22/10/2025
*đ©ž"MY SECRET IS K!l L!NG MEđ"*
My name is Esther. I am 39 years old. I live in Douala, Cameroon. I am about to tell you something that has been k! Lling 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 hum@n lives.
I am part of a hum@n traff!ck!ng 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 âmedical export.â I didnât 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 â orphans, girls running from abuse, jobless young men, and even street beggars. I pretend to be kind. I offer them food, shelter, and 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 donât even wake up. We rem*ove kidneys, livers, hearts, and even eyes.
Some organs are sold here to rich Cameroonians with s!ck 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 donât.
One girl haunts me the most. Her name was Emilienne. She was 15. I told her I would take her to YaoundĂ© to work as a house help. She hugged me and said, âThank you, Aunty. God will bless you.â
Two days later, I watched her blÂŁÂŁd 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.
Iâve tried to stop. But they wonât let me. The doctors, the clients, and even police officers we are all in this. If I speak, I d!e. 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 youâre reading this, donât trust everyone who smiles at you.
Not all women carry handbags.
Some of us carry de*ath.