'’Morning, Nkosikaas,' he said, using the customary greeting for any time of the day.

'Good morning,' I said. 'Where are you going?' My voice was a little truculent.

The old man spoke in his own language, then one of the young men stepped forward politely and said in careful English: 'My Chief travels to see his brothers beyond the river.'

A Chief! I thought, understanding the pride that made the old man stand before me like an equal — more than an equal, for he showed courtesy, and I showed none.

The old man spoke again, wearing dignity like an inherited garment, still standing ten paces off, flanked by his entourage, not looking at me (that would have been rude) but directing his eyes somewhere over my head at the trees.

'You are the little Nkosikaas from the farm of Baas Jordan?'

'That's right,' I said.

'Perhaps your father does not remember,' said the interpreter for the old man, 'but there was an affair with some goats. I remember seeing you when you were…' The young man held his hand at knee level and smiled.

We all smiled.

'What is your name?' I asked.

'This is Chief Mshlanga,' said the young man.

'I will tell my father that I met you,' I said.

The old man said: 'My greetings to your father, little Nkosikaas.'

'Good morning,' I said politely, finding the politeness difficult, from lack of use.

'’Morning, little Nkosikaas,' said the old man, and stood aside to let me pass.

I went by, my gun hanging awkwardly, the dogs sniffing and growling, cheated of their favourite game of chasing natives like animals.