Worship Me Or Be Forgotten

Let’s be real, darling. Nairobi is a city that runs on exactly three things: money, secrets, and men's ego. Everyone's got a hand out, a hustle running, a facade to uphold. From the preacher with a freshly imported Range Rover to the sugar daddy juggling three families and a crippling fear of aging, the game is fierce. I just learned to keep my focus sharp and my overseas FinSubs happy while hunting for the juiciest local targets.

Becoming a financial dominatrix wasn’t a career pivot; it was a power takeover. It was about flipping the entire script in a country where women are constantly policed, told to be modest, silent, and respectable. Respectable? Honey, respectability doesn't pay my bills or fuel my self-worth.

The Myth of Free Female Energy

I realized something profound. Women pour emotional labor, sacred feminine energy, and sensuality into the world every single day, giving it freely to men who, frankly, never deserved a drop of it. We listen, we nurture, we inspire, and we get thanked with empty promises or worse, condescension.

When I relocated back home and shared my journey in Findom and stripping, the reactions were predictable. "It's rebellion,” some gasped. Others, trying to discredit my intelligence and agency, sneered, "Is it because you weren't clever at school?"

Please. Save the amateur critiques.

I stepped into Findom at 19, barely a woman by society’s standards but already too powerful for their comfort. Men were quick to remind me of my age, not out of concern, but as a tactic to undermine my authority. “You’re too young to know anything about control.” “You should calm down.” “Relax your confidence a little, you’ll scare the good ones away.” They kept trying to convince me my power was a flaw. They wanted me soft, quiet, small. They wanted me to giggle at insecure boys pretending to be men, to shape-shift into their fantasies of what a young Black woman should be — grateful, eager to please, unaware of her worth. 

Women pour emotional labor, sacred feminine energy, and sensuality into the world every single day, giving it freely to men who, frankly, never deserved a drop of it.

The truth is, I was never built for their comfort. Even then, my standards were skyscrapers high, and my tolerance for bullshit was nonexistent. They said I was “stiff,” that my backbone was too straight for someone my age, but that stiffness was simply self respect. That refusal to bend was ancestral. I came into this world with a spine molded by Black women who survived everything, yet refused to bow. Findom didn’t corrupt me, it revealed me. It showed me that the same men calling me “too much” would empty their wallets the moment they realized I would never shrink for them. Validation was never the reward. Power was, and the sooner I embraced that, the faster the money followed.

To me, embracing this lifestyle felt like healing. It felt like finally being paid, in cold hard cash, for the energy I was already giving. It's the ultimate boundary: my time, my attention, my existence is currency. And you, little man, will pay the toll.

Erotic Justice: The Ritual of Reparations

In Findom, I found a unique form of erotic justice. It's a ritual of reparations against the patriarchy that devalues women’s worth.

Men send money not for pleasure, but for permission. Permission to exist in my world. Permission to touch my energy, even remotely, through the transaction. It is a primal, beautiful surrender.

They aren't buying a service; they are buying the lack of control. They are acknowledging, through their submission, that my inherent value is higher than their bank balance. It's a silent apology for every man who has ever taken a woman for granted. Every time a transfer notification pops up, it’s not just cash, it’s an affirmation of my power.

Every tribute feels like a reset button on the universe. It’s not just him sending money, it’s the whole system glitching for a second. Suddenly the girl who was told to “be humble” is the one setting the price, the pace, the rules. Findom becomes this delicious reversal where emotional labour, beauty, intuition, and aura aren’t dismissed; they’re compensated. Generously. Their money is the modern day confession booth; every payment is them admitting they benefit from a world built for them, not me. And still, here they are, choosing to kneel. Choosing to pay. Choosing to recognize the power they were never meant to understand.

Building an Altar to Myself

I am the altar. I am the deity. I dictate the rules of my universe.

If you want a moment of my attention, a crumb of my approval, or a glimpse into the life I’ve carved out through unapologetic self-worship, then you must honor the mandate:

Worship Me or Be Forgotten. 

The biggest power move isn't making money, it's being the currency, the flow of energy that patriarchy craves to control but is scared to show their bigotry around. And you best believe that being cocky pays.

For more from Goddess Mwenesi, see How To Approach a Financial Dominatrix and Reparations as a Black Findomme.

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