“What’s happening?” Zobuhle was calmer than I expected. “I heard the gunfire.”
“The British defeated us,” I said. “We’re leaving.”
Zobuhle made no fuss. She grabbed some necessities and followed me out of the hut. “Where are we going?”
I had the answer ready. “To the hills.” I indicated the distant Drakensberg Mountains.
The blacksmith came out of his forge, with his wife and children at his side. “I’ll come too,” he said.
“We’ll have to move fast,” I said.
Leading the horse, I led my people south-west. Using my military experience, I knew where the British patrols would be and avoided them as we left Zululand, the nation that had given me my first real home. The days passed, with the smoke of burning kraals in the distance and fear in the air. We passed other refugees; warriors and
