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This piece traces Centella asiatica through its Malagasy name, Talapetraka, and the 50,000 women who harvest it by hand each season along the riversides and rice fields of Madagascar. Before it became a global skincare trend, it was and still is stirred into rice, brewed into tea, and pressed onto wounds. It was ordinary in the best possible way. Today it is in over 150,000 products worldwide, at the center of a multi-billion dollar industry built on its healing compounds. The women who pick the leaf that makes it possible often earn below the Malagasy minimum wage. This is not a story about one bad company. It is a story about a structure, one that has always known how to steal knowledge, translate it, and leave the name behind.

This piece traces the marula tree (Sclerocarya birrea) through ceremony, landscape, and extraction. From the First Fruits festivals of the Zulu and Tsonga, to the women who crack the kernel and press the oil by hand each harvest season, the marula has long been a tree that marks time and holds community together in southern Africa. Long before it appeared in a glass bottle with a colorful cap, it was a marriage tree, a medicinal tree, a provider. Its fruit a source of vitamin C and nourishment, its oil a practice of care passed through hands and seasons.

Today, marula oil occupies a prominent place in global skincare. A star ingredient in brands sold at $72 a bottle, built on a myth about drunk elephants, named without ceremony. This shift raises questions about whose story travels when a plant does. As the oil crosses oceans, the rituals, the women, and the 10,000 years of relationship that shaped it tend to stay behind. The marula becomes a way to think about what extraction looks like when it is called luxury, and what it would mean to let the relationship ripen before reaching for the fruit.

In this episode, we follow frankincense, a resin drawn from a small group of Boswellia trees in the Burseraceae family, growing across the Horn of Africa and the Arabian Peninsula. These trees thrive in rocky escarpments and dry Acacia woodlands where survival itself seems improbable, sometimes rooting directly into solid stone. In Ethiopia, one of the most valued species is Boswellia papyrifera, recognized by its flaking aromatic bark, compound leaves with serrated leaflets, and clusters of pale pink-white flowers that bloom before the leaves appear. Frankincense is not gathered passively. Harvesters wound the trunk deeply, forcing the tree to produce a milky sap that hardens into tear-shaped resin, much like a scab forming over human skin. Every stage of harvesting carries its own terminology, with resin collected in cycles over several weeks, beginning with the clearest and purest grades before gradually becoming darker and more bark-infused.

Its history stretches across some of the oldest trade routes in the world. Frankincense and myrrh moved through maritime and caravan networks linking northern Somalia, Ethiopia, Oman, and the Fertile Crescent, forming what became known as the incense trade routes. Some historians consider frankincense among the first substances traded on a near-global scale. Its significance appears repeatedly throughout history, from Ancient Egyptian rituals and embalming practices to the gifts presented to Jesus by the three wise men. The resin was burned to perfume temples, homes, and clothing, while charred forms of aromatic resins were also incorporated into cosmetics such as kohl, the dark eye pigment associated with ancient Egyptian beauty practices. Later, the Roman Catholic Church adopted frankincense extensively in liturgical ceremonies, a practice that continues today.

Across these histories, frankincense moves between ritual, medicine, and commerce. The resin is still burned as incense, while its essential oil is used in perfumes, aromatherapy, and traditional healing practices. In Ethiopia, the resin may be chewed to strengthen gums, ingested for digestive ailments, applied to wounds, or inhaled to ease bronchitis. Many of these uses are tied to boswellic acids, compounds associated with anti-inflammatory effects. Yet the growing global demand for frankincense oil and resin has intensified harvesting beyond sustainable levels. Although some scientists argue the trees should only be tapped a few times annually, harvesting often occurs far more aggressively, leaving the species increasingly vulnerable. As the market for frankincense continues to expand, the balance between economic value and ecological survival grows more fragile.

In this episode, we follow the common poppy, Papaver rhoeas, a plant often mistaken for its more potent relative, Papaver somniferum. Unlike the opium poppy, it is smaller and more delicate, with bristly stems, jagged leaves, and thin, scarlet petals that bloom briefly before falling away. It thrives in disturbed soils, roadsides, fields, and margins, appearing where the land has been unsettled. This tendency became especially visible after World War I, when it spread across battlefields, becoming the enduring “Flanders poppy,” a symbol of remembrance.

Its story, however, reaches much further back. Poppies appear in the Ebers Papyrus of Ancient Egypt, linking the plant to early traditions of healing and care. While those records are often associated with the opium poppy, they reflect a broader recognition of the genus as a source of soothing and sedative properties. In contrast to its stronger relative, the common poppy has long been used in beauty rituals.

Particularly in Morocco through aker fassi, a red powder made from poppy petals and pomegranate bark. Here, the flower is transformed and used for various forms of care. Across these uses, the common poppy moves between field, medicine, and beauty, showing how even the most delicate plants can carry enduring forms of knowledge and care.

Mentioned links:

A guide to Morrocan rituals

In this piece we explore palm oil as more than a controversial commodity. It becomes a lens to examine environmental narratives, and the tension between individual responsibility and systemic change. From childhood lessons tied to Earth Day to present-day reflections eco-anxiety, the story questions how environmental action has been framed and what has been overlooked.

