I bre@stfeed men at clubs. My quick way of getting rich fast without any bl00d sacrifices.
The Confession: My Experience with a Sangoma's "Solution"
They say desperation makes you do things you never thought you’d do. Well, let me tell you, I’ve been there. I’m not here to justify myself or ask for your pity—I’m just here to share my story. Maybe you’ll learn from it, or maybe it’ll be one of those cautionary tales that makes you say, "That could never be me." Either way, here it is.
A few months ago, life was rough. Bills piled up, dreams seemed further away, and I felt like I was running in circles. It didn’t matter how hard I worked or how many side hustles I picked up—success just wasn’t happening for me.
That’s when a friend mentioned something that made me pause.
“Why don’t you see a sangoma?” she whispered one night after we shared a bottle of wine.
“A sangoma? To do what?” I asked, half-laughing.
“To change your luck,” she said with a shrug.
At first, I brushed it off. But after weeks of sleepless nights and constant stress, the idea started to stick. What if this was the way to finally change my life? What if the universe was giving me a sign?
One hot afternoon, I found myself standing outside a small, nondescript house in a quiet neighborhood. The sangoma’s name had come highly recommended, though I won’t say from who.
As I walked in, the air smelled faintly of herbs and something earthy. The sangoma was a calm, older woman, her eyes sharp and piercing. She didn’t ask many questions—just looked at me as if she already knew everything.
“I want to be rich,” I said finally, my voice trembling.
She nodded slowly, as if she’d heard this request a thousand times before. “Are you ready to do what it takes?”
I hesitated, but then I nodded. I thought I was ready. I thought I knew what that meant.
What she offered me wasn’t what I expected. I’d heard stories of people sacrificing animals, participating in strange rituals, or even giving up pieces of themselves to gain wealth. But this was different.
She handed me a small jar of what looked like lotion. “Muti,” she called it.
“You will smear this on your nipples before going out. Choose your target wisely—a rich man with a weak spirit. Let him taste you, and he will be yours for a week. He’ll give you money, gifts, whatever you ask for. But after seven days, he’ll forget you completely. He’ll have no memory of you or what he spent.”
I stared at the jar in disbelief. “That’s it?”
She nodded. “But remember, this is not without its price. Use it sparingly, and only when absolutely necessary.”
I didn’t think much about the warning. At that moment, all I could see was the opportunity. A week of wealth with no strings attached? It sounded too good to be true.
That weekend, I dressed up and went to an upscale club in the city. The kind of place where the drinks cost more than my monthly rent and everyone was flaunting their wealth. I spotted my target within minutes—a middle-aged man in a tailored suit, sipping whiskey like he owned the place.
I worked my charm, and before long, we were back at his hotel room. I followed the sangoma’s instructions to the letter, applying the muti before he could even notice. When things got heated, he did exactly what I needed him to do.
The next morning, I woke up to a bank notification. A transfer of R100,000. He also left behind expensive gifts and promised to send more. True to the sangoma’s word, he treated me like a queen for seven days. But on the eighth day, he disappeared. No calls, no texts—nothing. It was like I never existed.
At first, I felt invincible. I repeated the process with other men, each time reaping the rewards. My bank account grew, my wardrobe changed, and I started living the life I’d always dreamed of.
But then, things started to change.
It began with strange dreams. I’d wake up in a cold sweat, convinced something was in the room with me. My breasts felt sore, like they’d been used during the night. Sometimes, I thought I heard faint cries, like a baby’s, but there was no one there.
Then, the physical changes started. My left breast began to hurt constantly, the pain sharp and unrelenting. It didn’t take long before the skin started to change—red, swollen, and eventually dark patches that looked like rot.
I went to doctors, desperate for answers. But every test came back normal. They couldn’t explain the pain or the discoloration. One even suggested it was stress.
I knew better. I knew this wasn’t something medical science could fix.
Desperate, I returned to the sangoma. She looked at me with pity when I told her what was happening.
“You’ve been careless,” she said simply. “You used the muti too often, and now you must pay the price.”
I begged her for help, but she shook her head. “This is beyond me now. You’ve fed something that can’t be unfed.”
Now, I live in constant fear and pain. Every night, I feel like something is feeding on me, draining my life away bit by bit. My once-beautiful breasts are a shadow of what they were, and no amount of money can fix them.
I’ve stopped using the muti, but it’s too late. The damage is done.
If you’re reading this and thinking about taking shortcuts to wealth, let my story be a warning. Nothing in this life comes for free. There’s always a price, and sometimes, that price is more than you’re willing to pay.
I don’t know how much time I have left or if there’s any way to undo what I’ve done. But if I can save even one person from making the same mistake, maybe this confession will have been worth it.
Be careful what you wish for. And always remember: desperation can lead you down dark, irreversible paths.
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