As the wind blows through the village, it carries something with it. It carries a vexatious distress cry. The voice is of a young child. “Booga! Booga!” he cries. He needs someone’s help. He needs the village.
The amicable village elders run towards the voice, carrying ladders, buckets, ropes, and blankets. Carrying anything that could be needed to help this child. “Booga! Booga!,” we hear. The voice is close. Where is it coming from?
Suddenly, we see him. He is lying on the forest ground, moaning and gasping for air. His body is covered with some sort of malady. His body is covered with a terrible rash, purple bruises, and green deformed spots. The sign of the nefarious plague. The elder’s scrutinize the surroundings, wondering if it is safe to approach this child. Everyone is loath to go near him, in fear that they may catch it, too. But this child needs help.
An astute older woman nears the child. Her wrinkled hands wrap around his gnarled body as he solicits her with his eyes for help. When she picks him up, she turns back to the tribe and speaks. “I am old. I will die soon, surely. This boy needs help; I shall see to his needs in hopes that he will gain strength. If I catch the disease, it won’t matter.” With that, she bravely carries him to her hut.
Tribesmen whisper to each other. There is talk that it is ineffectual to try and help the child. That he is most likely going to die in a week. Some whisper of the woman’s bravery. Risking her own life for another’s.
This is what a village should look like. The older looking out for the young, and the young looking out for the elders. It is the cycle of life. Everyone dies; If this woman is brave enough to fight for another’s life, then so should everyone else.
It take’s a whole village to raise a child. To advocate to them about what is right and what is wrong. To teach them that risking yourself for another is daring, yet brave. The children that saw this woman do this will teach them a life long lesson. It shall not be forgotten.