WE USED MY HUSBAND’S YOUNGER WIVES TO FEED OUR UMKHOVU
My husband and I have been married for many years. We were both business minded and not scared of taking risks that includes money. But we were not getting as rich as we wanted.
We were introduced to a ritual of becoming wealthy with so little effort. It’s funny how our church pastor introduced this to us. We were told to choose any wealthy man and bring a hand of soil of where he stepped ,his footprint.
We took the soil to a sangoma who asked for the man’s name and surname and wrote it on a piece of paper,took a toy car and put the name on it then tied it with a red wool. K!led a black chicken and sprinkled its bl00d on the car then buried the car,name and soil.
A few weeks later the man di3d in a car accident. That is the morning we woke up to a big plastic bag of money with his name on it. We didn’t have a close relationship with the man, he was just a man we admired from far.
We were given an order message inside the very Same bag. The message instructed us to buy a big fire pot with three legs and attend the man’s funeral. We had to use muti before attending the funeral so that the dead can see and hear us without even talking.
When we got to the funeral, we saw the man we are there to burry sitting next to us. But for some reason we were not scared, it must have been the muti. He followed us everywhere at the funeral. But he was quiet and looked scared the whole time,like a lost kid.
He followed us home after the funeral. When we got home he went straight to the three legged big fire pot and got inside it and even closed the lid. We were a bit confused but decided not to question anything as we were instructed. At night we woke up to a lot of smoke in our bedroom and the man asking us to get him wives and he will give us money. He directly instructed to marry more wives for him….
After a while my husband and I agreed that it was time for him to marry another wife and see what happens since we wanted more wealt. He married the first wife and she came with a lot of wealth. The pot was overflowing with money.
Only my husband and I knew about the pot. The mkhovu would give us money every time he slept with the new wife. When the new wife suddenly started getting sick he instructed us to get a new wife. We always did as told because our focus was just not on the money.
It was so easy for my husband to get new wives because of the wealth. Women love a man with money .
When they first came, they were loud with life. Confident. Sharp-tongued. Full of questions.
My husband and I spoke in whispers at night. We agreed the umkhovu was hungry. We agreed that wealth does not come freely, that something must always be given in return. We convinced ourselves that what we were doing was old, sacred, necessary.
We never told the younger wives everything. We never asked for their consent. We wrapped commands in soft words like cleansing, preparation, obedience. We asked them to wake before dawn, to sit in silence, to repeat words they did not understand. We watched as fear and confusion settled into their eyes. We used them as our tools to wealth.
By the time they realised this it was too late for them to leave because we were already in control of their souls and they were just shadows of themselves.
I told myself discomfort meant it was working.
We used their emotions carefully. Jealousy between them. Loneliness. Their desire to please. We believed strong feelings carried power. When they cried, when they doubted themselves, when they submitted, we saw signs of progress. The big pot kept overflowing with money.
Ofcos we would shower their families with money so that they don’t ask a lot of questions about the changes they would see on their kids.
I started sleeping better while they slept less.
Over time, they became shadows of who they were. Their voices softened. Their laughter disappeared. I noticed it, but I looked away. Wealth has a way of teaching you how to ignore pain that is not your own.
Now I sit here surrounded by everything we wanted. And I feel empty.
No ritual prepared me for this silence.
No offering erased the guilt.
No amount of wealth filled the open place inside me.
I see now that we did not feed tradition.
We fed our hunger with other people’s spirits.
If this diary survives me, let it tell the truth I never spoke out loud:
Some wealth is paid for with pieces of other people’s lives.
And the debt never fully clears. If you are reading this then it means I’m already dead.
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