The latter was there specifically to act as Mhlontlo’s interpreter. The three men were on horseback, with Mhlontlo riding in the middle on Gcazimbane. They were resplendent in European pants, riding boots and white beaded blankets, and the two older men carried knobkerries while Malangana carried an assegai and a shield, more as accoutrements than as weapons of war. Despite the drought that the elders said was the worst in living memory, the horses still looked fresh after almost two days on the hilly terrain from Sulenkama to Maclear, a distance of about forty-five miles. They had rested at each stream they crossed so that the beasts could drink and graze, and the men could nibble a bit on the iinkobe boiled sorghum kernels and sun-dried beef that they carried in their rock-rabbit-skin bags as provision – thanks to Mhlontlo’s wife of the Iqadi House. Most streams had run dry, but the riders moved on until they reached the ones that had some water. ‘The King of amaMpondomise has arrived,’ announced a policeman.
