1964–1994

At that moment I am hit by the consciousness that I have lost my home. It is over seventy-five years since my grandfather made his way to the Witwatersrand and settled down to found a family. Whether he came to that rocky, treeless place in search of gold, freedom or adventure, I do not know. It was a mining camp of tents and shacks. He was there when they laid down the first roads and pegged out the first building plots of what is now the city of Johannesburg.

My family has been there ever since. It has been my home for forty-four years. And now, in the night, I have pulled up my roots and shaken off the earth they grew in. We are transplanting ourselves, without any of the surrounding soil which sustained our life and growth. We carry nothing except a small canvas bag of our belongings, and a wad of Borch's banknotes.

Hilda's legs are giving way beneath her. My legs have been partially protected by trousers, but hers are badly scratched and torn by thorns. We have walked all night, and now the sun is growing hot and our water bottle is empty. Hilda cannot go on without rest. We are across the fence and probably out of sight of South Africa, but not yet far enough to be safe from kidnap – Bechuanaland's territorial rights are not likely to deter the South African police. We make it as far as a clump of acacias, where there is some small shade.

I leave Hilda there to rest while I go on to see what I can find.

A mile away I find a group of huts. I don't know what sort of reception I will get there, but I walk towards them anyway. Some blanketed men are squatting on stones around a small fire of thorn twigs. As though it happens every day, no one shows any interest in this tired, dishevelled white man who has arrived on foot from nowhere. Again I stumble through the ritual greetings; they remain hunched over the fire, giving only monosyllabic responses. There is no hostility and little spark of life.