06/27/2025
“The Vulture Who Cried for the Ones Still Breathing”
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In the wide plains of Oba Oloko, where the grass rose tall and yellow and the sun never seemed to sleep, there lived a vulture named Eshe.
She flew high.
Alone.
Always alone.
The other birds kept their distance. Even the jackals whispered behind her wings.
“Here comes death,” they muttered.
“She must bring bad omens,” said the doves.
“She never laughs,” said the monkeys. “She watches too much.”
But Eshe was not cruel.
She was just…quiet.
She saw things others didn’t want to see. And she flew where others were too afraid to go—over battlefields, drought lands, and forgotten places where silence screamed louder than thunder.
She did not kill.
She only came after.
And that made her hated.
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One season, a great sickness spread through the southern forest. Animals died in numbers not seen before. The jackals and hyenas feasted. The crows cawed with wild joy.
But not Eshe.
She did what she always did cleaned what was left behind. Took the rot. Took the smell. Took the burden.
And flew away.
But this time, the forest animals had had enough.
The antelope stood tall.
“Vulture!” he shouted. “Why do you follow death?”
“You are the shadow that chases sorrow!” yelled the hare.
“You are the curse!” cried the leopard.
They gathered and banned her from flying above their trees. From perching on their rocks. From being seen in the daylight.
“You are not one of us,” they said.
“You belong to the dead.”
Eshe said nothing.
She turned her head once, then flew away.
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Up high in the lonely air, she wept.
But not for herself.
She wept for them.
For their fear.
For their misunderstanding.
For the way they judged her by her feathers and her silence, and not the work she did for them in return.
She wept because she knew someone had to carry the burden no one wanted.
Someone had to clean what was broken.
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Weeks passed.
Then came the Great Fire.
No one knew how it started. But it spread fast—fast enough that even the fastest animals couldn’t outrun it.
Smoke filled the air.
Nests burned.
The trees cried.
And the ground turned to ash.
The birds fled.
The animals scattered.
The forest fell silent.
When it was over, all that remained was charred earth and frightened hearts.
But high above, a shadow circled.
Eshe.
She returned not to feast.
But to clean.
To carry the smell of death away.
To help restore what could be saved.
She gathered scorched feathers and dropped them into the river.
She cleared dead carcasses so flies wouldn’t breed disease.
She flew from hill to hill, checking where help was needed.
And she did not stop.
Not for praise.
Not for forgiveness.
Just because it had to be done.
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The animals watched.
Ash-covered and humbled.
They had seen the truth.
She was not a curse.
She was a keeper.
A quiet healer.
A reminder that sometimes, the ugliest roles are the most necessary.
They approached her slowly.
“We judged you,” said the tortoise. “But we did not understand you.”
Eshe blinked.
“I do not need your apology,” she said.
“But I accept your sight.”
And with that, she flew off again.
Back into the sun.
Back into the wind.
Not for recognition.
Just to carry what others couldn’t.
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Moral Lessons:
1. Do not judge those who carry burdens you do not understand.
2. Sometimes, the quietest work is the most important.
3. It is easy to condemn what you do not see clearly. Compassion begins with understanding.
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