Бесплатный фрагмент - Mungu Pesa

MUNGU PESA

book about money by Marat Bright

PREFACE

By Marat Bright

If you opened this book, it means you’re searching. Maybe for money. Maybe for freedom. Maybe for taste. Or maybe you’re just tired of fake smiles, numbers, morals, and rules written by those too afraid to breathe deeply.

I am not a guru. Not a financial analyst. Not a coach. I am Marat Bright. A man who went through fame, emptiness, disappearance — and returned with gifts. With pain. With revelations. With rituals. With magic. And with one main truth: money is not paper, not bits, not gold. Money is vibration. It’s passion. It’s your inner readiness. Money is a key.

In this book, I’ll speak honestly. Sometimes fiercely. Sometimes on the edge. Sometimes too openly. I’ll tell you how I tamed money, how I seduced the flow, how I felt it on my skin. This book is about the body. About energy. About sex. About philosophy. About everything that doesn’t fit into Excel.

I won’t teach you how to get rich quick. But if you read to the end, you’ll rewire your code. And then, money will find its way to you.

DISCLAIMER

Important before we begin

Age: This book is intended for readers over 18. It contains explicit scenes, sensual descriptions, financial practices, and esoteric rituals that may trigger strong feelings and unexpected insights.

Legal Rights: All intellectual property — text, rituals, style, and philosophy — belong to the author, Marat Bright aka Marat Yarkov. Any copying, republishing, or redistribution without written permission is prohibited and protected by law.

Respect for All Religions and Traditions: The author expresses deep respect for all religions and spiritual paths: especially the Abrahamic traditions — Judaism, Christianity, Islam — as well as Buddhism, Chinese traditions, African beliefs, shamanism, Sumerian teachings, Kabbalah, Slavic paganism, and the cult of the Golden Calf. This book does not mock faith; it honors its power and beauty.

Acceptable Boundaries: This book contains metaphors, phrases, and scenes that may feel provocative, erotic, magical, or mystical. We are not promoting or preaching anything. This is the author’s path — his way of working with money as living energy. Everything in this book is a fiction and farce, dear officer.

If you’re ready, open the first chapter. Take a deep breath. Feel the vibration of the Golden Calf touching your body. And let’s begin.

Marat Bright

CHAPTER 1

Worship of the Golden Calf

How I passed through fame, pain, and thirst — and became a Money Mage

I knew fame. I knew applause. I knew what it felt like to walk the streets and catch admiring glances. In my youth, I worked on TV in Zlatoust. I was the voice, the face, the person they trusted on the screen. People wrote to me, waited for me, recognized me. It was beautiful, but it wasn’t deep.

Behind the curtain there was silence, loneliness, and exhaustion that neither coffee nor sex could heal. Fame is delicious but empty. Like dessert without a meal.

At some point, I stopped recognizing myself. My voice wasn’t mine. My face felt like a mask. I realized: if I didn’t disappear, I’d burn out. So I vanished.

I dissolved into the world. I moved to Southeast Asia, then Africa. I lived with the bare minimum, sometimes with nothing at all. Ate with my hands, slept on the ground, stayed on breakwaters, crossed Cambodia and half of Vietnam without spending a dollar, exchanged glances with strangers. I breathed deeper than I ever had before. I remembered what reality felt like: sand, sweat, wind, skin, fear. And then I began to hear. Not with my ears, but with my whole being.

Money started speaking to me.

We fear money. We despise it. We worship it. We deify it. Throughout history, people have looked for symbols of power outside themselves: in gold, in animals, in phallic idols, in banknotes, in bits, in numbers. Long before Moses heard the voice from the burning bush, the Hebrews had already created the Golden Calf — a symbol of desire, temptation, and material power. Their hunger for gold was older and stronger than faith in a new, official God.

But I saw something different in it: not sin, but a mirror of desire. I don’t worship the Calf. I befriend it. I feed it my energy. I let it be near me, but never above me. I say to it: “You are my beast. My power. My shadow. Together we create light.”

One dawn in Tanzania, I stood by the shore in the silence before sunrise. The air was thick and sticky, like skin after love. I drank spiced coffee from a tin cup when I saw them.

