WHY WOMEN ABANDON THEIR NEWBORNS: A SANGOMA WHO TURNS BABIES INTO POWER-
I thought I was learning, that I was becoming something greater. She was famous, a sangoma with eyes that seemed to see inside you, even the parts you hid from yourself. Everyone admired her, but I knew the truth. I was young, ambitious, desperate for wealth, and she knew exactly how to use that.
She convinced me that to grow strong as a sangoma and attract wealth, I had to make a sacrifice more personal than I ever imagined. She told me to fall pregnant, and I did—thinking it was part of my training, part of my initiation.
Most of her power… came from babies. Most of her pregnant clients came to her for protection, worried about curses, evil spirits, or misfortune. They trusted her, seeking safety, yet she whispered into their ears in ways only she could. Slowly, she twisted their minds, filling their hearts with dread. She made them feel the child inside them was not theirs, but a tikoloshi—a demon disguised as flesh.
The first signs were subtle: shadows crawling across bellies, whispers of voices that didn’t exist, cold spots that followed their movements. Then came fear that poisoned every thought. Mothers began to hate their pregnancies, seeing their children as monsters before they were born. Some woke screaming, others shivered at the first movement of the baby. After birth, the babies became unbearable to them—small, screaming vessels of evil. Most abandoned them, unable to touch or look at the children without trembling, vomiting, or screaming.
I was no different. The whispers came to me first in dreams: a voice coiled around my mind, telling me my child was wrong, unnatural, a vessel for something ancient. I felt cold even in sunlight, and every kick, every heartbeat of the baby seemed alien. I began to dread my own body, my womb, my child.
After the birth, I handed my child to her. The ritual began at midnight. The room was dark, lit only by black candles and the red glow of fire. She drew intricate symbols on the floor in my child’s blood—symbols older than any I had seen, shapes that twisted and moved when I blinked. She whispered in tongues I didn’t understand, calling spirits that seemed to shiver through the walls.
I watched, paralyzed, as shadows lifted from the corners—dark, humanoid shapes that twisted and writhed. My child cried, but she silenced it with a hiss. Then the impossible happened: I could see streams of life energy rising from my baby, flowing into the symbols on the floor, feeding the darkness, feeding her power. It was as if the child’s very essence was being harvested. I wanted to scream, to stop her, but something invisible held me still.
The mothers… I saw them too, their faces ghostly and pale. They came, drawn by her whispers, watching the ritual from shadows. Their children were writhing in her grasp, screaming silently, and yet the mothers could not move, could not touch them. She had made them believe the babies were demons, cursed vessels—and now the mothers were forced to witness the theft of their children’s life force. Some fainted, some vomited, some cried, but she silenced them all with a gesture or a word.
And then it was done. My child’s cries stopped, swallowed into the shadows, and she smiled, triumphant. The energy, the blood, the terror—it all became hers. And when I left, she gave me wealth: money, opportunities, influence—sudden, impossible. But every coin carried the weight of what I had seen, what I had allowed, what I had become.
I became part of her world. I drew blood, performed ceremonies, summoned spirits—but I was forever a servant. A feeder of her rituals. A witness to horrors that would haunt me for life. The mothers, the babies, the whispers—they never left me. Shadows follow me in daylight, and at night, I hear tiny, desperate cries from corners where nothing exists.
Her power is unstoppable because it is built on innocence corrupted, love destroyed, and terror harvested. She doesn’t need spells or charms—she needs trust, devotion, and the lives of those who believe they are safe. That terror, that blood, that stolen life… it fuels her wealth, her fame, her magic.
Wealth has a price. Power has a price. And in her world, that price… is everything you love.
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