I’m Sharon, a former Kenyatta University student, thinking I knew danger—late-night walks, sketchy matatu stops. But nothing braced me for the night I discovered my “mubaba” planned to bind me to a cult. He was a polished, married man from Karen who swept me off my feet, renting me a cosy Roysambu apartment, furnishing it, covering my fees, and treating me to fancy spots like Village Market. Friends were jealous; I felt cherished, free from student struggles.
Then his mask fell. He demanded my phone and passwords and tracked my every move. Missed calls meant him showing up at my door. Soon, I battled unexplained rashes and crippling fatigue. Tests showed nothing, but I withered, dodging classes, whispers of HIV trailing me. One night, I heard eerie chanting. Peeking, I saw him with strange men, candles, herbs, and my name circled on paper. He grinned, saying in Kiswahili, “She’ll belong to us.” I was terrified Continue reading.