WHY THERE IS AN INCREASE OF WOMEN BEING KILLED IN SOUTH AFRICA

WHY THERE IS AN INCREASE OF WOMEN BEING KILLED IN SOUTH AFRICA: The Price of a Man’s Wealth and Power the Hard Way

I have carried this secret in silence for too long. Now I speak, because every day women are dying, and people keep asking, *“Why? Why is Gender-Based Violence so high in South Africa?”They blame alcohol, anger, poverty, broken relationships. They don’t want to see the truth. The truth is uglier, darker, and older than all of that.

The truth is that women are being killed for rituals. Women are the coin in a hidden economy of power.

I didn’t believe it until I saw it with my own eyes.

It was a man I met while bartending in Pretoria. He looked like every woman’s dream—handsome, dripping in designer clothes, walking with bodyguards, driving cars that cost more than houses. He spoke like a king, promising wealth, influence, and love. He told me, Every woman who stands in my path is a price I must pay.

I thought it was arrogance. I laughed. But he wasn’t joking.

He began showing me his world. In the night, when others were asleep, he invited me into his “sacred room.” What I saw there still wakes me up at 3:07 a.m.

The floor was painted with strange symbols in black and red. Animal skulls and bones hung from the ceiling, their hollow eyes staring down. Knives lay neatly arranged—long ones, short ones, all stained with old blood. Candles burned low, dripping wax onto photos of young women whose faces were now missing posters across Gauteng and Limpopo. Their smiles, frozen in photographs, had been offered to something unseen.

He spoke of the ritual.

The spirits demand flesh,”he said. A woman’s blood carries life. When it is spilled, wealth flows. Her womb holds creation; when it is destroyed, power is born. Every scream is an agreement. Every tear is an offering. That is how we rise above ordinary men.

He told me each sacrifice had rules. Some required virgins. Some required women with children. Some demanded a pregnant woman, because two lives bought greater wealth. He said hair, nails, and wombs were taken and burned with herbs. Sometimes the hearts were removed and buried under new buildings or inside luxury cars to “bless” them with success.

I couldn’t breathe as he spoke. The air in that room was heavy, like something unseen pressed down on my chest. The smell of iron—blood—hung thick. I realized then that I was not in the presence of a man, but of a man who had given himself to demons.

And then he told me it was my turn.

He asked me to sit in the circle. I obeyed out of fear. The chalk scratched against my skin as I sat down. Around me, the symbols glowed faintly in the candlelight. He began chanting in a tongue I didn’t know, words rolling like thunder, and the shadows in the room moved as if alive. My heart beat so hard I thought it would burst.

I saw things then—shapes in the corners, eyes blinking in the dark, cold whispers brushing against my ear. The air grew colder, and the knives shimmered. He raised one, his face empty of humanity, and for a second I knew I was already dead.

But something—instinct, God, fate—pulled me up. I ran. My feet barely touched the ground. I don’t know how I escaped, but I did.

He didn’t chase me. Maybe he didn’t need to. Maybe he already had another girl ready. Maybe the spirits told him I wasn’t for them.

But I knew then why South Africa’s women are dying. It is not just drunken men with fists. It is not just angry lovers. Some of these murders are offerings. Sacrifices. Transactions with the unseen.

The statistics you see on TV—the headlines about “another woman killed,” “another body found”—are only the surface. The truth is that there are men, rich and smiling, sitting in fancy cars, dining in expensive restaurants, their hands shaking the President’s hand—while their wealth is built on the blood of women buried in shallow graves.

And now I tell you, women of South Africa: be careful. Do not fall for the trap of money and charm. Do not believe every sweet word. Some men are not looking for love; they are looking for a body. Your body.

I survived, but others didn’t. Their voices are silent, but their blood is still speaking.

So when you hear about another woman killed, another missing girl, don’t just think of jealousy or crime. Think of the circles drawn in secret rooms. Think of knives dripping onto floors marked with chalk. Think of men whispering in tongues while demons wait for payment.

That is the price of their wealth. That is the secret no one wants to hear.

And until we face it, the killing will never stop.