The Curse Beneath My Skin.

I was thirteen when it started. A simple scratch on my right leg, nothing more than a tiny wound I got while running barefoot outside. I barely noticed it at first. It should have scabbed over, healed in a few days, and been forgotten like all the other childhood scrapes I had gotten before.

But it didn’t.

Instead, the wound darkened, deepened, and refused to close. The skin around it turned raw and swollen, oozing pus no matter how much medicine I applied. My mother took me to the hospital, where doctors poked and prodded, gave me antibiotics, creams, and injections. Still, the wound remained, a gaping hole on my leg that refused to be erased.

Weeks turned into months. Months into years.

By the time I was seventeen, the infection had spread to my foot. The pain was unbearable, a constant, burning agony that felt like something was eating me from the inside. My toenails darkened, thickened, and then began to rot. I watched in horror as they loosened from my skin, curling upward as if rejecting my body. Eventually, the doctors had no choice.

They cut them off.

One by one, they removed my toenails, their expressions grim, their voices filled with quiet confusion. They didn’t understand why my body refused to heal. No test could explain it. No treatment worked.

I lived like that for ten years, ten years of suffering, ten years of watching my foot decay, ten years of feeling like I was carrying something unseen, something heavy, something ancient.

Then, when I turned twenty-three, my grandmother told me a truth that changed everything.

“Your father’s family,” she began, her voice shaking, “broke a sacred taboo.”

She told me how, years before I was even born, my family had disrespected ancestral land. A burial site had been disturbed, the trees cut down, and the spirits angered. The elders had warned against it, but pride and greed had prevailed.

And now, I was the one paying the price.

Desperate for answers, I searched for help outside the world of hospitals and medicine. That’s when I heard about kiwanga doctors renowned spiritual healers known for breaking curses and cleansing spirits.

I traveled deep into a remote village to find them. The shrine smelled of burning herbs, the air thick with ancient chants. The head healer, an old man with piercing eyes, took one look at my leg and nodded as if he already knew everything.

“You are carrying a debt,” he said. “One that is not yours, but it must be paid.”

For three days, I went through intense spiritual cleansing. I bathed in herbal water, my body tingling as unseen forces were washed away. They wrapped my wounded leg in sacred leaves, whispering words older than time itself. My body shook as the spirits were called, my mind drifting between reality and something beyond it.

On the third day, something shifted.

A wave of heat passed through me, deep and all-consuming. I felt the pain one last time sharp, fiery, and then… gone. The weight that had been dragging me down for ten years suddenly lifted.

The healer unwrapped my leg. For the first time in a decade, the wound was closing. The angry redness was fading, the skin beginning to knit together, free from whatever unseen force had been holding it back.

Days passed. My strength returned. My foot no longer felt like it was decaying beneath me. The infection was gone. My life,after so many years of suffering,was finally mine again.

I don’t know what would have happened if I had never sought the truth. But now, I understand: some wounds are not just physcical. Some healings require more than medicine.

Phone: +254116469840
Email :kiwangadoctors@gmail.com
Website:www.kiwangadoctors.com