... Two or three men were hanging about as I rode up, one of whom went to inform the chief of my arrival, presently returning to tell me to "walk in," which I did, metaphorically, and creeping through the low doorway stood in the presence of the doughty "Divider of Waters."  My lord looked decidedly cool and comfortable, squatting on a mat, without a rag of clothing but his mútya, and the inevitable head-ring encircling his shaven poll.  Two of his sons, boys of about ten or eleven, stopped in their play to stare at umlungu (the white man) as I entered.  One side of the hut was piled up with trunks; and heaps of rugs, topboots, brass candlesticks, lanterns, and other odds and ends were lying about, the whole suggestive of Isandhwana loot.
    Dabulamanzi is a fine-looking man of about thirty-five, stoutly built and large-limbed like most of his royal brethren.  He is light in colour even for a Zulu, and has a high, intellectual forehead, clear eyes, and handsome regular features, with jet-black beard and moustache.  But although a handsome face, it is not altogether a prepossessing one, for it wears a settled expression of insincerity and cunning which would cause you to have little doubt as to the deservedness of public opinion about him if you had heard it, and if you had not, readiness of belief when you should come to do so.  That opinion I have heard, expressed by those who knew the man, in two words, "a blackguard." (Through the Zulu Country, Mitford, 1883)