The donkey chasing drunkards at Night in Ga Sekgopo belongs to my wealthy uncle and it’s half human
There are stories people tell around fires, and then there are stories people live with but are too afraid to speak about. This is one of those. I am writing this anonymously because silence has already cost us too much, and speaking openly would cost me my life.
If you have ever been to Ga Sekgopo, you might think it is like any other quiet village—peaceful during the day, slow-moving, respectful of tradition. But when night falls, Ga Sekgopo becomes something else entirely. The darkness here is not empty. It watches. It listens. And sometimes, it chases.
The donkey that has been seen chasing drunkards at night belongs to my uncle.
People laugh when they hear this. They say it’s alcohol, bad lighting, imagination. They share videos on WhatsApp, add laughing emojis, swear at the animal as it runs behind cars and people stumbling home from grooves. But I know the truth, and the truth is far worse than anything people are joking about.
That donkey is not just a donkey.
My uncle is one of the wealthiest men I have ever known. Not “businessman rich” or “tender rich.” His wealth is old, deep, and unexplainable. The kind that does not fluctuate. The kind that survives bad economies, political changes, and time itself. He lives in a massive mansion in the city, with high walls, cameras, and guards. But he also has another mansion—right here in Ga Sekgopo.
That mansion is the one people gossip about.
During the day, you will never see it. You can walk the entire area where it is said to be, and you will find nothing but bushes and silence. But at night, especially after midnight, it appears. Not suddenly, but gradually—lights first, then reflections, then structure. It sparkles like something unreal, like it does not belong on this earth. And maybe it doesn’t.
No one lives there. No caretakers. No cleaners. No family gatherings. Only my uncle goes there, and only at night.
People think my uncle is humble. They praise him. They use his name as an example of how wealth does not have to change a person. He attends every funeral in Ga Sekgopo. Every single one. Whether he knew the deceased or not. He arrives quietly, dressed simply, and when the collection bowl comes around, he contributes R5,000 or more without hesitation.
“Such a good man,” people say.
“He never forgets where he comes from.”
I used to believe that too. Until I found out why he never misses a funeral.
My uncle does not attend funerals to mourn. He attends to collect.
It took me years to understand what I had seen and heard growing up. Whispers between elders. Sudden silences when I entered a room. Warnings disguised as jokes. Eventually, someone spoke to me—not directly, but enough for the pieces to fall into place.
My uncle collects spirits.
When people die, their spirits do not always leave peacefully. Some linger, confused, attached to family, to unfinished business, to life itself. My uncle knows how to find them. Funerals are not acts of kindness for him; they are opportunities. Moments when the spirit is closest to the living world, vulnerable, still listening.
He takes them to the mansion that appears only at night.
There, the spirits are trapped and used. Used to protect his wealth. Used to multiply it. Used to ensure that no matter what happens in the world, he remains untouched. Some spirits are weak and submit. Others resist. Those are the dangerous ones.
Sometimes, a spirit escapes.
But a spirit cannot roam freely in its true form for long. The moment it leaves the mansion and touches the streets, it changes. It becomes something else. Something people will not recognize. Something they will dismiss.
An animal.
The most recent escape became a donkey.
That donkey has been seen roaming the streets of Ga Sekgopo at night, chasing people—especially those who are drunk, those whose minds are open and unguarded. It does not chase to harm. It chases to be seen. To be recognized. To be helped.
That donkey is someone’s family member.
I watched the video that has been circulating—the one taken by people coming from groove in a bakkie. They are laughing, swearing, calling it names, mocking it as it runs behind them in the darkness. What they do not know is that the donkey is trying to speak. It is trying to reach them. It is desperate.
And the most painful part is this: the donkey often chases people from its own family.
Blood recognizes blood. Even in another form.
But instead of stopping, instead of asking questions, instead of listening, people run. They speed up. They insult it. They throw bottles. They post videos. They make it entertainment.
Imagine dying and returning to your home only to be laughed at and chased away.
Ga Sekgopo has become a dangerous place, not because of crime or poverty, but because of what is hidden beneath our normal lives. Because of what people choose not to see. My uncle’s wealth has poisoned this land, and the spirits trapped because of it are restless.
Some nights, you can hear the donkey crying. Not braying—but crying. If you listen closely, it sounds human.
I do not know how many spirits are trapped in that mansion. I do not know how many have escaped before and turned into dogs, goats, owls, or things people dismissed as superstition. I only know that each escape weakens the balance, and each laugh pushes us closer to something irreversible.
I am afraid to speak openly. Afraid of my uncle. Afraid of what he can do, and what he has already done. Wealth like his does not come without protection. And protection like that does not forgive betrayal.
But I am more afraid of what will happen if we continue pretending nothing is wrong.
If you see the donkey, do not insult it. Do not chase it away. Do not laugh. Look at it. Speak to it. Ask it what it wants. Light a candle. Call elders. Do something other than turning suffering into a joke.
Not everything that looks like an animal is an animal.
Not everything that chases you wants to hurt you.
Some things are running because they have been trapped for too long.
I am writing this not to convince you, but to unburden myself. To leave a record. In case one day the donkey stops appearing. In case one day Ga Sekgopo wakes up and wonders how things went so wrong.
Remember this: wealth that feeds on death always demands more.
And when the spirits finally refuse to be silent, they do not knock politely. They run through the streets at night, wearing the bodies of animals, begging to be seen.
If you ever find yourself laughing at that video again, ask yourself this—
What if it was your brother?
Your mother?
Your child?
Still running behind you in the dark, hoping you would finally hear them out.
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