The Witchcraft That Raised Me”
Witchcraft did not creep into my life—it was planted there before I could even understand what it was. In my family, rituals weren’t hidden or whispered about; they were part of the air we breathed. We spent our last coins not on food, not on schoolbooks, but on charms, powders, and things fetched from healers far across borders.
When my mother died, my grandmother became the center of everything. She wasn’t the type to comfort or sing lullabies—her voice carried instructions, chants, and warnings. Nights with her never ended quietly. There was always smoke in the air, bottles clinking, and words muttered in a language that felt older than the earth itself.
I remember how she showed us to break eggs at the gates of people we wanted to capture. The shells cracking against the cold iron always echoed too loud in the night. She would whisper the person’s name as the yolk spilled, then smile and say, *“Their soul will never walk freely again.”*
Bath time was never just washing away dirt. Sometimes the water had strange herbs that stung the skin. Afterward, we carried it outside, still warm, and poured it on paths where our targets walked. I can still see the steam rising from the ground, and hear her saying, *“Let their life turn as messy as this water.”* At the time, it felt normal—like chores. But those chores were curses.
The coke bottles were worse. She lined them up like soldiers at the corners of the yard. Some nights she tied them with red threads, calling upon tikoloshis to enter them. Then she would shake them, listening, as though secrets were trapped inside. By morning, she would know things no one had spoken aloud—people’s business deals, their plans, their weaknesses. We used that knowledge to strike before our enemies even stood a chance.
And always, there were the gates. My grandmother believed gates were mouths of homes, always open, always vulnerable. I remember watching her sprinkle powders at our neighbor’s gate, laughing under her breath. Days later, the neighbor’s marriage crumbled. To protect ourselves, she made us pour our own urine on our gates, saying it washed away curses like rain clears dust.
We didn’t just survive like this—we lived for it. The thrill of destroying someone else’s path was addictive. It became our obsession.
And yet, what most people don’t know is that the smallest, most ordinary things are never ordinary in witchcraft.
* A coin left in your yard is not luck—it is a trap. We planted them to drain away blessings and money flow.
* Bath water is not just waste—it can be a curse, or a shield. Salt water poured into your yard after bathing can protect your soul.
* Coke bottles are not harmless. Once left outside and reused, they become doorways for spirits to watch and report your every move.
* Gates are not just gates—they are battlefields. Everything enters and exits there, including curses.
Sometimes I still smell the herbs burning, even when no fire is lit. Sometimes I hear bottles rattling when the night is too quiet. I try to live like none of it matters anymore, but I know deep down—I was raised in it. It runs through me like blood, and it does not let go.
This is not a story I am proud to tell. But it is the truth of the life I was born into, and the one I cannot seem to escape.
Social Plugin