She was a woman in a kikoi. Tall, proud. Her dark skin shone with sweat. One breast exposed, the nipple moving gently. A baby wrapped in her headscarf. Two barefoot children walking behind.

He was an Indian man with a phone. Sweaty like a confession. Nervous, but respectful. He had USDT. By prior agreement, he needed to send money to her family in Karatu and also give her some in cash. She offered gold plates in exchange — old, flat, heavy. And no one knew how to begin.

I walked up to them quietly, smiling. “This isn’t a transaction. It’s a ritual. It’s trust. If you’re ready, I’m the guide. I’m Marat Bright.” She opened the pouch. Inside were four gold plates wrapped in black silk. Thin as fingernails. Warm as the inside of a thigh. I took out my scales and acid test. Dropped the reagent: pure gold. 999. Weight: ninety-eight grams. A precious gift.

He sent me the USDT. I converted it into Tanzanian shillings. I completed the deal. Soon after, confirmation came: twenty-five million, seven hundred sixty thousand shillings arrived in parts to her family’s accounts. I nodded. At that moment, something shifted in the air. She looked at the SMS, then at me, and smiled for the first time. He closed his eyes. I felt the flow pass through all of us.

I took my fee: eight percent of the amount. Profit? Yes. About two million shillings, plus two hundred forty thousand for dinner. But more importantly, it wasn’t about gold. It was the first pulse. The first call of Mungu Pesa. From that moment, I knew this wasn’t business. It was art. It was magic.

That deal rebirthed me. I am not a broker. I am a shaman of money flow. I don’t just move currencies across the globe — I move destinies. Through the body. Through the soul. Through the Calf. And from those deals, over time, a power project was born: 1money. exchange.

When you touch gold with bare fingers, you feel this is not just metal. This is history. This is power. This is embodied desire. This is the color of the sun and ripe wheat. It feels warm. It smells of salt and blood. But if you are clean inside, it works for you.

I learned to receive. And only then did money begin to come. With love. With energy. With a mission. I am Marat Bright. And my first gold deal wasn’t about the rate. It was about awakening. My hand touched gold — and I became a conductor. Since then, I carry the Flow.

CHAPTER 2

The Myth of Poverty

Or who benefits from you living on leftovers

Who planted the idea in our minds that money is evil? I asked myself this when I woke up from my first inner poverty. Not the external kind in your wallet, but the poverty that lives in your blood, your reflexes. Poverty doesn’t start in the bank. It lives in your breath, your posture, your words, your body. Poverty is a code. And any code can be rewritten. But who wrote it?

First — nature. Chaos. Entropy. Everything tends to decay. Poverty is natural. It’s simplification. Being poor means not putting in effort, just surviving. It’s convenient — for the system, for authorities, for those in power. You think you’re choosing humility, but really, you’re just afraid to shine.

Then — religion. In Christianity: “It’s easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle…” In Islam, wealth is permitted if purified through zakat. In Judaism, Abraham, David, Solomon were wealthy like kings. But in the interpretations, poverty became virtue. Suffering became holiness. Humility became law. Why? Because it’s easier to control the poor. They don’t have the resources to resist — neither inside nor outside. Their planning horizon is only tonight’s bowl of rice, not dreams or freedom. They don’t ask questions. They obey. They fear standing out, fear making mistakes, fear losing even the little they have. They live in survival mode, not in creation. Shame about their poverty is their chain. And this shame has been passed down like family heirlooms, generation to generation. It’s not just poverty — it’s hypnosis. A collective spell where wealth is seen as sin and poverty as virtue. But who made up this myth? And who profits from it? The one who wants you silent, hungry, and controlled.

I was born into it. The Soviet code. I ate sugar on bread and thought it was normal. Dad was a factory worker. Mom worked as a cashier. We had respect, yes, but money, no. Everyone seemed equal, but there was always an unspoken difference: they had a Volga car, we had sneakers with holes; they had Sega, we had conscience. It was shameful to be rich. Shameful to want. Shameful to ask. Shameful to take. That’s psycho-DNA. A rusty hoop on the head, blocking money from coming in. I remember being afraid to raise my price. Apologizing for wanting nice things. Feeling guilty for wanting a life better than my parents had.