Through palm oil, the text contrasts two parallel realities. One is industrial production shaped by colonial histories, deforestation, and global profit. The other is traditional African practices rooted in culture, and community use. What is often treated as a single harmful product is revealed to have multiple identities, depending on how and where it is produced.

Tracing the plant’s movement from West and Central Africa to Southeast Asia, the piece highlights how control over land, labor, and resources shifted over time, reshaping both ecosystems and local autonomy. At the same time, it re-centers the oil palm as a versatile and nourishing plant, integral to food, medicine, and craft traditions such as African black soap.

As global narratives simplify palm oil into a symbol of environmental harm, this piece asks what is lost in that framing. It invites a more layered understanding, one that holds both accountability for large-scale systems and respect for localized knowledge, and questions whether collective action can move beyond the limits of individual choice.

This piece traces moringa (Moringa oleifera) through memory, geography, and use. From childhood remedies in West Africa to meals shared in Mali and everyday dishes in South India, moringa appears as a constant yet evolving presence. Long before it was labeled a superfood, it functioned as nourishment, medicine, and a practical response to drought and scarcity.

The tree’s resilience and versatility have allowed it to travel widely, adapting to new environments while maintaining its role in local food systems. Every part of the plant is used, from nutrient-rich leaves to oil-producing seeds, reflecting a deep relationship between people and plant. Today, moringa occupies a new space in global markets, valued for its nutritional and cosmetic properties.

This shift raises questions about origin, ownership, and attention. As one variety becomes dominant in cultivation and commerce, others risk being overlooked. Moringa becomes a way to think about how knowledge moves, how plants are rebranded, and what is lost or preserved in the process.

In this episode we explore the argan tree as more than a resource. It is a keystone species that shapes an entire ecosystem and way of life in southwestern Morocco. Within the Arganeraie Biosphere Reserve, ecological resilience, women-led labor, and ancestral knowledge come together through the production of argan oil. From ancient seed storage systems to modern extraction practices, the story shows how biodiversity, culture, and economy are deeply connected. As global demand grows, the argan tree becomes a lens to question sustainability, ownership, and whether protection efforts can keep pace with success.

In this episode, we follow the castor plant, first encountered not in its expected homelands, but on a quiet hill in Bordeaux. From that moment, a single plant opens into a story that stretches across continents, histories, and ways of knowing. With its striking, hand-shaped leaves and spiny seed pods, the castor plant is as visually arresting as it is complex.

We trace its origins to regions across Africa and Asia, with deep roots in ancient Egypt, where its presence in early medical texts and burial sites signals both utility and reverence. From there, the plant travels, carried through trade, migration, and enslaved peoples, embedding itself in new landscapes and traditions.

At the center of this story is transformation. The same seeds that contain ricin, one of the most toxic natural substances, are also the source of castor oil, a substance used for centuries to heal, nourish, and sustain. We explore how different processing methods, from cold pressing to the roasting techniques behind Jamaican black castor oil, turn something dangerous into something beneficial.

Alongside its medicinal and cosmetic uses, castor oil has played roles in industry, energy, and global trade. But its journey is also deeply human, tied to the movement of knowledge across the Atlantic, where enslaved Africans carried with them not just seeds, but practices of care and survival.

Before it became a skincare staple, qasil came from the gob tree, Ziziphus spina-christi.

In this episode, we explore the Gob tree in Somalia, known sidr in the Arab world, a plant rooted in East Africa but carried across continents, climates, and cultures. Growing in dry, arid landscapes, this thorny, resilient tree has long provided more than just shade: its fruit nourishes, its wood sustains, and its leaves transform into qasil, a gentle yet powerful cleansing ritual.

We trace how qasil is made and used, from daily skincare practices to bridal preparation, where it symbolizes purification and care. Alongside its practical uses, the tree holds deeper meaning. It appears in Christian narratives, Islamic traditions of healing, and African rituals marking both beginnings and endings.

It’s the story of a tree that exists across geographies and beliefs.

In this episode, we follow henna as adornment. We look at early records from the Andalusian geographer al-Bakri, trace how the plant may have traveled through Amazigh and Tuareg communities, and explore the many names it carries across languages.

Henna’s story does not live only in written documents. It travels through oral traditions, through hands that grind leaves into paste, and through communities that have used it for healing.

For centuries, the henna plant has also been part of beautification rituals across North and West Africa. From medieval trade cities in Mauritania and Niger to wedding celebrations in Mali and Eid festivities across the Sahel, henna marks life’s important moments.

We also sit with the ritual itself. The slow process of applying henna. The geometric patterns created with tape in West African traditions. The waiting. The cooling paste. The deep maroon stain that appears hours later.

Along the way, I share my own experience receiving henna at my cousin’s wedding and reflect on how traditional practices are changing in a faster world, where chemical henna often replaces the slower methods that once defined the ritual.

Join us as we unpack beauty, patience, celebration, and the small moments of stillness that plants sometimes give us.

Some sources:

Lalle, Anella, and Fudden: Henna in West Africa

The Sacred Malian Henna Ceremony That Signifies the Transition From Girl to Woman