Àbíkú

I arranged a reading with a Santería priestess per my sister’s advice. Our ancestors had provided her with divine clarity and when she inquired about messages for me, they said, She is a skeptic. She has to do this herself.

A week later, I followed instructions: I dressed in all white, set an unlit white candle nearby, and impatiently waited for the priestess to call. Introductions were short and, within the first five minutes, several spirits appeared as a caucus of cacophony. They overwhelmed the priestess with declarations, laughter, and advice: She comes from a long line of Native Americans. She should be a life coach. She’s very creative.

The priestess inhaled, slowed the process, and reentered the space with Spanish prayers. Then in English, she dismissed bystanders with love and asked those who were birth related or who knew me intimately to remain. Four people stayed. One of them was a woman I had only seen through black-and-white cracked photos—my paternal grandmother, Katherine.

She wants her mother, my grandmother said, sensing my frustration with the four who lingered. But her mother’s not coming because she’s not clean.

The unclean one was me.

She has to get clean, my grandmother reiterated. Her unborn children are causing chaos in her life. She has to release this internal burden she’s been carrying.

Tears flowed with awareness. The unborn children she alluded to were the multiple abortions I’d chosen to have to escape the inconvenience of birth.

“How can she get clean?” the priestess asked.

A spiritual bath and a baptism. Before the baptism, she must bury the children.

“How? What does she have to do to bury the children?” the priestess asked.

First, she has to name them.

My grandmother described the genders of the unborn: two boys and three girls. She explained how one of my sons had been walking between realms. Oftentimes, he had been earthside, near me; other times, he returned to the spirit world.

I didn’t doubt her. Years prior, I’d visited a sallow white woman, with long brown hair, who claimed mediumship. “Do you have a son?” she asked.

“No,” I replied.

“Well, there’s a little boy standing on your left side. He’s very attached, like a son.”

Back then, I dismissed the woman as a quack, but on this day, I sat on the edge of my seat and fervently typed notes. I had been told my quality of life depended on following my ancestor’s instructions. Weeks later, I began the ritual.

#

I called my first baby Kione—a name that means, “leader” or “guide” in Swahili.1 Kione was conceived in loneliness when I was a grieving seventeen-year-old. His father was sixteen. With him, I mastered the facility with which sex could soothe pain. I ended Kione’s life because I not only wanted to evade teenage motherhood, but I also wanted to avoid shaming my family.

Seven months later, the same boy and I created another baby, Kimama. Her name is derived from the Shoshone tribe and means, “butterfly.”2 Kimama manifested from lust and desperation, for sex can only soothe pain temporarily; once the high wears off, one needs it again. Recklessness resulted in pregnancy. But there was no intention for Kimama to live beyond the womb or for me to arrive at undergrad with a baby.

At college, I longed for the familiarity of Kione and Kimama’s father. Our union was safe. Thus, we conceived Kachina, another girl, whose name is derived from Pueblo mythology and means, “spirit.”3 At eighteen, I grew wiser and wearier. I suspected it was wrong to use abortion as birth control, so I planned for parenthood. But an elder I called Grannie demanded a better path she thought was new to me. A simple procedure she’d pay for would allow me to continue with life’s goals.

“This isn’t even a baby yet,” she reasoned. “It’s just a mass.”

She was right. Biology teaches that an embryo and a fetus differ. The former describes an early collection of cells, the beginning stages of a human being. She was wrong. African and Afro-Caribbean spirituality teach that the unborn possess a spirit. In Ifá, it is believed that some children are “born to die;” they are called Àbíkú. They die early and repeatedly return to the mother, causing her to live a life of grief.4 Though aborted fetuses aren’t recognized as Àbíkú, my lived experience confirms the sentiment. Each procedure added a cloak of sadness, which grew heavier over time.

