Extracted from "THE ZONG SURVIVER" by BantuCHK

My memory servers well, in truth, none of us who were there could forget the theatricals that enrolled on that faithful summer day. I was almost eighteen winters, a few more weeks to my first marriage.

 Never before or since that time did my people, the Great Bantu clan gather in such hordes of numbers. Our camp on the uMhlathuze Hill stretched three kilometres along the river —seven great Amasango (camp circles), each, a yard across, with thousands of Bantu Amabutfo (warriors) and their families. In that long-ago time, none of my people knew more than a thousand numbers. We believed no honest man needed to know more than that many. 

There was my own tribe, the Swati. There were our cousins, the Zulu, the Ndebele, the Xhosa, the Tswana, the Griqua and the BaPedi all our Seven Nguni Fires. There were many of our eastern relatives, too -- the Tsonga and the Shangaan. And our kinsmen from the North were there -- the Shona and the Ndebele. Our friends and allies the Khoi San were there in force, and with them were smaller bands of Vendas and Sotho. It was a great village and we had great leaders.

Sobhuza, Ngwane, and Ludvonga led my tribe. Senzangakhona headed the Zulu. Mzilikazi led the Ndebele. Ngewu and Dalinjebo led the Xhosa. But the greatest leader of all was the chief of the Hlengwe -- Chauke. It is said that he once got separated form a hunting party while in a hunt when he was little, and disappeared for many moons. Upon his return, he taught our people how to make fire with two Mvongotsi wood sticks. As long as we were all camped together, we looked on him as head chief. We all rallied around him because he stood for our old way of life and the freedom we had always known. We were not there to make war, but, if need be, we were ready to fight for our sacred rights. 

Since the white man's government had promised our leaders that we could wander and hunt in our old territory as long as the grass should grow, we did not believe the white soldiers had any business in our hunting grounds, the great plains of the Komati, Yet we fell prey to their firing sticks, and our women reported the most barbaric treatment whenever they would leave the village for fire wood and water.

I slept late the morning of the fight. The day before, I had been hunting the Kudu and I had to ride far to find the herds because there were so many people in the valley. I came back with meat, but I was very tired. So when I got up, the camp women were already starting out to dig for mushrooms. Two of my uncles had left early for another Kudu hunt. Only my grandmother and my younger sister were left behind in our hut.

As the sun was high overhead and hot, i decided to walk to the river to take a cool swim, then got hungry and returned to the hut at noon.

"When you finish eating," my uncle said, "go get my horse from your brother in the mountain. Something might happen today. I feel it in the air."

I hurried to Mdzimba mountain and joined my younger brother, who was herding the family cattle. By the time I reached the herd, I heard shouting in the village. People were yelling that white soldiers were riding toward the camp.

Bambatha and I, climbed the Sibebe rock for a look around the country, and  saw a long column of soldiers coming and a large party of Hlengwe Amabutfo, led by Chauke’s nephew, Mampuru, riding out to meet them. I could see Mampuru’s hand raised in the peace sign to show the soldiers that our leaders only wanted to talk them into going away and leaving us alone. But all at once, the soldiers spread out for attack and began to fire, and the fight was on. I caught my favorite war Ihhashi, a small buckskin mustang I called Mzabalazo, meaning “the struggle”, and raced him in his might back to camp to get ready for battle.

I had no time to prepare Mzabalazo properly for war, just a minute or so to smear on my own face with mud from the Ngwavuma river for protection before I galloped out on Mzabalazo to help defend the camp. 

I met four other Zulu’s running fast.Three were veteran fighters, armed with rifles; the other was young like me and carried a bow and arrows as I did. One of the veterans went down. I saw my chance to act bravely and filled the gap.

 We all turned when we heard shooting at the far side of the village nearest the Tswana camp circle and ran fast to meet this new danger. I could see swirls of dust and hear shooting on the hills and bluffs across the river. Hundreds of other Amabutfo joined us as we splashed across the ford near our camp and raced up the hills to charge into the thickest of the fighting.

This new battle was a turmoil of dust, Amabutfo and soldiers, with bullets whining and arrows hissing all around. Sometimes a bugle would sound and the shooting would get louder. Some of the soldiers were firing pistols at close range. Our knives and makhundu’s (war clubs) flashed in the sun. I could hear bullets whiz past my ears. But I kept going and shouting, “lilanga lelihle lekufa”, meaning, It's a good day to die!, so that everyone who heard would know that I was not afraid to meet death.

It was by that time that a Zulu named Dingane rode on an unstrapped black Mustang, unarmed among us, with scarlet fists clinched on the horses mane, calling out a challenge to all the Amabutfo to join him. He shouted, "Asitfumbe Umhloli”, meaning, Let's take their leader alive!, I had no thought of what we would do with this leader once we caught him; it was a daring feat that required more courage and much more skill than killing him. 

I dug my heels into my horse’s flanks to urge him on faster to take part in the capture.

A tall white man in buckskins kept shouting; at the soldiers and looked to be their leader. Following Dingane, I charged toward this leader in buckskins. We were almost on top of him when Dingane’s horse was shot from under him. Mzabalazo shielded to one side, almost throwing me off. A Xhosa named Mandela rushed in and shot the leader at close range in the face, and not long after, all the soldiers were dead. The battle was over.

The soldier chief we had tried to capture lay on the ground with the reins of his horse's bridle tied to his wrist. It was a fine animal, a blaze-faced sorrel with four white stockings. A Venda named Shaka took that horse. Then he told everyone that the leader lying there, dead was Cicil John Rhodes ; so that was the first time I knew who we had been fighting. I thought it was strange for a soldier  to have so many names. Our attempt to save Mampuru’s life had failed. But we all felt good about our victory over the invaders and celebrated with a big Incwala, a secred dance to appease the ancestors. At last we were ready for peace and believed we would have no more trouble. 

But as it turned out, our triumph was hollow. A winter or so later more soldiers came to round us up on bantustans. There were too many of them to fight now, and we were split up into bands and no longer felt strong.