A spoonful of sugar...or honey...

Ahmed stood before me while I sat on my bed, his tall, lanky frame leaned jauntily against the desk. In his right hand he held a small ceramic pot, a half-smile playing on his face. He was carefully stirring a dark, viscous liquid, lifting the metal spoon and pausing as the liquid ran off the spoon, blending the bowl’s contents. At first I wondered if he was just preparing a snack for himself, but then I remembered he was fasting today (Ahmed is an observant Muslim), and the sun had not yet set far enough for him to sate his hunger. I began to suspect the mystery concoction was for me, as I had been coughing and feverish all day. Sure enough, he offered me the bowl.

“Is this dawa [medicine]?” I hesitantly queried as I peered inside, lifting the spoon to test the texture of the strange liquid.
“Yes,” he answered.

“Dawa ya kienyeji [traditional medicine]”?
“Yes.”

“There’s a lot in here.” I couldn’t help but grimace. How, feeling so horrible, would I down a half-cup of this ‘medicine’?
“Yes, but you don’t take it all now. Some now, some later,” he assured me.

I still wasn’t convinced, but I sensed I had no choice unless I intended to offend. “What’s in it?” I asked, dubious. Would it turn my stomach (as had the lemon-juice-and-salt medicine for stomach upset I had been force-fed in Ethiopia)?
Ahmed wrinkled his brow. “How do you say, the thing made by bees?”

“Asali,” I guessed, offering the Swahili word.
“Oh, yes, honey. And garlic. And ginger. And black pepper.”

“Garlic??” I asked, incredulous.
“Yes.”

“Really, garlic??”
“Just try it. This is a medicine taught to us by The Prophet. It will help you, Inshallah,” he responded solemnly.

Dubious, I hesitated before taking a spoonful and allowing it to slide down my throat, truthfully more afraid of the garlic than anything else.

Not bad, actually. Honey here has a kind of smoky aftertaste, but it wasn’t any more unpleasant than Robitussin.
I dutifully swallowed another spoonful.
And another.
And another.

“This will really help my pain here?” I asked, pointing to my chest. “And here?” clutching at my aching throat.
“Yes, Inshallah.”

“Have I taken enough?”
A grin widened across his face and dissolved into mock sympathy. “I suspect you have already overdosed. I myself only take two spoonfuls!”

“You know, you really must stop drinking cold water. That is not helping you. And neither is having this fan on.” With that pronouncement, he switched off the stand fan, the only modicum of relief I was feeling from the oppressively still, hot air in the room. Shekha and Zoela echoed their concerns about using the fan.

After I thanked my mganga (traditional healer) for the dawa, I was left to rest. Shekha felt my forehead and announced that she was taking me to the doctor the next morning if I still had a fever. She’s had more than her share of encounters with illness and death, and after she lost an mzungu colleague suddenly to malaria several years ago, she doesn’t take any chances anymore. Including drinking cold water or using fans when sick. It is amazing how both spiritual and physical causes and treatments for many illnesses are understood to be intrinsically bound, even as allopathic medicine use increases here.

I don’t know if it was the dawa or the NyQuil I took shortly thereafter, or the threat of going to the doctor, but I felt considerably better in the morning. I went back for more dawa the next night. And it worked.

Inshallah.