The Franklin Avenue Herbalist

Dahabo's Herbal Remedies smells like another world.

Frankincense and myrrh. Dried habakhabak leaves. Oils in amber bottles. Roots and powders from three continents.

I come because Western medicine has failed me.

"Insomnia," she says. "How long?"

"Two years."

"Ilaahay." She shakes her head. Fifty-seven years old. Two hundred and forty-five pounds of ancient wisdom. Ebony skin marked with traditional patterns. "You've tried everything?"

"Pills, therapy, meditation. Nothing works."

"Because you're treating symptoms. Not cause." She takes my hand. Examines my palm. "Your mind won't rest because your body won't release."

"Release what?"

"Tension. Grief. Fear." She meets my eyes. "What are you afraid of?"

I don't answer.

But I come back. Again and again.

Dahabo sells me teas and oils. Teaches me breathing techniques. Slowly, the insomnia fades.

"You're sleeping better," she says one evening.

"How do you know?"

"Your eyes. Your skin. Your energy." She pours chai. "The body tells the truth even when the mouth lies."

"Then what is my body saying?"

"That you're still holding something." She hands me a cup. "Something deep. Something you won't let go."

"Everyone holds something."

"Haa." She sits across from me. "I held my husband's death for fifteen years. Refused to let another man close. Told myself I was being loyal."

"And now?"

"Now I'm fifty-seven. Alone. Wondering if loyalty to the dead is just fear of the living."

"Come to the back room."

Her shop has a treatment area. A massage table. Candles. The smell of healing.

"Lie down. I'm going to release what's stuck."

"Is this—"

"Medicine. The oldest kind." Her hands are warm with oil. "Trust me."

She massages my back.

Strong hands finding knots I didn't know I had. Pressing, releasing, drawing out pain.

"Your shoulders carry the world," she murmurs.

"Someone has to."

"No one has to. You choose to." She works lower. "Why do you choose it?"

"Because if I put it down, I might fall apart."

"Then fall apart." Her hands stop. "Fall apart, and let someone put you back together."

I turn over.

She's standing above me.

Eyes wet. Hands still oiled. Her massive body silhouetted by candlelight.

"Fifteen years," she whispers. "Fifteen years of healing everyone but myself."

"Let me heal you."

"Wallahi?"

"Wallahi."

She removes her dress.

Her body is a map of tradition.

Ebony skin marked with healed burns—koos, the Somali scarification. Breasts heavy with age and beauty. Belly soft, hips wide, thighs thick.

"I'm old," she says.

"You're perfect."

"I'm—"

I kiss her.

I worship the healer.

My oiled hands learn her body the way she learned mine. Every scar has a story. Every curve holds wisdom.

"Lower—" She guides me down. "Fadlan—"

I spread her thick thighs.

Taste the herbs on her skin.

"ILAAHAY!"

She screams—fifteen years of self-denial breaking. Her hands grip my hair.

"So long—" She's shaking. "So long since I let anyone—"

I lick her through the release.

Through the tears.

Through the healing.

"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—complete the treatment—"

I strip. She sees me and breathes something ancient.

"Subhanallah—the remedy I needed—"

I position myself.

I push inside the herbalist.

She cries out—fifteen years of celibacy filling.

"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—dhakhso—"

I make love to her among her potions and remedies.

She comes twice, three times, each one releasing something deeper.

"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Fill me—heal me—"

I release inside her.

We lie tangled on the massage table.

"Your insomnia," she murmurs. "It's gone."

"How do you know?"

"Because you're falling asleep in my arms." She strokes my hair. "That's the cure. Being held. Being loved."

Six Months Later

I sleep perfectly now.

Every night, in Dahabo's bed, surrounded by the smell of herbs and incense.

"Macaan," she whispers. "My sweetest patient."

The herbalist who cured my body.

The woman who healed my soul.

Traditional medicine at its finest.