Story 7: The Rope That Held Everyone
This story comes from a small riverside village in Ghana, where people believed that no task was meant for one person alone.
In that village lived a boy named Kojo. Kojo was strong for his age, and he knew it. Whenever work needed to be done—lifting baskets, pulling fishing nets, carrying heavy water pots—Kojo stepped forward first.
“I can do it,” he always said.
One rainy season, the river rose higher than usual. The old wooden bridge that connected the village to the farms weakened day by day. One morning, the final rope snapped, and the bridge fell into the water.
Without the bridge, food could not reach the village.
The elders gathered and decided to build a new one.
Kojo rushed ahead and grabbed the thick rope. He pulled with all his strength. His feet slipped in the mud. The rope did not move.
People watched quietly.
An old woman called out gently,
“Kojo, call us.”
Kojo paused. For the first time, he felt unsure. Slowly, he nodded.
Children came first. Then parents. Then elders. Small hands held the rope beside strong ones. Some pulled. Some steadied. Some guided.
Together, they pulled.
The rope stretched across the river. The bridge took shape plank by plank. By sunset, people crossed safely again.
Kojo wiped the mud from his hands and smiled.
Strength, he learned, does not disappear when shared.
It grows.
Moral woven gently into the story:
What one hand cannot hold, many hands can.
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