A Childhood Memory of Folk Medicine and Maternal Love

 

When I was seven or eight, I encountered a folk remedy that had been passed down for generations. It was a different time—one where survival meant relying on what was available. People were honest, hardworking, and deeply connected to their families and neighbors, sharing what they had and supporting each other in times of need.

Our home sat on sturdy concrete pillars, creating an open space underneath, perfect for childhood games. The warmth of the day was offset by the cool breeze swirling between the pillars. Construction was underway nearby, and we had been cautioned about the hazards. But children rarely think twice about danger when wrapped in the thrill of play.

During a game of hide-and-seek, I slipped behind a pillar where an old barrel stood, thinking I had found the perfect hiding spot. But as I moved, I stepped on a rusty nail, its jagged point piercing my heel through a forgotten piece of wood. At first, I thought little of it—childhood resilience had me convinced the pain would fade. So, I said nothing and went on with my day.

As the hours passed, discomfort turned to agony. By evening, I limped noticeably, drawing my mother’s attention. With gentle yet urgent concern, she asked what had happened. I told her, and she immediately inspected the wound. The infection was setting in, and she knew action had to be swift.

What followed was something I will never forget. My mother, calm and deliberate, reached for a clove of garlic, pressing it carefully. Then, she took a piece of cotton, soaking it in kerosene oil from the lamp. As I watched in silent curiosity, she did something entirely unexpected—she found a cockroach. Without hesitation, she cut it open and placed the garlic and cotton inside its exposed belly. Then, with remarkable composure, she laid the strange mixture over my wound and bandaged it.

She reassured me with words so steady that I found no fear in the oddity of her actions. “You’ll be fine by morning,” she said, sending me off to bed. That night, I slept soundly, the pain gone. And in the morning, true to her word, I was healed—no infection, no pain, no limp.

It was a different era, one where necessity shaped action, and wisdom passed down through generations formed solutions for survival. My mother loved deeply and would do anything for her children. This moment, forever etched in memory, reminds me of her strength and unwavering care—a quiet testament to the lengths a mother would go for her child.