THE ZIMBABWE MONEY RITUAL THAT STOPPED ME FROM BATHING — AND DESTROYED ME WHEN I DID

THE ZIMBABWE MONEY RITUAL THAT STOPPED ME FROM BATHING — AND DESTROYED ME WHEN I DID

I’ve carried this secret alone for too long, and today I want to write it down like a real confession. Most people see my wealth and assume my life is perfect. They think I’m blessed. They don’t know what I exchanged for the money they admire. They don’t know the darkness that follows me.

Years ago, I travelled to Zimbabwe to do a money ritual. I was tired of struggling, tired of seeing my life go nowhere. I didn’t care about consequences — I only cared about changing my situation. The man performing the ritual told me the rule before anything even started: I must never bath again. No clean water on my skin. Not even by mistake.

I didn’t argue. When you’re desperate, you ignore red flags.

For months, I lived without bathing. My body smelled rotten. My clothes smelled worse. People avoided me, and I avoided them too because I didn’t want to see the reactions on their faces. But the ritual worked. Money started coming from all directions. Everything I touched turned into a business opportunity. I thought I could manage the smell as long as I was getting rich.

But one day, I couldn’t take it anymore. I felt dirty down to my soul. I convinced myself that one quick bath wouldn’t ruin anything. Just one.

The moment water hit my skin, something heavy pressed on my back as if someone was standing behind me. The air felt tight, the lights flickered, and I knew instantly I had broken a rule I should never have touched. That night I heard movements around my bed — slow footsteps, breathing, the sound of something dragging on the floor. I didn’t open my eyes because I was scared of what I might see.

Since that day, I have never been able to bath the normal way again. Whenever I enter water, no matter the temperature, it freezes instantly. It’s a cold that feels like it carries intention — like it wants to punish me.

And then the snake comes.

It doesn’t make a sound. It just appears from nowhere, sliding into the water as if it has been waiting for me. That’s now the only way I’m allowed to clean myself.

One specific bath changed everything. The water had already turned to ice and my skin was shaking when the snake appeared, but this time it didn’t only coil around me. It lifted its head, looked at me like it understood my fear, and moved differently. It slid across my stomach, pressed against my lower body, and then disappeared inside me. There was no pain — just a deep cold spreading through my entire body, settling in my bones like something was claiming space. When I looked down, the snake was gone, but I could feel it moving somewhere inside me, as if it had made a home there. From that day, I knew I was no longer just bathing with the snake. I was carrying it.

The next time I bathed, my balls froze completely. After that, they stopped producing. The bath after that took my manhood. It froze to the point where it died. It’s still attached to my body, but I can’t feel it. I can’t use it. It’s just there, lifeless.

There are rules I must follow.
I cannot wear sandals.
I cannot apply anything on my nails — no lotion, no polish, nothing.

But the strangest thing is what happens monthly. I wake up with a fresh pedicure. Clean, shaped, shining nails. Not done by a human hand I know. Done by whatever controls my life now. I don’t hear anything during the night, but I wake up marked — changed — groomed by something unseen.

I once asked if the ritual can be reversed. They told me, “Reversal means death.” Not spiritual death—actual death. Quick, painful, unavoidable.

So I live like this.
Rich on the outside.
Haunted on the inside.
Afraid of water.
Afraid of sleep.
Afraid of the next time the snake decides to move inside me again.

People admire my success, but they don’t know my reality. They don’t know that everything I gained came with a cost my body is still paying. They don’t know that the ritual didn’t only take my ability to bath — it took my manhood, my peace, and my freedom.

This is the truth behind my wealth.
This is the burden I carry.
This is the confession I’ve been running from.