Bigdaddy's First-Class World

At exactly 6:15 a.m. on a cool Saturday morning, the receptionist of a hotel in Owerri became worried.

Room 204, where the bride had lodged the previous night with her maid of honor, was unusually quiet. The makeup artist had arrived. The photographer was already setting up. Family members were calling repeatedly.

But Lucy was nowhere to be found.

Her phone had been switched off.

The hotel CCTV showed her quietly leaving through the back gate at around 3:07 a.m., carrying only a small handbag. She entered a waiting tricycle and disappeared.

The wedding between 31-year-old Lucy and 47-year-old Samuel never happened.

9am, guests had already filled the church. The choir was rehearsing. The reception hall was beautifully decorated. Samuel, who had flown back from Switzerland barely three weeks earlier, was dressed in an expensive white suit with his friends and family members waiting for the woman he believed would soon become his wife.

She never came.

According to relatives, Lucy and Samuel were never lovers in the usual sense. They didn't date. They never built a relationship.

An aunt introduced them because Samuel was successful, financially stable, and wanted to settle down. They exchanged messages and made video calls for barely two months.

Shortly afterward, Samuel returned to Nigeria, met Lucy's family, paid the bride price, and wedding preparations began almost immediately.

Many people admired Samuel because he was generous. He bought Lucy a new phone, rented an apartment for her, paid some of her family's bills, and promised her a comfortable life in Switzerland.

Everyone thought Lucy was lucky.

But those closest to her later admitted she was never truly excited.

Each time someone asked if she loved Samuel, she would smile without answering.

She wasn't convinced about the marriage. She accepted mainly because of the financial security it offered and because almost everyone around her encouraged her not to "miss such an opportunity."

The pressure became too much.

Days later, Lucy reportedly sent a brief message to her parents.

"I'm sorry for the embarrassment. I couldn't marry a man I don't truly love. It's better to leave now than to live a lifetime of regret."

That was how the intended marriage ended.

Some called her wicked for humiliating Samuel after he had spent millions on her and the wedding.

If you were Samuel, or if Samuel were your brother, what would you do or advise him to do to Lucy and her family?

THE JOURNEY TO BENIN FOR MOBEY RITUALS.

"I Travelled from Cameroon to Benin for Money Rituals. Here’s What I Saw and Why I’m Begging God for Mercy"

I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Maybe because the nightmares won’t stop. Maybe because I’m tired of pretending to be a normal man when I know what I’ve done… what I’ve seen.

In 2021, I left Douala and travelled to Cotonou, Benin, not for business, not for family, but for something darker. I was desperate. I had lost my job. My woman left with another man. Debt was choking me. A friend I trusted whispered the idea into my ears: “If you want real money, go to Benin. But you must be ready to see things that will never leave your eyes again.”

I sold the last land my father left me and entered that journey with dry lips and a heavy heart. I didn’t even tell my mother.

When I arrived in Cotonou, he took me to a small village near Ouidah. That night, the air was thick and quiet like the world itself was holding its breath. We met a man they called Baba Toun, skin black like charcoal, his eyes too white. He didn’t talk much. Just looked at me for a long time and said, “You are not ready, but your hunger will force you to obey.”

For three days, I fasted. No food, no water, just native incense and chants in a language I couldn’t understand. On the fourth night, they bathed me in a river at midnight. The water was ice-cold but kept bubbling like something was alive inside.

Then the ritual started.

A room made of red clay. No lights just candles and thick smoke that smelled like burnt hair and blood. Inside the room was a chair, and on it... a skull. Not carved. A real human skull. Baba Toun told me to sit and speak my desires into the skull.

“I want wealth. Houses. Respect. Women. Power,” I said.

He laughed a dry, cracking laugh. “Then you must give what is closest to your soul.”

I asked, “What does that mean?”

He said, “Either your seed, or your blood.”

I didn’t understand. But I agreed. That same night, I was taken to a small shrine where they did something to my manhood. I can’t say it here. But since then, no woman has conceived for me.

And the money came. Fast. I returned to Cameroon and suddenly everything I touched turned to gold. Cars, women, land, business. But it came with shadows.

At night, I would hear cries in my sleep. Sometimes I woke up with mud on my feet, though I hadn’t left my room. A black dog follows me. No matter where I go even in my dreams, it’s there.

I’ve seen people die just by crossing me. I’ve lost count of how many close to me have died “mysteriously.” And now, I see Baba Toun in my mirror sometimes. He smiles at me. And I can’t smile back.

I don’t know how to reverse it. I’ve gone to pastors. Prophets. Traditional healers. Some tell me it’s too late. Others run away when they look into my spirit.

I’m not telling this to scare you. I’m telling you because you might be thinking of doing the same thing.

Don’t.

You’ll get what you want… but you’ll lose what you didn’t know you couldn’t live without.

Pray for me. My name is not important. Just call me The Man Who Chose the Skull.

Feel free to share if you feel the urge to educate the masses.
🧿🧿🧿

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