MY FLING WITH MORINGA began with a man named Mustapha, who planted hundreds of these trees on his farm and waxed poetic about their healing powers as a superfood that grew abundantly—and quite quickly—on the islands.
When we were dating, we often rambled over to the farms in his pick-up truck, which he drove in bare feet with the windows down and the radio blasting slow reggae. I felt like a queen by his side and let the setting sun soothe me as the car flung me into the side door while we dodged big dips in the scraggly dirt road.
I was falling in love with Mustapha, and he was falling in love with moringa, so I loved moringa, too. The workers he’d hired to harvest the leaves would hand us enormous bundles, and we’d take them back to the lodge, where the cooks agreed to pulverize them into a fine powder—in the hours between lunch and dinner, when the kitchen counters were cleared of dirty dishes and transformed into a superfood lab.
The cooks experimented with all kinds of moringa recipes. I’d take sips of cold moringa-infused fruit smoothies and swear by the electric boost they gave me, slurping up the last drops of passionfruit and pineapple to wash it all down. Mustapha believed in the miracle of moringa as a healing plant, and I threw myself into its story, writing pitches to magazines and promoting it to organic groceries back home.
The tree is truly miraculous—it’s one of the fastest-growing trees on the planet and produces nutrient-rich, vitamin-dense leaves with an earthy, nutty flavor. Some say the leaves contain seven times the vitamin C found in oranges and twenty-five times more iron than spinach.
Mustapha and I got hooked on these fruit smoothies—we loved that morning moringa buzz, like caffeine without the jitters or heart palpitations. The lodge eventually put moringa smoothies on the menu, and guests seemed to love them.
When I flew back to Chicago in 2017, I thought I’d return right away. But my mom was slowly dying, and my family needed me, and I needed to stay still and stay put for a second. Still, while I was back home, I remained obsessed with the miracle of moringa and insisted that Mustapha and his friend Omi send me moringa powder to peddle in the US.
Mind you, this was before moringa went mainstream—it was still pretty fringe, and I felt compelled to preach the moringa gospel.
While renting a condo in Logan Square, I received an enormous package in the mail—nearly five pounds of pounded moringa in plastic bags that had torn open, spilling green powder everywhere.
Somehow, it felt like a miracle that moringa had arrived at all.
When we were dating, we often rambled over to the farms in his pick-up truck, which he drove in bare feet with the windows down and the radio blasting slow reggae. I felt like a queen by his side and let the setting sun soothe me as the car flung me into the side door while we dodged big dips in the scraggly dirt road.
I was falling in love with Mustapha, and he was falling in love with moringa, so I loved moringa, too. The workers he’d hired to harvest the leaves would hand us enormous bundles, and we’d take them back to the lodge, where the cooks agreed to pulverize them into a fine powder—in the hours between lunch and dinner, when the kitchen counters were cleared of dirty dishes and transformed into a superfood lab.
The cooks experimented with all kinds of moringa recipes. I’d take sips of cold moringa-infused fruit smoothies and swear by the electric boost they gave me, slurping up the last drops of passionfruit and pineapple to wash it all down. Mustapha believed in the miracle of moringa as a healing plant, and I threw myself into its story, writing pitches to magazines and promoting it to organic groceries back home.
The tree is truly miraculous—it’s one of the fastest-growing trees on the planet and produces nutrient-rich, vitamin-dense leaves with an earthy, nutty flavor. Some say the leaves contain seven times the vitamin C found in oranges and twenty-five times more iron than spinach.
Mustapha and I got hooked on these fruit smoothies—we loved that morning moringa buzz, like caffeine without the jitters or heart palpitations. The lodge eventually put moringa smoothies on the menu, and guests seemed to love them.
When I flew back to Chicago in 2017, I thought I’d return right away. But my mom was slowly dying, and my family needed me, and I needed to stay still and stay put for a second. Still, while I was back home, I remained obsessed with the miracle of moringa and insisted that Mustapha and his friend Omi send me moringa powder to peddle in the US.
Mind you, this was before moringa went mainstream—it was still pretty fringe, and I felt compelled to preach the moringa gospel.
While renting a condo in Logan Square, I received an enormous package in the mail—nearly five pounds of pounded moringa in plastic bags that had torn open, spilling green powder everywhere.
Somehow, it felt like a miracle that moringa had arrived at all.
I ran to the American Science & Surplus store and picked up cheap glass bottles with lids. I spent several afternoons and evenings scooping the powder into small jars and trying to sell it to friends and family, complete with a handy one-pager I'd composed highlighting all its healing benefits.
