Aunty Mummy's Medicine

"I'm not afraid of anything. That's why my grandmother was so like me," Aunty Mummy declares, her voice carrying over the afternoon birdsong. We sit outside under a canopy's shade, surrounded by the quiet presence of abandoned buildings with their empty doorways and worn stairs. Tall grass sways in the breeze, and native plants push through the cracks in old concrete, nature slowly reclaiming its space.

At 45, she carries herself with the quiet authority of someone who has witnessed both life's beginnings and its deepest struggles. The early afternoon light filters through the towering trees above us as she shares the story of her calling, her voice dropping to a knowing whisper when she touches on the sacred.

"My father is a soldier. He served in the army for 52 years. I grew up in a mountain barracks," she says, explaining how military discipline merged with her grandmother's healing wisdom to shape her approach. "I'm born a soldier, but in terms of labor, my grandmother would tell me, 'This became small, you know. Don't care about the small, it's about the heart. You have the heart.'"

Birds call from the treetops as she leans forward, sharing the intimacies of her practice. "When a woman goes to labor, see that labor, it tends to stumble, block. I have a medicine to apply." Her hands move expressively as she speaks, tracing invisible patterns in the warm air. "Even the woman you interview now, tell much about me. I used to go to medicine."

Her healing grounds stretch out around us. Medicinal plants grow in abundance. "This is my best place," she gestures toward the greenery. "Without gates. I'm leaving here to find medicine. Up here, all over here." Each plant has its purpose, each leaf a story of healing.

But Aunty Mummy's gift extends beyond her knowledge of herbs. She reads bodies like ancient texts, sensing what lies beneath the surface. "When you come near me, I will tell you," she explains, describing how she diagnoses fertility issues. "You have so certain scent. When you come near me, I will tell you if you are pregnant."

She bridges worlds effortlessly, respecting both traditional ways and modern medicine. "When you say you're going to English [modern medicine], I have a sort of advice," she explains. "When you say no, you're going to English. I'm telling you, I'll tell you, say, you come to me back." Her wisdom lies in knowing not just when to treat, but when to step back.

To young women struggling with reproductive health, she offers both medicine and maternal knowledge. "Nowadays, speaking, when they come up with their womb, they rush life," she says, her voice heavy with concern. "You have to be careful. It's life."

What sets her apart is her honesty about limitations. When treatments aren't working, she faces it head-on. "I will tell them this will not work... In the corner, I will tell you, it cannot work." This truth-telling has only deepened her community's trust.

She pauses to listen to a bird's call, then continues. "In this life, God blessed me," she says. "Out of 50 women a day with that kind of issue... 40 will succeed." Her voice carries both pride and humility.

A breeze stirs the tall grass, and she straightens, her presence as natural and dignified as the landscape around us. "That's why all of them call me Aunty Mummy," she says. In her practice, ancient wisdom evolves, adapting to new realities while keeping the heart of healing intact.

Her legacy lives on not just through her two daughters, but through countless women whose lives she's touched. As the afternoon light begins to soften, she offers one final piece of advice: "When you believe in anything, it shall work."