14/08/2025
🩸"MY SECRET IS KILLING ME"
My name is Esther. I am 39 years old. I live in Douala, Cameroon. I am about to tell you something that has been killing me inside. I need to confess. My soul is heavy. Maybe after this, I will finally sleep at night without hearing their screams in my dreams.
You see, I am not who people think I am. By day, I run a beauty salon. By night... I sell human lives.
I am part of a human trafficking ring. Yes. I steal people. I destroy families. I take what cannot be replaced, human organs.
It started five years ago. My business was dying. I was deep in debt. One day, a woman approached me. She said I could make money in “medical export.” I didn’t know what she meant until she showed me the truth. And by then, I was too deep.
I work with real doctors. Not quacks. These men have clinics in towns like Bamenda, Yaoundé, and even Buea. They wear white coats by day... and bloody gloves at night.
We target vulnerable people — orphans, girls running from abuse, jobless young men, even street beggars. I pretend to be kind. I offer them food, shelter, sometimes a fake job in another city. They follow me, smiling, trusting.
They never return.
In hidden rooms, far from hospitals, the surgeries happen. No mercy. No painkillers. Sometimes they scream. Sometimes they don’t even wake up. We remove kidneys, livers, hearts, and even eyes.
Some organs are sold here to rich Cameroonians with sick family members. But most are sent abroad, to Europe and Asia, through the black market. The organs are sealed to be alive, transported by corrupt agents at airports. Customs never checks. We pay well.
You may wonder how I sleep.
I don’t.
One girl haunts me the most. Her name was Emilienne. She was 15. I told her I would take her to Yaoundé to work as a house help. She hugged me and said, “Thank you, aunty. God will bless you.”
Two days later, I watched her bleed out on a metal table.
Her heart was shipped to China.
I buried her clothes behind my house. Sometimes I smell her perfume in the wind. She never leaves me.
I’ve tried to stop. But they won’t let me. The doctors, the clients, even police officers we are all in this. If I speak, I die. If I run, they find me. I am trapped in a prison I helped build.
Now I just wanted someone to know. Someone to carry my secret. I know God will punish me. I deserve it. But maybe... just maybe... someone will read this and save the next Emilienne.
If you’re reading this, don’t trust everyone who smiles at you.
Not all women carry handbags.
Some of us carry death.
God protect us as we go about our daily lives .
Names have been uttered to protect the identity of the victims
