Anansi and the Pot of Wisdom

A large clay pot, its mouth sealed with several layers of tightly woven dry leaves, then bound hard with forest vine until not a single crack let anything through. The pot was strangely heavy for its size. It was as if the inside held neither earth nor water, but something invisible, pressed down layer upon layer. The one carrying that pot through the forest, walking with heavy steps, was Father Anansi. And what he held so tightly against his chest was no treasure at all. It was all the wisdom of the human race.

The story had begun many months before. The Akan people of Ghana still tell how, long ago, Father Anansi held all the wisdom in the world. Every day people came to him for advice, and he shared out wisdom to each person, each household, each village. Yet one day, someone in the land spoke carelessly and offended him, and his feelings were hurt. The words struck right at his pride. He sulked. He fumed. Then, in that bad mood, a greedy thought crept into his head. If people did not know how to value the wisdom he had given them, he would take it all back. He would keep it for himself and share it with no one ever again.

No sooner thought than done: Anansi set off at once. He went from village to village, across streams and through forests, to the farthest places where anyone had once received his wisdom. Wherever he went, he quietly took back exactly the share he had given, leaving not a single speck behind. He kept going like this, day after day. What he carried grew heavier and heavier, until he had to keep shifting it from one arm to the other.

When the gathering was done, Anansi found a very large clay pot and poured all the wisdom inside. He tore up dry leaves and wove them into a thick stopper, which he pushed hard into the mouth of the pot. Then he wound several turns of forest vine around it. He tied a knot. He tugged it to be sure. He wound one more turn, just for peace of mind. Inside the pot now lay all the wisdom in the world, gathered in one place and sealed tight, with not a single crack for any of it to slip out. Anansi looked at the pot and nodded, pleased. Now no one could ever take it back. He alone held all of it in his hands.

But where to keep the pot safe was the hard part. Anansi walked all over the forest, gazing up at one tree after another. At last he stopped before an ancient tree that rose far above all those around it. Its trunk was smooth, its branches high overhead, and it looked like the hardest tree to climb in the whole region. This is the one, Anansi thought. If he hung the pot at the very top of that tree, no one, however good a climber, could ever reach it. He tied a long cord to the neck of the pot and slung the cord over his shoulder. That left the pot swinging right in front of his chest. Then he wrapped his arms around the trunk and began to climb.

But after only a few moves, the swinging pot jerked up and knocked him right on the chin, giving him a terrible start. Anansi let go without thinking. His whole body slid down with a long scrape, belly pressed flat against the bark, and dropped straight to the foot of the tree like a falling sack. He lay sprawled on the ground for a while and brushed a few dry leaves out of his hair. Then he scrambled to his feet and climbed again.

This time he got a little higher, but the moment he inched upward, the pot swung back and forth again, thumping against both his knees, and he cried out in surprise. His hands groped about and brought a whole shower of bark and dry leaves down onto his own head. Brushing off the leaves, he muttered to himself. First he blamed the trunk for being too slippery, then he blamed the pot for being so terribly in the way. He slid down, panting, hitched up the cord, and started over from the beginning. This time was no different. The pot kept getting in his way, right in front of him, and he could climb no higher. Anansi tried again and again, time after time. His shirt was soaked through with sweat and his hands were grimy from gripping the rough bark, yet he still could not get even halfway up the trunk.

Anansi had a son named Kweku Tsin. The boy had already grown suspicious, for his father had been acting secretively, so he made up his mind to keep watch. That day, he saw his father slip into the deep forest with a big pot in his arms, and Kweku Tsin quietly followed. He hid behind a bush nearby and stood watching his father wrestle with the tree trunk, again and again, without saying a word.

Watching his father struggle on and on without getting anywhere, the boy finally stepped out from the bush and gently laid a hand on his shoulder. "Father, why not tie the cord so the pot hangs behind your back, instead of letting it swing in front of your chest like that? With the pot in front, arms and legs keep catching on it, and nobody could climb that way. Put it on your back, and your hands and feet will be free. Climbing will be much easier."

Anansi stood frozen. It was such a simple remark, and yet he himself had never thought of it. He had just traveled the whole world, gathering every last speck of wisdom, and shut it all away in the pot he was hugging. His little son had thought of something that all that great store of wisdom had not helped him see. A whole pot brimming with the wisdom of the world had been beaten by one offhand remark from his own son. Anansi's face flushed red, half embarrassed and half annoyed. He turned to his son and blurted out that he had thought he held all the world's wisdom in this pot, yet his son had more than he did.

Then, in that fit of irritation, Anansi raised his hands and let the pot drop straight to the ground, as if he were emptying all his grievances out of his palms. The pot fell and struck a great rock lying at the foot of the tree, breaking open into pieces. Amid that clatter, the wisdom inside burst out like a gust of wind. It swirled up high and then scattered in every direction. The wisdom flew far, and farther still, slipping into every village and every person, in every corner of the world.

From that day on, the tall old tree stood quietly in the forest. Its branches swayed whenever the wind blew, and no pot ever hung at its top. No one has ever again managed to keep all wisdom in one place, as Father Anansi once meant to do. Perhaps right now, somewhere far away, someone has just hit upon a good idea and is smiling quietly to themselves. That person does not know it is a little piece of the wisdom that once lay in the pot of Father Anansi.