April 13, 1870.
The weather is clear and the temperature is moderate.
The mighty waters of the Zambezi River rush along the cliffs like a stampede of thousands of horses, plunging into the unfathomable depths of the gorge, with a massive mist forming a beautiful rainbow bridge under the refraction of sunlight.
The roar of the waterfall is like thunder, and the crashing sound of the vast water flow can be heard for kilometers around on both banks. Standing at the edge, one is in awe of this masterpiece of nature.
I stand on a huge rock, overlooking the entire waterfall group, feeling my own insignificance for the first time. Even after more than twenty years of military life, enduring countless choices between life and death, I've never felt this way.
War has brought me only numbness, or rather, it's my job, my only means of livelihood.
Yet this wonder of nature has struck my numb soul with tremendous impact, cleansing my heart, tainted by the fumes of gunpowder.
