As I was about to leave, I was suddenly confronted with a situation I didn't expect. My aunt and cousin were at the door. They arrived with the kind of timing that made me suspicious immediately—like vultures circling when they smell weakness. They said they had come to see me, but I knew better. They had watched my successful TikTok live, seen the energy, the attention, the growing light around me. And instead of joy or support, they carried something heavy with them. A kind of spiritual bomb, meant to sully my aura and make me less attractive to the people finally beginning to recognize my gift.
My aunt was the first to move. A woman whose mind had long been held hostage by systematic brainwash, she wasted no time in showing just how far gone she was. The way she spoke, the way she carried herself—it reminded me of an old zombie movie. Her words were hollow, her eyes vacant, her movements jerky, as if something else was pulling her strings. It would have been funny if it hadn't been so painful to witness. Being the empath I am, I felt it instantly—the brokenness inside her spirit. Her mind was not her own anymore.
And yet, even with all that, I couldn't be hostile. That's not in my nature. I felt her pain more than her malice, and part of me knew she needed healing more than anything else. But still, I couldn't deny the poison she carried into my space.
My cousin followed her lead. His presence was different but just as draining. He paraded his energy like he always did, a man who has mastered the performance of righteousness. A staunch preacher, someone people looked up to in the community, someone who quoted scripture with confidence. But deep down I knew it was all an act. How could a man who stood on pulpits carry so much venom in his shadow? The contradiction gnawed at me. He wore God's name like a mask, but behind it he was eager—always eager—to see my life burn.
Together, they left me with a terrible feeling. It was heavy, almost suffocating, the kind that presses down on your chest and makes you want to scream just to breathe. I thanked God silently for isiwasho, for the cold ash I had used earlier in my bath. It was already working, clearing the debris of their darkness, strengthening my shield. Without it, I knew I would have been left completely vulnerable. Even so, my day was ruined. My plans scattered. Conformity—this constant demand that I should submit, bend, and play along with their distorted expectations—looked more painful than ever.
Not long after that, another strange thing happened. My mother, unexpectedly, began giving me spiritual directions. The way she spoke unsettled me. At first I listened, but then I realized—this didn't sound like her. She had never asked me to do things like that before. The words felt foreign, planted. I knew immediately I had to be cautious. Her voice carried the weight of someone else's influence. And deep down, I knew who was responsible. My aunt's hand was in this. She had probably gone to her own spiritual guide, a practitioner of dark magic, thinking they could use the spiritual world to confuse me into submission.
But they underestimated me.
Some time ago, I had sat with a few gents from this section, and that conversation turned out to be divine protection. That day reminded me that every single moment holds lessons if you're awake enough to catch them. One of the guys said something that cut deep into my spirit and stayed there: "Phela umuntu uyamcela edlozini because amadlozi ayithutha. They are always happy so they can be easily manipulated. So be rational even when you encounter the spiritual, because amadlozi can be bought."
That wisdom saved me. It planted a seed in my mind that grew roots of caution. Because just hours later, my family showed up, and things spiraled out of control.
We ended up in a full-blown argument right there in the street. Voices raised, hands flying, insults flung like stones. Neighbors peered through curtains, children paused mid-play, and the whole neighborhood became an audience to our dysfunction. I tried to hold my peace, but their words burned. They knew where to cut deepest, and I could feel the eyes of strangers pressing on my skin as if I were naked.
That night, something even stranger happened. It was as if my ancestors themselves were furious with me. I felt a storm in the unseen world. My dreams churned with anger, and my body woke in sweat, heart racing as though I'd been running for my life. Their displeasure wasn't imagined—it was raw, loud, undeniable. That was when I knew with certainty: my aunt had done something. She had stirred spirits against me, manipulated the connection, twisted it into something hostile.
If I hadn't had that warning from the gents earlier, I don't know how I would have reacted. Maybe I would have panicked, maybe I would have given in, maybe I would have thought my ancestors had abandoned me completely. But because I had been taught to be rational, to recognize that even the spiritual can be manipulated, I saw through it. I didn't break. I didn't surrender. I chose clarity instead of confusion.
The whole experience left me questioning everything. Why was I the only one in my family who seemed to carry pure intentions? Why was I the only one who wanted to build, not destroy? My aunt, spewing nonsense, still expected me to visit her. My cousin, preaching in church, was always ready to make my life hell. Their double standards, their darkness, their sabotage—it weighed heavily on me.
And yet, even as I thought about it, my spirit refused to sink. Something inside me whispered that I was being refined, not ruined. That every attack was proof I was walking a path worth walking.
Still, I had to make choices for my own peace. The first instinct I had was to block some of my family members on TikTok. Their constant meddling, their attempts to pry into my life, their jealousy disguised as concern—it irked me more than I could put into words. I knew I needed distance. I needed silence. I needed to shut the door, even if it was digital, and let them bang on the other side while I moved forward.
So that's what I did. Not out of spite, but out of survival. Because sometimes the only way to keep your light is to step back from the shadows—even if those shadows carry your own blood.