Unbelievable

 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, even now. My grandfather drove us to the base of the mountain with supplies: water, some food, and our overconfidence.

The first stretch was easy enough. Sparse trees, a gentle incline, and the soundtrack of the bush: chirping insects and the occasional squawk of the Go-away bird. Supposedly, their cry warns of danger, but as a child, no one tells you you are often the danger.

Things took a turn when I experienced the agony of a Matabele ant bite. Flip-flops, of course. The pain was fiery, but I wasn’t about to let on. “This? Nothing,” I muttered, teeth gritted. Not long after, we stumbled upon the shed skin of an enormous snake. My imagination conjured a monster around every corner as we moved into denser bush. I did notice Johannes or Monty jerking their heads around nervously, but I wasn’t about to admit I was doing the same.

We pressed on, navigating thickets until we came upon a small cliff face. Climbing it brought us above the dense bush, and the view opened up spectacularly. Suddenly, all fear evaporated. Below us, the world stretched out—a patchwork of African wilderness. Then, as if on cue, a pair of black eagles soared past, their grace mesmerizing. For a moment, time seemed to stand still.

The rest of the climb was steeper but manageable, requiring careful footing over boulders. Finally, we reached the summit. The view from the top was breathtaking, dwarfing everything we’d seen earlier. Far below, a family of giraffes loped placidly, their movements impossibly elegant. The world felt still, timeless.

We chose a jutting rock as our campsite and set about gathering firewood—plentiful in the Lowveld. As dusk fell, we lit a fire and shared stories, the kind of camaraderie only the ‘hardekole’ of a campfire can foster. Darkness crept in, shrinking our world to the circle of firelight. Beyond its edge lay a deadly drop, invisible yet present.

Then the moon rose—a deep red disc casting an eerie glow across the Lowveld. It was one of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever witnessed. As the moon climbed higher, the landscape transformed, bathed in silver light. Content and weary, we settled into our sleeping bags, the fire crackling softly.

I don’t know how long I slept before waking with a jolt. A noise—barely audible—stirred me. I turned toward Johannes and froze. Sitting on his chest was a scraggly creature, its massive eyes glinting in the moonlight, claws like knives gliding over his sleeping bag. Another was pulling him toward the edge of the cliff.

Tokolosh.

I knew the legends: malevolent spirits, responsible for mysterious deaths in the bush. Fear clawed at my throat, paralyzing me. Should I scream? Could I scream? Summoning every ounce of willpower, I yelled. Johannes and Monty remained oblivious, but the Tokolosh turned its glowing eyes on me, snickering—a sound like chittering insects.

Time slowed. My brain screamed for action; my body refused. But as Johannes inched closer to the precipice, adrenaline surged. Grabbing a burning log from the fire, I swung with all my might, striking the creature on his chest. It tumbled over the edge landing with a sickening crunch.

The second one lunged at me. With newfound reflexes, I caught it under the chin with the log, sending it hurtling into the abyss. Silence returned, broken only by my ragged breathing. I waited, expecting reinforcements, gripping the log like a lifeline. Grabbing Johannes’ sleeping bag, I pulled him away from the edge, noticing how the tokolosh blood had melted a corner of his sleeping bag. I was suddenly very grateful none of it had fallen on me. 

Slowly like a rushing river getting closer, the bush around us came alive with chittering. Then I heard it—a guttural roar, the bush alive with movement. My knees buckled as the sound drew closer. Emerging into the firelight was something massive. Bigfoot, it seems, had come to our rescue. The same Bigfoot I had shared a beer and a mellie with last holiday. He gave me a friendly wink and ruffled my hair with a leathery, surprisingly gentle hand, then disappeared into the night, humming the same haunting melody as last time.

I didn’t sleep again. At sunrise, relief flooded me as daylight swept away the horrors of the night. Johannes stretched lazily, oblivious to his brush with death. Monty yawned, glancing at me. “You’re up early. Sleep well?”

I wanted to tell them everything: the Tokolosh, the fight, the creature that saved us. But I bit my tongue. Teenage ridicule was a fate I wasn’t ready to risk.

Now, years later, I’ve outgrown that fear. Johannes, you didn’t put your foot “in the fire.” That burn? Tokolosh blood. And no, Monty, I didn’t sleep well. I spent the night saving you two dunda heads.

Sometimes, though, I wonder. Did the Tokolosh have some way of rendering its prey unconscious? And had my previous encounter with Bigfoot somehow granted me immunity? I may never know.