democratic Movement (ODM), "because we need change".

Mohamed, a Boran from the north, was definitely voting for the ODM because its leader, Raila Odinga, "supports all people of all religions".

Rachel, a Kalenjin, said she would vote for the Party of National Unity (PNU), President Mwai Kibaki's party, "because how do we know Odinga is not corrupt too?"

I felt uncertain, sickened by our history of blatant corruption and today's widening rift between rich and poor.

Soon afterwards a record number of Kenyans voted in an atmosphere of confident excitement. There followed the announcement of Kibaki's supposed victory - and instant allegations of rigging from the opposition. Violence began in towns and cities.

Kenyans are always renowned for their friendly, laid-back charm. It was an unbelievable shock when Kalenjin people started burning, looting and killing Kikuyu people in western Kenya. We were in tears: this couldn't be happening.

A dozen members of Kamau's family arrived from the west. They had lost friends, become separated from spouses and children. "We slept in the forest for a week," Kamau's sister told me. "They burnt our houses, all our possessions, our crops and our chickens. They stole our cows. They killed people: bodies were being eaten by dogs because relatives could not get there. They left heads in the roads to warn Kikuyu to get out."

Why were people who had lived side by side, praying and going to school together, suddenly turning brutally on their neighbours? "They are paid to kill and destroy," Kamau's brother said, "by an ODM politician."

Within a week Nakuru, home to millions of flamingos and Kenya's most visited national park, had become another tragedy. The Kikuyu had taken up arms against the Kalenjin and it was all the more horrifying now it had come to our nearest town.

On the night of Friday, January 25, Rachel's children and youngest sister arrived, having walked from the near-by village for two hours. Rachel's sister spoke quietly about receiving threats, warning Kalenjin and Luo people to leave or die: "Our parents stayed to protect our property, but they sleep outside for fear of being burnt in their houses."

Mohamed called us outside: "See those lights." We stood on the dusty road beneath bright stars and watched a dozen headlights piercing the darkness of the surrounding hills and valleys. "Trucks," said Mohamed.

"Maybe the army has come to help us," suggested Rachel. There was something purposeful about them and yet something sinister, too. Half an hour later the silent blackness returned. Overhead, a flock of flamingos grunted companionably as they flew south.

Next morning Rachel went to collect her mother. She came back with disturbing news: "Those trucks in the night brought young Kikuyu men. They came through our village. They seek revenge. People say a PNU politician is funding this Kikuyu army."

Every hour or so a military aircraft passed over, heading towards Nakuru. A mechanic arrived to tell us that an elderly Kalenjin man had been hacked to death by a Kikuyu gang.

The following evening women and children began to arrive on foot, seeking safety at the small camp behind us. They carried few possessions and no food or water: they were Kisii, Maragoli, Kalenjin, Luo and Boran people, escaping from violence in the surrounding area. We heard reports of Kikuyu terror gangs in Naivasha town, stopping vehicles, demanding IDs and killing nonKikuyu.

Next morning the sky was hazy with smoke. Several kilometres away people were killing one another with bows and arrows and machetes.

The following afternoon Rachel's brother arrived from Naivasha. His house had been burnt and he had worn the same clothes for four days. "Naivasha is very bad," he said. "The Rift Valley has become too dangerous for Kalenjin people. We have to leave here quickly before they kill us all - and our children."

More people were arriving in the encampment including Kikuyu, some very old. Rachel and Mohamed came with news that a Kalenjin grandmother and her son had been hacked to death in the village last night.

An elderly Kikuyu man spoke to me briefly. "This isn't only about election results or tribalism," he said, "it is deep grievances about land."

We found a lorry to take the many people now in our encampment to safety. As they drove away, waving and affirming that God would give us all a long life, I finally broke down and wept for my country.

Rachel and her family remained, but last Thursday night Rachel's sister called from Nakuru to say that her employer had managed to hire a lorry to get them away next day if they could get to the village police station.

Rachel was unsure whether to stay or go and suggested we should all pray together. So we stood in a circle beneath the stars: the Christian Kalenjin family, two Muslim night-watchmen and me, not a follower of any particular faith. We prayed for Kenya and a miracle.

In the pink and orange dawn light on Friday we all piled into my Land Rover, ignoring one tyre threatening to go flat, and I drove them to the police station. Later in the day I heard that Rachel's family had refused to leave on the lorry. Unable to suppress my annoyance, I contacted her.

"It was because all our Kikuyu neighbours stopped us," she said. "They came to the lorry and took our luggage out, telling us that this is our home, we must not leave and they would look after our home, our possessions and us . . . It is a miracle."

Names have been changed to protect the people involved