A plague was ravaging a tiny village in the outermost bush of a remote African province. A lone missionary, a doctor who had given his life to fighting this particular disease, had gone in with the only cure available. It was made from plants indigenous to the region and could quite easily be reproduced by the villagers themselves just by taking some of the leaves and mixing it with some herbs & spices. When he went in, he found that there wasn’t a single person in the village who was free of the disease. They all had it and were dying at an alarming rate.
Characteristic of the disease was a rash on the back of the neck. All he had to do was treat the rash with the medication and the people could be healed… but he couldn’t get anybody to let him give them the medication. Despite the fact that people were dying… nobody realized that they were sick. They all had the same rash. There wasn’t anything unusual about it. Since everybody had the same markings on their necks, they just assumed it was normal and nobody realized any different. Nobody realized it was killing them.
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