Picture an early 1800s Jamaican sugar plantation: inside a dimly lit cabin, a pregnant enslaved woman labors to bring new life into the world. At her side kneels an elderly Black midwife known as Nurse Flora. Flora arrives with a bundle of herbs, murmuring age-old charms passed down from her African and Creole elders.
Maria Nugent, the governor’s wife, observed and documented the work of midwives like Nurse Flora, describing how they arrived “with a cargo of herbs” and used traditional remedies and charms. Nugent’s writings offer a rare glimpse into the work of these midwives, whose presence and practices were both essential and misunderstood. When a white maid, alarmed by these unfamiliar rituals, snatches away Flora’s smoking lamp and charms, the moment reveals the deep unease and suspicion that colonial authorities felt toward Black midwives and their healing traditions.
This scene in that dimly lit cabin was not unusual. Across Jamaica, Black midwives—often called “doctresses” or “granny” midwives—were vital to both enslaved and free Black communities. In the 18th century, they amassed a vast knowledge of tropical diseases, acting almost as general practitioners among enslaved people. They drew on African botanical lore and local plants: boiling okra leaves or sesame (benne) pods into poultices or teas to reduce fevers and soothe sores. Over generations, enslaved women adapted their knowledge to new diseases and conditions in Jamaica, creating a rich folk medicine tradition.
These midwives not only delivered babies but tended fevers, eased pain, and protected infants with charms against illness. Indeed, some records suggest that by using such herbal remedies and strict hygiene, dedicated doctresses like Mary Seacole’s mother could boast of rarely losing “a mother or her child” to childbirth complications. Their practices extended beyond childbirth to include postpartum care, breastfeeding support, and spiritual rituals. They were often the only source of medical care for enslaved and free Black communities, as well as for poor whites and others who could not access or afford formal medical services.
Remarkably, a few of these midwives are known by name. Their stories stand out from the collective memory, offering glimpses into the lives of women who shaped Jamaican healing traditions.
Mary Seacole (1805–1881):
Perhaps the most celebrated Jamaican healer, Mary Seacole learned her craft from her mother and became renowned for her work as a nurse and doctress during the Crimean War. Before her international acclaim, Seacole practiced midwifery and herbal medicine in Jamaica, and proudly noted in her autobiography that she “never lost a mother or child under [her] care.” Her approach blended African, Caribbean, and European healing traditions, and her reputation extended across racial and class lines.[See article]
Mrs. Grant (Mary Seacole’s Mother):
Known as “The Doctress,” Mrs. Grant operated Blundell Hall, a respected boarding house and convalescent home in Kingston. She was famed for her expertise in herbal remedies and midwifery, serving both Black and white clients. Mrs. Grant’s skills and knowledge were instrumental in shaping her daughter’s path and in preserving African healing traditions in Jamaica.
Cubah Cornwallis, Sarah Adams, and Grace Donne:
These women were also recognized as leading “doctresses” in Jamaica during the late 18th and early 19th centuries. They were known for their mastery of folk medicine, use of herbs, and hygienic practices—often achieving better outcomes than European-trained doctors of their era. Their work laid important foundations for the island’s health traditions, but their stories are less documented and have largely faded from mainstream history.
Nurse Flora:
Though little is known about her, Nurse Flora is cited in historical records as a rare example of a Black medic working under slavery in Jamaica, further illustrating the breadth and depth of Black women’s healing roles.
Although most Granny midwives went unrecorded—often dismissed in documents as merely “an old Black woman”—the fact that any names survive is extraordinary. These women learned by apprenticeship or community tradition: tending plantation sickrooms, attending home births, and quietly saving lives each day. Their work—cutting umbilical cords, administering teas and baths, massaging mothers during labor—was the backbone of maternal care on the island.
Yet colonial authorities viewed this world with suspicion and fear. In 1760, after the great Tacky’s Rebellion, Jamaica’s assembly passed a sweeping slave code to prevent further uprisings. This included the first-ever Obeah law: it denounced “the wicked Art of Negroes…going under the appellation of Obeah Men and Women, pretending to have Communication with the Devil.” In plain terms, any African spiritual or healing practice could now be branded a capital crime. Under the act, a slave “pretending to any supernatural power”—say, casting a protective spell or healing charm—could “suffer death or Transportation.” Even mundane objects in a healer’s hut (blood, feathers, broken bottles, grave dirt, etc.) were listed in the law as evidence of Obeah. Essentially, any midwife’s herbal toolkit could be misconstrued as witchcraft.
These anti-Obeah statutes were ruthlessly enforced. Planters frequently accused Granny midwives of malice: if a baby died or a mother fell ill, the midwife’s rites could be twisted into evidence of infanticide or poison. For example, court reports from the era show enslaved women routinely charged with “practising Obeah” whenever they defied white medical authority or offered forbidden care. Even free Black women were not exempt. After emancipation (1834–38), new versions of the law kept Obeah illegal—the 1833 Vagrancy Act and an 1854 Obeah Act continued to forbid traditional healing. Historian Diana Paton observes that “Jamaicans were regularly prosecuted under the Obeah Act” for nearly two centuries; through the 1800s and into the 1900s even respectful herbalists and Christian Revivalist preachers faced arrest under its broad terms.
Under these draconian laws, many of Jamaica’s beloved midwives operated at constant risk: a neighbor’s accusation of a bad charm or a simply unfortunate outcome could mean the noose or prison for an otherwise kind healer. Colonial nurses and doctors recognized this legacy: even Florence Nightingale wrote (privately) that Jamaican doctresses “practised hygiene decades before Nightingale took up the mantle”—though this specific attribution should be treated with caution unless directly documented.
Yet despite persecution, these women endured. In rural Jamaican parishes, Granny midwives remained pillars of the community. Enslaved mothers recounted how, when “Buckra doctor no do you no good,” you turned to Aunties or Nannies you trusted in secret huts or fields. They rubbed leaves on welts, tied charms around waists for easy delivery, and cradled countless babies to safety. Their knowledge survived slavery’s end: in the years after 1838, freed Black families still relied on Granny midwives for homespun medical care.
The legacy of Black midwives and herbalists endures in Jamaican folk medicine, community health practices, and the resilience of Black women’s networks. Their holistic approach to care—encompassing physical, spiritual, and emotional well-being—has influenced contemporary models of maternal and community health. Today, there is a growing movement to reclaim and honor the contributions of these women. Scholars, activists, and descendants are working to document their stories and recognize their pivotal role in shaping Jamaica’s health traditions and cultural identity.
We may never know the full names or stories of all these women, but their impact is clear. In many cases, they were the only reason a mother or child lived. Today historians piece together their lives from scraps: a sketch here, a diary entry there. But the message is the same—these midwives and herbalists were guardian angels of survival in Jamaica. Underappreciated in their time, they provided love, skill, and courage at every birth and every illness. As one modern account puts it, if any honest commemoration of nursing is made today, it “must include an examination of healing traditions cultivated by African and indigenous peoples”—for it is in those traditions that Jamaica’s Black midwives built foundations of life against all odds.
Contemporary diaries, court records, and scholarly reconstructions vividly document these facts. Lady Maria Nugent’s diary (1802) records Nurse Flora’s birth ritual. Historians of medicine and slavery (such as Joanna Eggleston, Sasha Turner, Diana Paton, and others) have detailed the roles of Granny midwives and the Obeah laws that ensnared them. These sources confirm the tragic but heroic narrative of Jamaica’s Black midwives and herbalists.
