Far from tall buildings, paved roads, and glowing cities, there was a village where the earth still spoke to the people—and the people listened.
The village rested beneath a wide African sky, where the sun rose strong and honest each morning and fell gently into fire-colored evenings. Homes were built from clay and wood, shaped by hands that knew the land. Their walls were formed from mud mixed by hand and hardened beneath the sun. Roofs were woven from dry grass and palm, layered thick to keep out rain and heat.
The huts stood close together, not from carelessness, but from community. No family lived alone. Paths of red earth curved between the homes, leading to a shared well where voices gathered at dawn and dusk. Children moved freely from doorway to doorway. Elders sat in the shade, watching life pass.
When the wind moved through the village, the huts whispered to one another like old friends.
There was no hospital here. No machines that beeped or doors that slid open. When people were sick, they did not travel far or wait in white rooms. Healing came from the ground itself.
Leaves were crushed into pastes. Roots were boiled into bitter drinks. Bark was ground into powder.
And ashes were sacred.
Ashes from wood and charcoal were never treated as waste. They were medicine. Mixed with water, they eased pain. Rubbed gently on swollen skin, they calmed the body. Taken in careful amounts, they helped the stomach and the blood. Spread near sleeping mats, they kept insects away.
Ash was proof that even after fire, something useful remained.
This was a place where nothing was useless, not even what had burned.