How You Start Is Not Always How You Finish: Lessons From My Journey With the Orisa

When people ask me how I got into Orisa tradition, they often expect a straight line. But spiritual roads, like life, rarely move that way. Let me tell you how mine started—and where it’s taken me.

The First Whisper
I was already deep into spiritual work—reading clients, training with mentors in the psychic community—when my regular reader, an old white man, told me there was an African woman standing behind me, whispering something over and over: “O-ri-sha.” Neither of us knew what that word meant. But he insisted I find out. And that’s the first lesson: A message is a message, no matter what the messenger looks like.

New Orleans, Past Lives, and Hidden Roots
My search led me to New Orleans, over and over again. I eventually moved there and became a professional reader. What I didn’t know then was that New Orleans was where my paternal great-grandparents had immigrated from Jamaica to the U.S. A full ancestral circle, hiding in plain sight. Sometimes, our feet follow what our spirit already knows.

Initiation, Confusion, and Misalignment
Eventually I connected with a well-known Santero in Miami. I received elekes, guerreros, Olokun, Palo muerto. I was even scratched in preparation for Ocha. But things didn’t sit right. Messages came up in misas that made me pause. My GPS would literally stop working en route to my padrino’s house. And I couldn’t ignore the irony—he was a child of Eleggua, and I couldn’t find the road to him.

I left my Orisha basket and elekes in that house. Something felt… blocked. I later went to a Babalawo for Ifá. I received my Hand of Ifá. He had the same odu as me. He was surprised. So was I. Turns out, the house I'd come from had planned to initiate me to the wrong orisa—another orisa, not mine.

That’s another lesson: Not every invitation is aligned with your destiny.

Spiritual Breaks, Material Success, and Realizations

I walked away from the religion. And oddly, I thrived. Financially, I reached the peak of my career. Spiritually, I felt clearer. I tried again—with another Cuban Babalawo. He taught me a lot. Rebuilt my shrines. Gave me Osain. Trained me in client work. Still—nothing miraculous changed. So I went to a Nigerian Ifá priest from the Popoola lineage, just for perspective.

Eventually I walked away from Santería, Ifá, and Orisa completely. I stuck to yearly Ifá readings. That was it.

Vodou, Dreams of Africa, and an Unexpected Turn

Vodou had been my first ATR, and it always worked for me. During my Kanzo in Haiti, I started dreaming of Africa—despite never having wanted to go. I dismissed it.

Then Sango showed up in a dream. Talking about Ifá. I laughed. But I consulted three Babalawos—from three different countries. All told me the same thing.

So I went to Africa.

I was terrified. But I did it anyway. I initiated into Afa, did other ceremonies (Mami Wata), and returned to the U.S.

Only to find out that someone had done work to end my life.

Death at 33, A Decision Between Fun and Faith

My heart started failing. Doctors ran tests for five weeks. No explanation. I wore a monitor. They still couldn’t figure it out. I was dying at 33 years old. Five years later, my brother died at 33. That’s not a coincidence. That’s an ancestral echo.

I was fired from my job. I went public. I threatened to sue. They settled. I had money, but I was still dying. So I had two options: have fun or trust Orisa one last time.

Healing Through Trance

I was invited to the Ebohon Centre in Benin City. I had the visa. But I was too sick to fly. So I went to Brazil instead. I stayed five weeks and initiated under one of Araba Agboola’s spiritual descendants. I did ceremony after ceremony.

And then… trance. I went into Orisa trance with Esu for the first time. Then again. Then again.

By the third time, my heart palpitations stopped. Three months later, I was healthy. Not in theory. Not in faith. In fact.

The Return, the Mix, and the Mystery of Xangô
Turns out, my Brazilian godfather had mixed Candomblé and Isese. And I learned something: One tradition doesn’t cancel another. No baptism erases what came before.

Sango never left me alone—even though he isn’t the orisa of my ori. At a festa of Xangô at Terreiro do Cobre, a woman mounted with him hugged me and wouldn’t let go until I slipped into trance. The iyalorixá pulled me aside: “You need to do ceremony.”

I went to other houses. All said the same. And that’s how I ended up in Candomblé—without ever planning to.

Full Circle in Nigeria.

Right before the pandemic, I returned to Nigeria and Benin for more ceremonies. I planned for 6 weeks. I stayed 6 months. And—without realizing it—I landed in the ile of another Babalawo from the Popoola lineage.

Let me be clear: I have no affiliation with them beyond transaction. I bought their books, courses, paid for divinations, used their Olorisas. That’s it. I’ve never met Chief Popoola. I say this out of respect for clarity, not shade.

My Odu is Ejiogbe.
The road of:

Sacrifice and abundance

Gossip and betrayal

Healing and longevity

Being known, but often alone

Having taboos people trample, and giving without acknowledgment

And yet: I endure. I remember.

Because how you start isn’t always how you finish.