The Famous Pastor Sl3pt With Me for Money and Left Me Haunted
I never thought one day I would write something like this. I used to believe that what happens in the dark should stay in the dark, but the truth is the dark does not stay silent. It follows you, it whispers, it takes over your body, and no matter how much you try to act normal, you carry it everywhere. I carry it now.
This is my confession.
I was just an ordinary young girl when I first met him. A pastor. But not just any pastor. He was famous. His name was on TV, on radio, in newspapers. People lined up just to touch his hand. Mothers carried their children to him, begging for prayers. Women knelt at his feet crying, believing he could change their lives. He was not just a man of God — he was worshipped like a god himself.
I never looked at him as holy. I looked at him as an opportunity. He was rich, powerful, and he made people shake when he entered a room. I wanted that life. I wanted quick money, nice clothes, a lifestyle to show off. So when someone told me the pastor sometimes called young girls to “help” him and that he paid them afterwards, I did not hesitate.
That is how I walked straight into my nightmare.
The first night was in Pretoria. He told me to meet him at a hotel, and when I arrived, I noticed something strange. He had not booked one room. He had booked many rooms on the same floor. Each room had a different girl. Some were younger than me, some older, but all of us were nervous and quiet, like we had signed an agreement we did not fully understand.
He moved from room to room like a man on a mission. I was in one of those rooms, waiting for him. When he finally walked in, he smiled like a pastor greeting his congregation. He prayed first, touched my forehead, and told me to repeat words after him. I did not understand the language, but I obeyed. I thought maybe it was just a ritual of blessing.
Then he slept with me.
When he finished, he put R10 000 on the table like it was nothing. He told me never to ask questions and never to refuse his calls. He said the money was “thank you” for allowing him to use my body as a “channel of blessings.”
I wanted to ask why he prayed before and after. I wanted to ask why his hands stayed too long on my stomach and private parts, whispering things under his breath. But I kept quiet. Money silenced me.
The more I saw him, the more I noticed things that were not normal. Sometimes, while he was on t0p of me, I would hear a hissing sound under the bed. At first, I thought it was my imagination, but the sound was real. One night I saw something move in the shadows. He told me it was “the spirit of God” protecting us, but my body told me it was not holy.
Later, I learned the truth. The hissing was his snake — the very snake he fed with our innocence. He was not just sleeping with us; he was performing rituals. He was stealing our luck, draining our stars, and using our bl0od as a sacrifice to keep his power alive.
People thought his power came from prayer, but it came from bl0od. From us. From jars of blood he kept hidden, from body parts taken from rituals we could not even imagine. He mixed the holy with the unholy and made the world believe it was God.
He knew how to make us gullible. He never forced us. He used money and charm. He told us we were special, chosen by God to be “close” to him. He told us our lives would change if we allowed him to use us. He said the R10 000 was only the beginning, that more blessings would follow.
Some girls believed him so much they begged to see him again. Others told themselves it was just sex for money, nothing spiritual. But I knew deep down that something was wrong. Every time he touched me, I felt weaker. Every time he prayed on my body, I felt like he left something inside me.
Eventually, scandals followed him. People started asking questions about his wealth, his power, his miracles. He was banned from South Africa, chased out like a criminal. But by then, it was too late for me.
People thought his fall was about money, fake miracles, and church politics. They do not know the truth. They do not know that behind closed doors, he was feeding snakes, chanting in the night, and using young girls as sacrifices.
He left the country, but he did not leave us. I carry him in my body.
I am haunted.
Sometimes, when I lie in bed, I feel movements inside me that no doctor can explain. Sometimes, I wake up in sweat, hearing his voice calling my name. I dream of snakes slithering over me, wrapping themselves around my stomach, squeezing until I cannot breathe.
There are nights when I wake up crying, feeling burning pain in the very places he touched. It is like he planted something in me that no one can remove.
I try to live a normal life. I laugh with friends, I post pictures on social media, I smile when people compliment me. But inside, I am broken. I am empty. I feel like he took my light and gave it to his demons.
I am not writing this for pity. I am not writing this for fame. I am writing this because too many girls are chasing quick money without knowing the price. I thought R10 000 was worth my b0dy. I thought I was clever. But what I got was not money. What I got was a curse.
To every young girl reading this: be careful who you give your body to. Some men are not men. Some pastors are not pastors. They are wolves dressed in holy clothes, and by the time you realize it, it is too late.
I am haunted forever. And I know I am not the only one.
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