THE MONEY THAT EATS ME ALIVE

THE MONEY THAT EATS ME ALIVE

I don’t know if anyone will believe me, but I need to spit this out before it kills me inside. People think I worked hard for what I have. They call me “self-made.” Some even use me as motivation. If only they knew the truth.

Years ago, I was broke, tired, and angry at life. Nothing I touched worked out. My friends laughed at me, women avoided me, and debtors never stopped knocking. That’s when someone I trusted whispered to me about a shortcut — a money ritual.

At first, I thought it was a joke. But when you’re desperate, jokes start to sound like answers. I followed him. We drove deep into the night, no streetlights, only bush paths. We reached a small compound, quiet but heavy with something I can’t explain. The air was thick, like it didn’t want me there.

Inside, there was a room. A mat on the floor. A clay pot. Candles lined up like soldiers. They told me, “You can be rich, but you must give something.” I didn’t understand until I saw the knife, until I saw the blood stains on the mat. My whole body shook, but I didn’t walk away.

That night, something was taken from me. I won’t say what, but I walked out of there a different man. The next morning, money came. Business deals I had begged for started chasing me. Doors opened without me knocking. My life flipped overnight.

But here’s what no one tells you: money rituals don’t give, they borrow. And the debt is never fully paid. Every month, I feel the hunger of what I created. Sometimes I hear hissing at night, sometimes I wake up sweating with a shadow standing in the corner of my room. When people close to me die suddenly, I know it’s not “bad luck.” I know what’s collecting.

I wear designer suits, I drive cars that turn heads, but inside I am hollow. The money feeds me by day and eats me alive at night.

So when you see me smile on billboards or give speeches about “hard work,” don’t clap for me. Don’t envy me. I am not blessed. I am cursed.