Long ago, when the grass was tall and the rivers still whispered the names of those who crossed them, there lived a woman who knew the secrets of the earth. Her hut was small, but her wisdom was wide. In her calabash and leather bag she carried roots, herbs, and powders, each one holding a voice of the ancestors.
One day, the people said she had given poison to another. The men of law came and took her away. They brought her before a magistrate, a man who did not understand the ways of the land. Before him they laid her herbs upon a woven mat. The air smelled of dry earth, of rain long gone, of secrets.
Then the healers were called. They came one by one, old and young, men and women. Each bent down to touch the herbs. Each spoke without fear.
“This one heals the stomach.”
“That one draws out poison.”
“This one cools the sting of a wasp.”
Their voices rose and fell like the beating of drums, steady and strong. But among the healing plants were others of mystery. One was for chewing when crossing a river, to keep the water spirits from biting. Another was for gaining favour before a judge, so that truth might find open ears.
The magistrate asked, “How is it used?”
And one old man, his beard white as river foam, said, “You burn it on the coals. You sit above the smoke, covered in your cloak, until it fills your skin and breath. When you stand before the judge, keep a piece in your mouth, and the spirit of the root will speak for you.”
No one laughed. No one doubted. For to them, medicine and spirit walked hand in hand. The sickness of the body and the sickness of the heart were one.
The white man saw only superstition. The woman saw the dance of life.
And when the trial ended, she returned to her hut. There she lit her fire, ground her roots, and sang softly to the ancestors.
Outside, the wind passed over the veld, carrying with it the scent of herbs and the whisper of wisdom that never dies.