The Magic Pot That Never Empties

Come close, my children, and let the firelight dance upon your faces as I tell you the tale of Kuruwa a Ensa Da, the Magic Pot That Never Empties, and how it taught the people of Nkwantakese village the true nature of abundance and the sacred power of sharing. Settle yourselves comfortably, for this is a story that will warm your hearts like the best palm wine and fill your spirits like the richest feast.

The Time of Want

In the village of Nkwantakese, where the red earth meets the flowing Offin River and the palm trees sway like dancers greeting the morning sun, there lived a woman whose name was Ama Serwaa. She was neither young nor old, neither rich nor completely destitute, but somewhere in that middle place where most of life’s lessons are learned through quiet struggle and patient endurance.

Ama Serwaa was a widow, her husband Kwaku having joined the ancestors three seasons past when a fever had swept through the village like wildfire through dry grass. She lived alone in a modest mud-brick house with a thatched roof that leaked during the heavy rains and walls that let in the harmattan winds during the dry season. Her compound was small but tidy, with a few chickens pecking in the red dust and a small plot where she grew cassava, plantains, and the vegetables that kept her fed.

But these were difficult times in Nkwantakese. The rains had been irregular for two seasons, coming either as devastating floods that washed away the young crops or staying away entirely until the earth cracked like a broken calabash. The harvests had been poor, and many families found themselves with empty grain stores before the growing season was half finished.

Ama Serwaa, like her neighbors, knew the gnawing ache of constant hunger. She would divide her meager portions into smaller and smaller shares, making a single yam last for three days, stretching a handful of palm nuts into a week’s worth of soup. Her clothes hung loose on her shrinking frame, and sometimes she would catch herself staring longingly at the smoke rising from more prosperous compounds where the scent of cooking meat still occasionally blessed the evening air.

The Discovery by the River

It was on a morning when the mist rose from the Offin River like the breath of sleeping spirits that Ama Serwaa made the discovery that would change not only her life, but the very nature of her community. She had risen before dawn, as was her custom, to fetch water while the river ran clearest and to perhaps find some crayfish or river snails to add protein to her simple meal.

The path to the river wound through a grove of ancient mahogany trees whose massive trunks bore the scars of countless seasons and whose roots drank deeply from the water that flowed year-round. As Ama Serwaa picked her way carefully down the muddy bank, balancing her large clay water pot on her head and clutching her smaller fishing gourd in her hand, she noticed something unusual glinting in the morning light.

Half-buried in the riverbank, where the recent rains had washed away layers of earth and revealed secrets long hidden, sat a cooking pot unlike any she had ever seen. It was made of clay, but clay so fine and well-crafted that it seemed to glow with its own inner light. The pot was perfectly round, with a graceful neck and a rim that had been decorated with intricate patterns that seemed to shift and dance as the early sunlight played across their surface.

But most remarkable of all, the pot appeared to be completely clean and new, despite being buried in the earth. No mud clung to its surface, no stains marked its sides, and when Ama Serwaa carefully lifted it from its resting place, she found it was exactly the right weight—substantial enough to feel valuable, but not so heavy as to be burdensome for a woman carrying water.

As her fingers traced the beautiful patterns carved into the pot’s surface, Ama Serwaa felt a strange warmth flowing from the clay into her hands, and for just a moment, she could have sworn she heard the distant sound of laughter, gentle and kind, like the voice of a beloved grandmother sharing a secret with a favored grandchild.

The First Miracle

When Ama Serwaa returned to her compound that morning, she placed the mysterious pot in her cooking area and went about her usual tasks of tending her small garden and caring for her chickens. But as the day progressed and her stomach began to remind her that she had eaten only a small ball of kenkey the previous evening, she found her eyes returning again and again to the beautiful pot.

Finally, as the sun reached its highest point and the need for food became impossible to ignore, Ama Serwaa decided to prepare her midday meal using the pot she had found. She had only a handful of rice, a few pieces of dried fish, and some palm oil—barely enough for a small portion that would leave her still hungry—but she wanted to honor the beautiful vessel by using it for its intended purpose.

She lit her cooking fire with the practiced efficiency of a woman who had prepared thousands of meals, arranged her few ingredients with the care of one who knew the value of every grain of rice, and began to cook. As the water began to bubble and the aroma of the fish began to perfume the air, Ama Serwaa stirred the pot gently with her wooden ladle and whispered a prayer of gratitude to the ancestors for providing even this small sustenance.

But as she stirred, something miraculous began to happen. The small portion of rice began to expand, not just from cooking, but as if the grains were multiplying before her very eyes. The few pieces of dried fish became many, and the thin palm oil seemed to thicken and grow richer. Within minutes, what had begun as barely enough food for one meager meal had become a pot full of fragrant, delicious rice that could easily feed a family.

Ama Serwaa stood in wonder, her ladle frozen in her hand, as she tried to comprehend what she was witnessing. The pot was indeed full to the brim with perfectly cooked rice, aromatic and steaming, more food than she had seen in her own cooking pot for many months.

The Test of Character

For a long moment, Ama Serwaa simply stared at the miraculous abundance before her. Her first instinct was the natural one of a woman who had known hunger—to eat as much as possible while the food was available, to fill her stomach completely for the first time in months, to enjoy the luxury of satiety that had become such a rare experience.

