FROM SHANIQUA ROSE DUPONT TO SHANIQUA SELF

Shaniqua is a 40-year-old woman with expressive creole features, striking if you take the time to look. She rarely leaves the house and dresses like someone twice her age. Her hair is a wild, frizzy bush with silver creeping through the roots. She's gentle but emotionally distant, often lost in her own world, talking to spiders, plants, and curtains as if they were old friends. She's obsessive about order — a single object out of place makes her feel lost and anxious. Though she carries a quiet sadness, she’s sharp, quirky, and unexpectedly wise when present. She's Ashley’s mother, and their bond is deep but complicated.

Shaniqua was born in the wild suburbs of Los Angeles to a sweet Haitian father and a British mother who never quite got over the fact that scones weren’t a thing in California. Her childhood was a cotton-candy blur of love, laughter, and being treated like a tiny queen. But then… puberty hit. And suddenly, her parents’ love morphed into suspiciously enthusiastic lectures about modesty, spinal health, and the terrifying powers of lipstick.

Denied heels, mini skirts, and even ChapStick, Shaniqua rebelled the only way a 15-year-old can: with eyeliner, fake sleepovers, and a steady stream of concerts and artist boyfriends who smelled like patchouli and poor decisions.  

Things spiraled. She lost her license, gained court-ordered community service, and had one of those nuclear family fights you see in TV dramas. She slammed the door, swore never to return, and went straight to a rave. That same night? Ashley happened.

A few days later, her parents died on a suspicious “boating trip” (translation: they were helping smuggle people into the U.S.—family values, but make it illegal).  

Left pregnant, heartbroken, and in serious need of a Plan B, Shaniqua packed up and moved to London, to a dusty little house her mother left her in her will. She changed her last name to Self, because she was raising that baby on her own. Ashley grew up with that name—and a whole lot of stories no child should hear over cereal.

Two years in, Shaniqua thought she found love and married a man with charm, nice shoes, and zero moral compass. He turned out to be a master manipulator: gaslighting, guilt-tripping, reality-twisting, and probably allergic to honesty. She got anxiety; he got divorce papers. The final straw? He tried to “discipline” twelve-year-old Ashley for bad math scores—in her room, with the door closed. Ashley, being smart and full of kick, screamed for her mum. Shaniqua believed her, grabbed the frying pan (probably), and kicked him out yelling, “You're lucky I don’t call the cops!”  

Spoiler: she should’ve.

Since then? No men, no drama, no problem.

Long before Etsy was a thing, Shaniqua was already hand-stitching voodoo dolls and casually chatting with the dead like it was brunch, an inherited talent, possibly passed down from the Haitian side of the family, along with a fierce side-eye and a healthy respect for the unseen. Ashley, of course, got the same gift. She sees ghosts, talks to them, and occasionally ignores them like spam callers—because even spirits don’t get a free pass if they show up uninvited. Marketing? Please—Shaniqua's“clients” found her via whispers, dreams, and mildly cursed flyers. Computers? Absolutely not.

Thankfully, Ashley—armed with patience, Wi-Fi, and a healthy respect for chaos—stepped in, built her an Etsy shop, and still manages it to this day. Shaniqua refuses to touch the laptop, claiming it smells like burnt pixels and capitalism.

Today, Shaniqua is the proud owner (in name only) of an Etsy shop full of voodoo dolls, questionably enchanted jewelry, and herbal charms that might cure heartbreak (or at least indigestion). She also does home visits—results not guaranteed, refunds absolutely not available.

She may run her house like a one-woman coven with a clipboard and a death stare, but she raised Ashley with love, sarcasm, tea, and probably more than one ghost hovering near the spice rack.