The turning point didn’t happen at a seminar or during a meditation. It happened at a market in Eswatini. A woman came to me, wearing a leopard-print sarong around her ripe body, chest half bare, beaded necklace on her neck, holding a jug full of coins like a sacred vessel. Next to her stood a tall man with bone prayer beads and a smartphone at his waist. They didn’t say a word, just stared. I understood: this was a ritual. An exchange, not for profit, but for balance.

He transferred USDT. I converted it into local currency and sent it to her, minus my commission. She gave him ancestral coins — and tears. I completed the deal. Her family got the money. The buyer gave me a gold coin. When it touched my skin, something clicked inside. I realized: money can be sacred, if you don’t squeeze it, but let it flow. In that moment, shame disappeared. Guilt vanished. The “good boy” mask fell away. I stepped out of the poverty trance.

Poverty isn’t honesty. It’s fear. And fear is just another shadow. I started to see how people sabotage themselves: charging less than they’re worth, ashamed of invoices, losing what they earn, hating the rich, fearing success. They carry this in their bodies — hips, belly, throat. They can’t swallow their own value. I saw it in the eyes of men scared to earn more than their fathers, in women afraid to ask, in trembling voices when stating a price. I understood: poverty is a virus. And I am the antivirus. I am Marat Bright. I heal vibrations. I rewrite codes. I activate the flow.

Money is an amplifier. If you’re strong, it makes you stronger. If you’re kind, it makes you generous. If you’re dirty, it shows it. So the blessing isn’t in poverty. It’s in clarity. In energy. In freedom. The world won’t get better if you stay poor. But it will get better if you become rich and pure. Rich and open. Rich and loving. Rich and giving. That’s why I created 1money. exchange — a platform not just for money, but for vibration, honesty, ritual, and trust.

You don’t have to be a holy pauper. You can be a holy rich person. You can breathe deeply, wear silk, taste love, and still carry light. You’re not sinful for earning. You’re sinful for denying your divine potential. Because Mungu Pesa isn’t about gold. Mungu Pesa is about honesty in abundance, warmth in exchange, the dance between the spiritual and the material.

And if you’ve read this far, your exit from the myth has already begun. You’re at the threshold. Ready to go further?

CHAPTER 3

Money as a Spiritual Practice

You’re not just earning — you’re meditating with money

There’s incoming money and outgoing money. Inhale and exhale. The breath of flow, the breath of God. Most people suffocate because they only want to inhale. To receive, to grab, to hoard. But anything clenched dies. Anything that doesn’t breathe rots. You can’t inhale if you don’t exhale. You can’t receive if you don’t let go. Money is the breath of the Universe. If you want to be in rhythm, be a vessel. Not a bank, not a safe, but a body that feels.

One day, I was in a luxurious hammam in Arabia. Marble, steam, hot stones, naked skin. The masseur poured thick, golden oil into my hands, heavy and fragrant like honeyed blood. It flowed down my wrists, wrapped my elbows, soaked into my pores. And I noticed: if I tensed up, the oil slipped away, didn’t absorb. But if I relaxed, it sank deep, dissolved into my skin. And I realized: money is the same. If you’re tense, it doesn’t stay. If you’re open, relaxed, sensual, it enters your code.

I remember that night in Zanzibar. The ocean whispered like a lover. We sat in a beach restaurant, me and a woman from an international organization. Cold, calculating, perfect posture, frozen soul. She ordered orange juice; I ordered coffee and fruit salad. As they brought it, she looked at me and said, “You eat like you’re allowed to enjoy everything.” She added, “I always think about calories, finances, timing. But you — you just enjoy.” I took a slice of pineapple, juice dripping on my lip, slowly placed it in my mouth and swallowed. “Because I’m in the flow,” I said. “Money doesn’t reward control. It rewards pleasure, trust in yourself.” She went silent. Her face stiffened. I knew I had won — not over her, but over my own past, over restraint. I was alive. She was a spreadsheet. That’s the difference in vibration.

Next time someone gives you money — cash, a transfer, gratitude — stop. Take the bill, bring it close, close your eyes. Feel the texture, the sound, the smell, the weight. Say out loud: I am worthy. I receive. I conduct. This isn’t mysticism. This is reprogramming the body. Turning muscle memory of poverty into cellular memory of worth.