At nineteen, I met the love of my life and continued to use sex to self-medicate. My fourth child and second son belonged to us, so we named him together. He chose Wesir—god of the underworld, from Egyptian mythology. I chose Kajika, an Indigenous name that means, “Walks without Sound.”5

Wesir Kajika quickly formed during the depths of our passion. I begged my love to prepare for fatherhood; however, he insisted we were too young. So, I ignored my feelings and searched for a new clinic, one where they wouldn’t recognize my face. Regret kept Wesir Kajika here, walking between realms, serving as my personal Àbíkú.

Kateri was my last. Her name means, “pure” or “clean,” and is a derivative of Katherine. Her name is also taken from Saint Kateri Tekakwitha, “the first Native American saint in the Catholic Church.”6 Kateri was conjured from my final act of infidelity. Her father’s face and name remain a mystery but represent many who were once in his place. The irony is intentional. Katherine is also a family name; I share it with my grandmother and my sister, and now, it binds Kateri to us. Eventually, her life served as a catalyst for change.

#

She must do this for the sake of her future, my grandmother said. Get cloths: two blue and three pink. Use a needle and thread. Fill the cloths with three-to-five cotton balls. Sew them. These are her unborn children.

I wasted no time ordering personalized baby blankets from an online craftsman. I carefully compared cotton-candy pink and strawberry sorbet, fluctuated between midnight and ocean blue. I pored over distinct fonts for Kione, Kimama, Kachina, Wesir Kajika, and Kateri. I imagined swaddling them and bringing them home for the first time.

“How do I sew?” I asked the love of my life, who was now my husband. He’d once dabbled as a seamster. He demonstrated how to turn fabric inside out, so lines of thread would disappear.

As I threaded the third needle, images of Black-faced dolls with white gowns flashed in my mind’s eye, indicating a spiritual practice, perhaps known to my foremothers many moons ago. I dismissed the thought of engaging in so-called witchcraft, and instead, focused on the symbolism. Each palm-sized baby represented the negligence, with which I had once regarded sex and life. Each embryo embodied a spirit I once agreed was just a mass. Personifying my unborn children offered a way to right my wrongs; to alleviate the angst I’d unknowingly absorbed.

***

My grandmother continued: Place each one in front and rub it where her womb would be. Then, read Psalms 51 for each child, and light a white candle, one for all five or five separate ones.

Church is a memory of teenage obligation that ended when I was old enough to choose how to spend Sunday mornings. Christianity had been neatly filed somewhere between Paganism and Roman mythology. Therefore, the skepticism my ancestors initially spoke of arose when I was directed to engage with scripture.

But then I read verse five: “Behold, I was shapen in iniquity; and in sin did my mother conceive me.”7

I don’t subscribe to coincidences. This Psalm was relevant. My mother and father were wedded to others when they succumbed to sin. I was the product of their adulterous desires, just as my five unborn children were products of mine. I read the entirety of Psalms 51 for Kione, for Kimama, for Kachina, for Wesir Kajika, and for Kateri. I lit five white candles and through blurry eyes, I asked each child to forgive me and my transgressions against them.

#

Scoop the babies up. Go to the river. She has to dig a grave near the river and bury the unborn children. There will be tears, my grandmother warned. This is her release. She must do this for her release. Then, for the first time during our seventy-five-minute conversation, she spoke directly and asked: Do you hear me?

“Yes,” I whispered.

I had pre-selected a secluded area, so when I arrived, I only had to ensure no one was nearby. I toted the kind of grocer’s bag that will save the earth. In it was a serrated farmer’s dagger my youngest daughter had loaned me and the pink and blue dolls.8 Rain ensured the dirt was ripe for digging. I stabbed the earth and asked my ancestors to signal when the grave was sufficient. I dug. I intuited, then shaped five holes inside of the bigger one.

I buried my unborn children in a shallow grave near the St. Johns River. One-by-one, I secured each in their own place: First, Kione. Next, Kimama and Kachina. Then, Wesir Kajika. Lastly, Kateri.

