What I am about to share is not just a story. It is a warning to all TAXI DRIVERS.
I was a taxi driver in Durban. For years I made good money. I woke up early, drove all day, and always went home with something in my pocket. But times changed. Business became slow. Passengers ignored me and jumped into other taxis. Some days I would wait for hours and return home with empty pockets. My family depended on me, and the pressure was heavy.
That was when I heard about Marabastad,in Pretoria.
Other drivers whispered about muti shops there. They said you could buy oils that attract customers, charms that bring money. I was desperate, so I went.
Inside the shop, shelves were packed with bottles of red, green, and black oils. The smell of herbs and dead animals filled the air. An old man asked me what I wanted. I told him my taxi was always empty. He smiled and handed me a small bottle of dark oil.
“Rub this on your taxi doors every morning,” he said. “You will never run empty again.”
At first, it worked. People waved me down, even when other taxis were closer. I felt powerful again. I thought my problems were over. But that oil came with a price.
Passengers complained of coldness inside my taxi, even on hot days. Some said the seats felt wet, though they were dry. At night, when I drove alone, I heard whispers. Soft laughter. Crying.
Then one night, around 2 AM, I picked her up.
A woman dressed in black, face covered with a scarf. She whispered her destination in a voice that sounded like the wind. I drove, but the road became strange. The houses disappeared. The streetlights ended. She led me to the edge of a forest.
She tried to pay me with old coins, heavy and dirty. I refused. She laughed softly and whispered: “You will come back here on your own.”
From that night, my torment began.
I smelled burning candles in my taxi. I saw her in the rear-view mirror, sitting silently in the back. I woke up holding those same coins I had refused. When I threw them away, they returned to my bedside. And every night at 2 AM, she knocked on my window, whispering: “Driver… take me back.”
Pastors could not help me. Prophets could not help me. They said the oil had opened a door I could not close.
One night, my taxi started by itself. The steering wheel turned on its own. The car drove me to that forest. She was waiting. She entered and told me to go deeper.
In the forest clearing stood a giant black tree. At its roots were piles of bones. Skulls. Taxi plates. Steering wheels. She removed her scarf. Her face was not human. Her eyes burned like fire.
“You wanted clients,” she hissed. “Now you belong to me.”
That was the last thing I saw before the ground swallowed me.
Now I am no longer alive. I am trapped, still driving for her, carrying her forever. And I am not the first.
Most of us drivers do not abuse bolt of Uber drivers from our own willingness,we are possessed by anger of the many Muti we use to try and grow our business. Most of these mutis cause us anger and fear so we are forever on defense mode and we take it out on innocent people.
So hear me clearly: do not be tempted by oils, charms, or muti that promise wealth. If your business is slow, let it be. Work harder. Pray harder. But do not open doors you cannot close.
Because once she rides with you… she never leaves.
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