Beware the Tokolosh The Ranch. That’s what we always called it. A magical place with a wild edge—just enough wilderness to make it irresistible to teenage boys. Civility? Sure, it was there, but that wasn’t the draw. It was the call of adventure, the promise of the unknown. I loved sharing it with my friends, and during one particular holiday to visit my grandparents, two of them joined me: Johannes and Monty. The Ranch was set in the Lowveld, a land mostly flat, except for enormous granite outcroppings and one solitary mountain. Not massive by mountain standards, but prominent enough to require a beacon. The locals called it Chivumburu—a Nyanji word meaning "revelation." We had decided we’d spend a night at the top of Chivumburu. If a single teenage boy feels invincible, a trio of us was unstoppable. Fear? Never. And certainly not in front of each other. Of course, in my infinite wisdom, I embarked on the climb wearing my trusty flip-flops. Barefoot adventures were my norm...
