Confession of a Desperate Mother: The Price of My Choices.
I SOLF MY KIDS TO THE DEVIL FOR WEALTH AND NOW THEY ARE HAUNTING AND DESTROYING ME.
I write this not to seek pity, because I know I do not deserve it. I write this because I have no one else to turn to. Because I made a choice that I can never undo, and now, I am living in the hell of my own making.
If there is anyone out there who can help me, please, I am begging. I do not know where else to turn. I do not know how to fight against what I have unleashed.
I just want to save my children.
I just want to be free.
I never thought I would find myself here, writing these words, but the weight of my choices has become too heavy to bear alone. I do not expect forgiveness. I do not expect understanding. I only hope that by confessing, I can find a shred of peace, though I know I will never escape what I have done.
I was a mother of six, struggling to provide for my children alone. Every day was a battle—an exhausting cycle of hunger, unpaid bills, and the unbearable guilt of watching my children suffer. I wanted better for them. I wanted to give them a life where they wouldn’t have to wonder where their next meal would come from, where they could sleep with full stomachs in a home that didn’t leak when it rained.
That’s when I met her.
A sangoma who promised me everything I had ever wished for. She told me she could help me, that there was a way to change my life, to build a home for my children, to have the security I had only ever dreamed of. The cost? Two of my children.
She assured me they would not be harmed, that they were only needed for night errands, something I did not fully understand at the time. She said I could still see them whenever I wanted. I hesitated, but my desperation drowned out my conscience. I convinced myself that it was temporary—that after securing a better future for all my children, I would bring them back.
I was wrong.
For six months, the sangoma kept her word. I received payments that allowed me to start building a life for my remaining children. I would ask about the two I had given away, and she always assured me they were fine, that they were doing what they needed to do.
Then one day, she told me they were gone.
She said they had gone out for their usual night errands and never returned. That was all. No explanation. No remorse. Just the cold truth that my children had vanished. The payments stopped. The security I thought I had built crumbled instantly.
I was consumed by rage and grief. I confronted her again and again, demanding she bring them back, but she was cruel, dismissive. She laughed at my pain, mocking me for thinking I ever had control over the situation. That was the first time I realized the depth of my mistake. But it was far too late.
Then the nightmares began.
At first, they were just dreams—visions of my children crying, their bodies disfigured, pieces of them missing. They would ask me why I had given them away, why I hated them so much. I would wake up screaming, drenched in sweat, but soon, the nightmares were no longer just dreams.
I started seeing them in my waking hours. Their small, broken bodies would appear before me, their voices whispering accusations that tore through my soul. I tried to push it aside, to convince myself it was guilt playing tricks on my mind, but the horror had only just begun.
One of my four remaining children—my six-year-old son—hung himself.
A child so young, so full of life, suddenly choosing death? It made no sense. I was shattered. I tried to console myself with the idea that it was just a terrible tragedy, but deep down, I knew. I knew it was connected to what I had done.
Then, my fourteen-year-old daughter was hit by a car on her way home from school. Another child gone. Another piece of my soul ripped away.
Desperate, I sought answers. I went to a different spiritual healer, someone I hoped could help me understand what was happening. What I learned shook me to my core.
The sangoma had lied to me. My children had never been sent on “errands.” She had taken them for something far darker. Their bodies had been used, their parts harvested for rituals. And now, their tortured spirits had been enslaved, turned into tokoloshes to do her bidding. But they weren’t just working for her—they had been sent to fetch their remaining siblings.
I was losing my children, one by one.
The realization shattered me. I tried going to the police, but they dismissed my case, saying it held no weight. They told me there was nothing they could do, that I had no proof, that my claims were “beyond their jurisdiction.”
I am now left with only two of my children, and I do not let them leave my sight. I don’t allow them to go to school, to visit friends, to step outside without me. I live in constant fear that they will be next. That I will wake up one day, and they, too, will be gone.
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