THE PRICE I PAID FOR USING MUTI TO STEAL PEOPLE'S MEN

THE PRICE I PAID FOR USING MUTI TO STEAL PEOPLE'S MEN

The Price I Paid for Using Muti to Steal People’s Men

I want to open up about something shameful, something I used to be proud of but now regret with every breath. For many years, I used muti to steal people’s men. I didn’t care if they were married, if they had children, or if they were building a life with someone. All I wanted was to be taken care of financially.

It started when I was struggling. I had nothing of my own, and life felt heavy. Then one of my friends told me about a woman, a sangoma, who could “tie men with love” using strong muti. At first, I laughed. But deep inside, I was curious. I thought to myself, why should I suffer when men with money are out there?

So, I went. The sangoma welcomed me and asked what I wanted. I told her straight: “I want men with money to look after me.” She gave me strange mixtures—brown powders, oils with a sharp smell, and a soap that she said I must bathe with at midnight. She told me to bury some of the powder under my bed and to never let anyone else touch it.

But that was not all. Sometimes she would send me to the graveyard at night to sprinkle a little bit of the powder on a fresh grave and call out the name of the man I wanted. She said this would “tie his spirit” to me. Other times she told me to steal something small that belonged to the man—like a shirt, a cap, or even a hairbrush. I would then cook with the muti and secretly give it to him to eat.

I followed everything exactly. I remember the first time—after bathing with the soap, I felt a heat rise in my body, like I was glowing. The very next week, men started noticing me in a way they never had before. Married men left their wives crying, running after me. Boyfriends abandoned their girlfriends for me. They spoiled me with money, clothes, food, and anything I asked for.

I felt powerful. I felt untouchable. I thought I had found the secret to life.

But that power was borrowed. And muti always takes back more than it gives.

Now I am living the consequences. My body has turned against me. There are times when I hear a monkey sound down there, as if something is alive inside me. I fart uncontrollably, even when I try to hold it. Sometimes I urinate on myself without warning, without even feeling it come out. My dignity is gone.

I know this is not sickness from doctors, this is punishment. This is the price of using muti to build my life on the tears of other women. The very men I stole never stayed anyway. They came, they spent, and they left me emptier than before. And now, I am left with shame, sickness, and memories I cannot erase.

I am writing this to warn anyone who thinks about going down the same path. Money that comes through muti does not last. Men that come through muti do not love you. And the pain that follows will not only embarrass you—it will destroy you slowly, from inside out.

This is my confession.

I went back to the sangoma once, crying and begging her to take it away. I told her about the sounds, the farts, the wetness, everything that had ruined me. She looked at me with cold eyes and said some things I will never forget: she told me that the work was strong and that some things cannot be undone. She said I had opened a door and now the things behind it wanted payment. She did not help. She only told me to pray and to find forgiveness from those I had hurt. I left her hut with nothing but more fear.

Not long after, another punishment began. A ghost started following me. It is a man’s spirit, and no one else can see him. He appears to me when I go outside, and sometimes he slaps me in public for no reason I can explain. If I look at a man or if a man looks at me, the ghost will suddenly strike. People around me do not see the ghost. They only see me crying, holding my face, and begging for forgiveness. Because of this, people think I am crazy now. They whisper that I am not well in the head.

This ghost is cruel in other ways. When I go to markets or taxis, he tells me what to wear. He forces me into dresses or skirts with no panties. When I walk among people, he lifts my skirt up so everyone can see. People do not see him do it — they see me do it. They think I am showing myself on purpose. They think I have lost my mind. Because of the things I did in the past, no one wants to help me. They remember who I was in the community. They remember the marriages I broke. So instead of compassion, I get anger and distance.

I remember one day at the taxi rank. A man looked at me once, just an ordinary glance. The ghost slapped me across the face so hard I screamed. Everyone turned, and they saw me kneeling on the ground, crying and begging, “Please, forgive me!” They laughed and shook their heads, calling me mad. No one touched me. No one helped.

Another time, I went to church hoping to find peace. While I was standing, the ghost lifted my dress in front of the congregation. I dropped to the floor, trying to pull it down while people gasped and whispered. Some laughed, others moved away. They saw only me, a woman disgracing herself. I saw him, smiling and standing over me.

Now I live with the sound, the shame, and a ghost that makes my life impossible. I am known as the woman who stole men, and people have decided that I am not fit to be helped.

I even tried to visit one of the women whose marriage I broke. I wanted to ask her to forgive me, even if she spat in my face. But when I stood outside her gate, I felt the ghost’s slap before I even knocked. I walked away in tears, knowing forgiveness will not come easily.

This is my confession, again — a warning and a broken soul asking for forgiveness I do not deserve, yet still hoping one day it will reach me.