I have always had
the good fortune to be on the best of terms with my Kaffirs, and where
I went they were ready to go without asking any questions. The man
whom I had selected to be their captain under me was a Zulu of the
name of Mavovo. He was a short fellow, past middle age, with an
enormous chest. His strength was proverbial; indeed, it was said that
he could throw an ox by the horns, and myself I have seen him hold
down the head of a wounded buffalo that had fallen, until I could come
up and shoot it.
When I first knew Mavovo he was a petty chief and witch doctor in
Zululand. Like myself, he had fought for the Prince Umbelazi in the
great battle of the Tugela, a crime which Cetewayo never forgave him.
About a year afterwards he got warning that he had been smelt out as a
wizard and was going to be killed. He fled with two of his wives and a
child. The slayers overtook them before he could reach the Natal
border, and stabbed the elder wife and the child of the second wife.
They were four men, but, made mad by the sight, Mavovo turned on them
and killed them all.
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