I prayed for their forgiveness and for their peace. I prayed to be released from the bondage of sorrow I had carried since adolescence.

Author’s Note

I did not leave the burial site and turn my life over to Christ. Although I did read Lilith Dorsey’s, Orishas, Goddesses, and Voodoo Queens, I didn’t seek ways to be initiated into African spirituality. And I didn’t change my stance on abortion or a woman’s right to have one. However, I am developing a newfound understanding of sex, death, and ancestors. Sex is sacred and should not be taken for granted. It is a powerful form of intimacy and exchange of energy. Therefore, we should choose wisely with whom we lay, and subsequently, whose children we conceive, whether on purpose or in error. Though I have communicated with the dead, I am still unsure of what happens when one dies; however, death seems to be as important as life. Therefore, the end should be honored and each spirit funeralized, no matter how short or insignificant we think their life was. Finally, it is no secret that those of us with African or Indigenous ancestry oftentimes have fractured histories. The Atlantic Slave Trade and the Trail of Tears caused collective suffering and shared losses, such as severed understandings of rituals that connect us to our lineage. For centuries, we have been disconnected from ceremonies that used to teach us to revere our ancestors and the roles they play in our everyday lives. Therefore, as the world begins to shift in unstable ways, it seems the grounding we need should be rooted in re-learning and re-remembering ancestral knowledge directly linked to our Indigenous cultures. It seems that these practices can divinely guide us, individually and communally.

1. Kione. Meaning of the Name Kione – What Does the African Name Kione Mean?” Nameopia. Accessed September 4, 2025. https://www.nameopia.com/name/Kione.html.

2. Kimama. Ojibwe People’s Dictionary. Ojibwe People’s Dictionary. University of Minnesota Department of American Indian Studies and University Libraries. Accessed September 2, 2025. https://ojibwe.lib.umn.edu/

3. Kachina. Colton, Harold Sellers. “Hopi Kachina Dolls: With a Key to Their.” (1959).

4. In Ifá tradition, Àbíkú are typically described as children who are born and die an early death, then they return to torment the mother; these spirits do not include aborted children. I have titled this essay Àbíkú and referred to my unborn children as such loosely. Fact checking occurred via an interview with an Omo Awo, a student priest in Ifá tradition on June 13, 2025; “Abiku in Yoruba Belief | How to Identify Abiku + Names of Abiku Children #Learnyoruba #Yorubaculture.” The Yoruba Educator. December 12, 2021. Video, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C4opqMuyDpA&t=35s.

5. Wesir Kajika. Ancient Egypt Online. “Osiris.” Ancient Egypt Online. Accessed September 2, 2025. https://ancientegyptonline.co.uk/Osiris/; Ojibwe People’s Dictionary. Ojibwe People’s Dictionary. University of Minnesota Department of American Indian Studies and University Libraries. Accessed September 2, 2025. https://ojibwe.lib.umn.edu/

6. Kateri. Saint Regis Mohawk Tribe. “Saint Kateri Tekakwitha.” Saint Regis Mohawk Tribe. Accessed September 2, 2025. https://www.srmt-nsn.gov/about/saint-kateri-tekakwitha; my paternal grandmother’s name is Katherine and my sister’s middle name is Catherine.

7. Ps. 51:1–2 (King James Version)

8. Some may view what it is described here as hoodoo or believe it to be originated from voodoo tradition. After in-depth conversations with Chaddrian, an Omo Awo; my oldest daughter, Kesi; and an independent studies scholar, named Sasadya, who is well-versed in how Indigenous spiritual practices are connected to Black feminism, it is agreed that what I performed cannot be called voodoo because voodoo is a religion and requires being led by someone who is initiated in the practice. Similarly, hoodoo is more akin to root work. However, the practices described in this essay are clearly derived from some form of Indigenous ritual.

************

Are you a Black woman writer? We’re looking for short stories and personal essays to feature on our digital and print platforms. Click HERE to find out how to submit.