What a time to be alive—dealing in the miracle of moringa while my mother was dying and I was trekking between two very different worlds.
"How cool would it be to offer fresh, organic moringa at a reasonable cost, straight from the island of Zanzibar, in small batches approved and inspected by all the necessary authorities?"
I sent emails with questions like this to local grocers and cafés.
I genuinely believed there might be a future importing small batches of organic moringa directly from Zanzibar. I pictured cafés, health-food stores, even farmers markets. It held the promise of keeping one foot in the life I thought I'd return to.
When I read those emails now, I barely recognize myself, but I still love her. I sense myself trying desperately to hold onto the miracle of moringa and the miracle of finding meaning in the man I was loving at a time when my mom was disappearing and I had no idea how I would ever find my way back home again.
I even spent an afternoon touting moringa’s benefits at a local co-op kind enough to entertain its value. I still feel thankful to the young woman with long dreadlocks and a pungent patchouli smell for taking me seriously and eagerly responding to my emails labeled, "Moringa Magic!"
Nothing ever came of it, but the encounter reassured me that wherever there’s an idea and energy behind it, there are people willing to encourage it.
Moringa’s everywhere now. Smoothies. Pasta. Lotions. Potions. You can buy it online and at your local organic grocery—or wherever you buy your healing supplies. It’s gratifying to see its benefits become more visible to the wider world, even though local people have always known about this magical tree.
Mustapha and I were never cut out to become moringa dealers, after all. He’d hired twelve families to work on his farms on the southeast coast, and the arrangements he made with them—mostly young families from the mainland—never made sense to me. Was this sustainable?
I always felt uneasy when we visited. I’d ask too many questions: Where exactly did everyone sleep? Where did the kids go to school while their parents worked in the fields?
But it wasn’t just the farms or my feelings about them. I was stuck between worlds and needed to find my way home, to plant roots of my own. I was never going to figure out how to import magical moringa powder or invent new reasons to fly back and forth across the world for it—or for Mustapha.
I miss moringa, but I’m not jonesing for it the way I used to—or believed I was—at the height of my obsession. It did help my headaches, though, and I’m thinking about ordering a packet online just to see if it might boomerang me back to that old moringa buzz—and my belief in miracles.
What a time to be alive—dealing in the miracle of moringa while my mother was dying and I was trekking between two very different worlds.
"How cool would it be to offer fresh, organic moringa at a reasonable cost, straight from the island of Zanzibar, in small batches approved and inspected by all the necessary authorities?"
I sent emails with questions like this to local grocers and cafés.
I genuinely believed there might be a future importing small batches of organic moringa directly from Zanzibar. I pictured cafés, health-food stores, even farmers markets. It held the promise of keeping one foot in the life I thought I'd return to.
When I read those emails now, I barely recognize myself, but I still love her. I sense myself trying desperately to hold onto the miracle of moringa and the miracle of finding meaning in the man I was loving at a time when my mom was disappearing and I had no idea how I would ever find my way back home again.
I even spent an afternoon touting moringa’s benefits at a local co-op kind enough to entertain its value. I still feel thankful to the young woman with long dreadlocks and a pungent patchouli smell for taking me seriously and eagerly responding to my emails labeled, "Moringa Magic!"
Nothing ever came of it, but the encounter reassured me that wherever there’s an idea and energy behind it, there are people willing to encourage it.
Moringa’s everywhere now. Smoothies. Pasta. Lotions. Potions. You can buy it online and at your local organic grocery—or wherever you buy your healing supplies. It’s gratifying to see its benefits become more visible to the wider world, even though local people have always known about this magical tree.
Mustapha and I were never cut out to become moringa dealers, after all. He’d hired twelve families to work on his farms on the southeast coast, and the arrangements he made with them—mostly young families from the mainland—never made sense to me. Was this sustainable?
I always felt uneasy when we visited. I’d ask too many questions: Where exactly did everyone sleep? Where did the kids go to school while their parents worked in the fields?
But it wasn’t just the farms or my feelings about them. I was stuck between worlds and needed to find my way home, to plant roots of my own. I was never going to figure out how to import magical moringa powder or invent new reasons to fly back and forth across the world for it—or for Mustapha.
I miss moringa, but I’m not jonesing for it the way I used to—or believed I was—at the height of my obsession. It did help my headaches, though, and I’m thinking about ordering a packet online just to see if it might boomerang me back to that old moringa buzz—and my belief in miracles.
