No. 9, Up country
As kids in Jamaica, whenever we were ill with a fever, there was no Calpol.
Instead, my dad, the family herbalist, would swing into action and go about the yard picking various herbs - fever grass, cerasee and such - to make bush tea. Then he would add one final ingredient from his field. Lots and lots of ganja, which he grew but never smoked.
Sometimes we would come home from school to find a whole load of ganja drying on the kitchen’s zinc roof, which the Rastafarians living in the community would often stop by to exchange for yams or other produce.
With one of us ill in bed, sweating like crazy, dad would boil the herbs and make a bath for us to soak in. We were also given the concoction as a tea to drink.
Next day we were up and about bright as can be, hungry for soup, ready to go play.
We were lucky, and I have always thought one day I will ask my dad for his secret recipe, because our life medicine was handed down from generation to generation and it worked.
Once a year, from an early age, my dad would also take me to the local mother woman, with the dreadlocked hair and flowery garden, for her to observe me.
She would give me ganja tea to drink while I sat in a warm herbal bath, in the sun, under the pink bougainvillea, staring into space. She would sit nearby and tell my dad my futures.
I’m not going to tell you what she said.
But she was right.
Best wishes,
Sherry Collins (her / us)
