"The first time, very very first time I see that, I'm scared," Hassanatu admits, remembering her earliest experiences with birth work. "Lots of, you know, the blood and the baby..." Her voice trails off, but her hands keep moving, demonstrating how she positions mothers now, how she guides new life into the world.

She leans forward, her voice urgent as she explains why she shares her story: "Women need to know. This silence around our health problems - it's dangerous. We must speak up. Even if it's difficult, we must warn others so they don't walk this same hard path."

She speaks with urgency about breaking silences. "We don't talk about our bodies with our mothers or sisters. We don't dare. But look how good it feels to share these stories. Other women need this too - they just can't get it yet."

When her child fell ill, she found herself alone. "When I called him, my child was sick. My mum refused to comment. I was in this problem." Then came 2023's devastating blow. "I lost my child," she says, her voice dropping. "I cried. I cried. I lost hope."

When asked to introduce herself, Dr. Wurie's response reveals the heart of her practice: "I am Frances. Named after my grandmother, my maternal grandmother. The eldest of my family, the children in my family. I'm a sister. I'm a daughter. I'm a mother. I'm a friend. I'm a nurturer. I want the best for people."

"At the age of twenty-five, I wanted to have a baby," Mariama Kamara begins, her voice carrying the weight of years spent waiting, hoping, trying. The first doctor's verdict landed like a stone: "Your cervix was too small." What followed was a maze of fertility drugs, procedures, and endless waiting – three years of her body refusing to follow the expected path.

This journey has brought her home to herself, though home looks different now. "I'm not there totally," she reflects. "I'd probably be there like 90% at this point but I probably would never be there totally anymore. But I can confidently say we've come home somehow, and home is a bit different now but it's still home."

Her brush with death shapes her vision for women's healthcare. "No woman should die of any condition related to women's business, especially gynecological problems," she states firmly. "I want women to have facility to be tested, at least for free. To know their condition before it leads to death or trauma."

"Last Friday was the first time I said it out loud in public – I no longer have a uterus." Ariana speaks these words with quiet strength, ready at last to share the story of her womb. A story that began with joy at age ten, twisted through years of excruciating pain, and led her finally to radical acceptance.

"I'm not afraid of anything. That's why my grandmother was so like me," Aunty Mummy declares, her voice carrying over the afternoon birdsong. We sit outside under a canopy's shade, surrounded by the quiet presence of abandoned buildings with their empty doorways and worn stairs. Tall grass sways in the breeze, and native plants push through the cracks in old concrete, nature slowly reclaiming its space.

At twelve, a missed period taught Mamawa Kaikai her first lesson in fear. "What did you do?" her aunt demanded, dragging her to church for prayers. No one suggested medical help. Years of "spiritual deposits" and pastors' hands followed before she finally found a different kind of healing – in feminist theory and radical self-acceptance.

"Today I feel like a real African woman, a strong Black African woman," Isata proclaims, her pride radiating as she smooths her traditional attire. The beauty she carries flows from generations of wisdom passed through her hands.