The Slay Queen Who Fed on Teachers for Wealth
When I first moved to the rural area, I was a city girl who loved soft life. My husband was a rich businessman who gave me everything I ever wanted. He built me a big house in his village, and even though I didn’t like the idea of living far from town, I went there because I loved him and because I knew I would never lack anything.
He was a quiet man, respected by everyone. But in our house, there was one small room that no one entered — not even me. It was always locked, and he warned me never to open it. I never asked questions because I trusted him, and honestly, as long as money kept flowing, I didn’t care what he did behind that door. I had cars, clothes, and everything a woman could dream of.
A year later, everything changed. My husband fell sick out of nowhere. The doctors could not explain it. Before he passed, he called me close and told me the truth that still haunts me today. He said the wealth we were enjoying came from ritual sacrifices. The women he cheated with — his side chicks — were not just for pleasure. They were part of the sacrifices.
He told me there was a tortoise that guided his life — a spiritual creature that connected him to the money world. Once the tortoise was used to find him, it meant his time was up. And that’s exactly what happened. Before he died, he said something I will never forget:
“If you want to continue living the life I gave you, you must feed the money. You must do it your way now — use men.”
After his burial, I struggled for some time. The businesses slowed down, money started disappearing, and I knew what he meant. The tortoise was restless. I remembered his words, and I decided to do what I had to do.
In our rural area, most of the men who have stable income are teachers. They come from the city to work in schools around the village. They are lonely, and they love beautiful women. That’s when I realized how easy it would be. I am a Xhosa woman — tall, light-skinned, and confident. I knew how to get their attention.
At first, I told myself it was only for survival. I would flirt, make them fall in love, and once I was sure they were completely into me, I would take them to my house — the same house my husband built. There was one night in the month when the tortoise would make a sound from that small locked room. That was my signal.
The teachers thought they were milking me for money. They believed I was a lonely widow desperate for love. But they were the ones keeping the money alive. Each of them was a sacrifice in silence. I didn’t kill anyone directly — the spirits did their part. All I had to do was play my role, and the wealth kept flowing.
Sometimes I feel bad when I see how other teachers avoid my house now. They whisper about the men who dated me and lost everything afterwards. Some went mad, others died mysteriously. But I can’t stop. If I stop, the tortoise will come for me next.
This is not a story of pride — it’s my confession. In the village, they call me the black widow, but they don’t know the truth. I didn’t choose this life. It chose me the day my husband opened that door and showed me what wealth really costs.
Even now, when I hear the tortoise moving in that room at night, I close my eyes and whisper, “Forgive me.” But deep down, I know — it’s already too late.
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