“Usuthu!”
That welcome cry sounded in my ears simultaneous with a jet of hot blood as Bafana thrust his assegai into the man on my back. My Zulus were here, killing the Griqua without mercy. Within a few seconds, we were the only live men on that path, and the mist was thinning. I looked around me. We were near the summit of a flat-topped mountain, where a plateau stretched ahead of us to a small village of stone-built huts.
“They build in the Basuto style,” Bafana said, wiping blood from the blade of his assegai.
I agreed. I loaded my rifle before moving into the village, with my Zulus behind me, spread out and holding their assegais ready to fight. There was no need. The only male Griqua was about six years old and crying.
“What is this place?” Bafana asked. “There are no men.”
Bafa
