Mothers of the Underground
By Tanatswa Taruvinga
Being high can feel maternal. In some instances, smoke can feel like a warm mother’s hug, coaxing you into calmness and, at other times, giving you the little kick you need to get active. Either way, women have been at the forefront of making cannabis available for everyone for a very long time, and as we enjoy a good smoke, we need to remember who the mothers of marijuana truly are.
The scent of herbs in the air carries more than just notes of earth and fire; it holds memory, rebellion, and healing. And behind the smoke, behind the herb, is the fierce, powerful, unrelenting legacy of women, Southern African women, who have fought and continue to fight for the rightful place of cannabis in our societies. Women who have turned whispers in the village into bold declarations in the courtroom, who’ve nursed patients with tinctures while nursing dreams of a freer world.
Myrtle Clarke, known as half of the Dagga Couple. But Myrtle is more than half. She is a full-force movement on her own. In 2010, after she and her partner Julian Stobbs were arrested for possession. They didn’t apologise. They didn’t cower. They sued the South African government. The case, dubbed the “Trial of the Plant,” became a defining moment in the country’s relationship with cannabis. Myrtle co-founded Fields of Green for ALL, an organisation advocating not just for legalisation but for fairness, accessibility, and the protection of traditional growers. Even after Julian’s tragic death, Myrtle didn’t stop. She is still marching, still planting and still standing.
Dr. Shiksha Gallow is a woman in medicine and a woman of vision. In a system that still treats cannabis with suspicion, she dared to speak in the language that gatekeepers understand: science, research, and healing. Based in East London, Dr. Gallow prescribes medicinal cannabis to patients, offering an alternative grounded in compassion and evidence. Her advocacy isn’t just about products and policy; it’s about dignity.
A name that carries a softness is Sister Vee Nohombile. A nurse, a teacher, an educator of the highest order. Her work is rooted in ancestral knowledge, and her message is always clear: cannabis is the human companion plant. Through workshops, writings, and community outreach, she is redefining what it means to be a healer in today’s South Africa.
Kelly McQue stands as another light. A cancer survivor who turned to cannabis in her healing journey, she is now a powerful advocate for its therapeutic uses. Kelly authored “At Home With Cannabis,” a guidebook for those looking to understand and safely use the plant for health and wellness. But her work isn’t only practical, it’s poetic. She brings a soft yet assertive femininity to the movement, reminding us that healing is personal, political, and profoundly spiritual.
Louise Maxwell, as the founder of the “Women of Weed” events in South Africa, has created platforms where cannabis and culture meet with purpose. Her events are not just markets or expos; they are spaces of learning, sharing, and decolonial celebration. She brings women together across backgrounds to reclaim the herb and demand visibility in the industry.
Nthabiseng Likotsi, through LIKOTSI Botanicals, champions high-quality, locally produced cannabis products rooted in African wellness traditions. She emphasises sustainability and slow living, pushing back against the capitalist rush to commodify the plant. Her work is gentle but firm, grounded but innovative. She is crafting a future where cannabis is not only legal but also ethical.
In the hills and villages of the Eastern Cape, women like Philasande Mahlakata are organising rural growers who have cultivated cannabis for generations. As part of the uMziMvubu Farmers Support Network, Philasande works directly with small-scale farmers, many of them women, to ensure that their voices are heard in policy-making spaces. These women are the real backbone of the cannabis economy, even if they rarely make headlines. They dry, trim, grind, and brew. They pray over their fields. They fight to protect not just crops but entire ways of life.
And then there are the sangomas.
Traditional healers like Zanele Mazibuko and Greek Zweni have long held the herb as sacred. Cannabis is not a trend to them; it’s a tool of divination, a medicine of the ancestors, a bridge between the spiritual and the physical. These women push for legalisation not from a place of profit but from a place of cultural preservation. They are some of the loudest voices calling for a cannabis policy that acknowledges indigenous wisdom and protects sacred knowledge.
These women aren’t just fighting for legalisation. They’re fighting for justice. For access. For economic freedom. For respect. Because cannabis in Southern Africa isn’t new, it isn’t foreign. It’s not even controversial. What is controversial is how colonial governments criminalised it, how they turned a grandmother’s cure into contraband, and how they locked up people for growing what their ancestors once used to bless newborns.
To legalise cannabis without recognising these women is to plant seeds in infertile soil. It is to inhale without exhaling gratitude.
Every joint rolled, every tea steeped, every balm rubbed into a tired back; somewhere along that chain is a woman: a mother, a sister, a friend, a fighter. We need to remember their names. We need to support their work. We need to buy from their farms, attend their talks, and offer financial support to the causes they champion, whether it’s for social justice, sustainable cultivation, or healing practices. And most importantly, we need to tell their stories so that their legacies grow alongside the plants they cultivate.
Because legal shifts—those inked signatures on government documents—can happen overnight. But transforming the deeper fabric of society requires memory, respect, and intention. Culture lives in the collective consciousness, passed down through shared narratives and rituals. Cannabis culture, in particular, is about heritage, resilience, and reclamation.
So, the next time you take that deep drag and feel that warmth settle, remember this: you’re inhaling more than smoke—you’re breathing in the hopes, the strength, and the prayers of the women who paved the way. Their courage lingers in the air, a reminder that every inhale connects you to a lineage of fighters and nurturers. A small act of gratitude, a silent toast to the women whose hands and hearts built this world for us to enjoy.