Don’t they know that cholera still lives in the soil, and that mangoes picked up from the dirt can spread that plague?

In the wee hours of the morning, my familiar “thump, thump, thump” wakes even the roosters and goats before the sun peeks over the horizon.

Every day he scooped up the ash leftover from a dung fire and rubbed it on my horns and spread it all over my hide to keep away the biting insects.

We are no longer instruments of brutality. We are things of beauty! Who could have imagined such a transformation?

My existence is itself a contradiction. Built by men who waged war for a living. Built to shield children from death by that same war.

It begins with an incision from a thorn or knife. Then the raw cut is rubbed with ash or plant juices to further irritate the skin. The healed skin forms me, a raised scar.

No wonder I am the most popular weapon in the whole world: 70 million of us are now being used in over 90 countries. Impressive, right?

She made me perfect for welcoming slivers of bright sunshine while keeping out the dangers that lurk. Have you not seen?