But as she prepared to serve herself a generous portion, she heard the voices of children playing in the compound next to hers, and she remembered little Kofi and Ama, the grandchildren of her neighbor Nana Akosua, who had been growing thinner and more listless as the weeks of scarcity continued. Their grandmother, a proud woman who had once been prosperous, had been too embarrassed to ask for help even as her household’s situation grew desperate.

The sound of the children’s voices, weaker now than they had been just a few weeks ago, stirred something deep in Ama Serwaa’s heart. Almost without conscious thought, she found herself ladling a generous portion of the miraculous rice into a large calabash bowl. She covered it with a clean cloth and walked to the fence that separated her compound from her neighbor’s.

“Sister Akosua,” she called softly, using the term of respect and affection that neighbors used for each other, “I have prepared more food than I can eat alone. Would you honor me by sharing this meal with your grandchildren?”

The relief and gratitude in Nana Akosua’s eyes was worth more than gold to Ama Serwaa. As the elderly woman accepted the bowl with tears streaming down her weathered cheeks, and as the children’s faces lit up with joy at the prospect of a full meal, Ama Serwaa felt a warmth in her heart that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with the deep satisfaction that comes from easing another’s suffering.

The Magic Revealed

When Ama Serwaa returned to her own cooking area, she was amazed to discover that the pot was once again full of rice, as if she had never removed any food from it at all. The level remained exactly the same, and the quality was just as high—perfectly cooked, aromatic, and nourishing.

This time, she did not hesitate. She could hear the crying of baby Yaw from the compound of Akosua’s daughter, whose husband had traveled to the gold mines months ago and had not yet returned. The young mother, Ama Frema, was trying to nurse her baby while having barely enough food to maintain her own strength, and her milk was growing thin and insufficient.

Ama Serwaa filled another bowl and made her way to the young mother’s compound. “Sister,” she said gently, “I have been blessed with abundance today. Please, take this food for yourself and your little one. A nursing mother needs strength to care for her child.”

Ama Frema’s hands shook as she accepted the bowl, and she whispered blessings upon Ama Serwaa’s head in the traditional way. “May Nyame increase your store,” she said through her tears. “May the ancestors smile upon your generosity.”

Again, when Ama Serwaa returned home, the pot was full. And again, she heard the needs of her community calling to her—the old man Opanin Yaw who lived alone and had been too proud to admit his hunger, the family with seven children whose father had been injured and could not work, the young couple who had recently married and were struggling to establish their household.

One by one, Ama Serwaa filled bowls and carried them to those in need. And one by one, she discovered that the pot’s magic lay not in its ability to create food from nothing, but in its response to the generosity of her own heart. As long as she gave freely and with joy, the pot remained full. As long as she thought first of others’ needs before her own comfort, the magic continued to flow.

The Growing Circle

Word of Ama Serwaa’s unexpected generosity spread through the village like ripples spreading from a stone dropped in still water. At first, people simply marveled at her sudden ability to share food when everyone knew she had been struggling like the rest of them. Some wondered if she had discovered a hidden store of grain that her late husband had saved. Others thought perhaps she had relatives in more prosperous villages who were sending her supplies.

But as days passed and the flow of food from Ama Serwaa’s compound continued unabated, the more perceptive members of the community began to sense that something extraordinary was happening. The oldest residents, those who remembered the stories their grandparents had told of times when the spirit world touched the physical world in miraculous ways, began to whisper that Ama Serwaa had been blessed by the ancestors or perhaps by Nyame himself.

Chief Nana Kwame Asante, a wise man who had governed the village justly for many years, decided to visit Ama Serwaa to understand the source of her newfound abundance. He came not with suspicion or demands, but with the respectful curiosity of a leader seeking to understand a phenomenon that was affecting his community.

Ama Serwaa, who had been taught from childhood to honor authority and speak truthfully to her elders, told the chief everything—how she had found the pot by the river, how it had first multiplied her meager meal, and how she had discovered that its magic only worked when she shared its contents with others who were in need.

Chief Kwame examined the pot carefully, running his experienced hands over its surface and noting the strange warmth that seemed to emanate from the clay itself. His eyes, wise from many years of judging character and truth, studied Ama Serwaa’s face as she spoke, and he found there only honesty and a deep, quiet joy that came from being able to serve her community.

“Sister Ama,” the chief said finally, his voice carrying the authority of wisdom rather than mere power, “you have been chosen for a great responsibility. This pot is not merely magical—it is sacred. It has chosen you as its keeper because your heart is pure and your desire to serve others is genuine. But with this gift comes a duty that extends beyond even our own village.”

The Test of the Community

As news of the magic pot spread beyond Nkwantakese, people began to arrive from neighboring villages, drawn by rumors of miraculous abundance in a time of widespread scarcity. Some came humbly, presenting themselves at Ama Serwaa’s compound with honest expressions of their need and genuine gratitude for any help she might provide. These visitors were always fed, their bowls filled with the pot’s inexhaustible bounty, and they departed with blessings on their lips and stories of kindness to carry back to their own communities.

But others came with different intentions. Some arrived with demands rather than requests, insisting that if Ama Serwaa truly had a source of unlimited food, she was obligated to feed anyone who asked, regardless of their circumstances or attitudes. Others came with schemes, hoping to trade or bargain for regular supplies of the magical food that they could then sell in distant markets for profit.

Most challenging of all were those from Ama Serwaa’s own village who began to change their attitudes as they realized the true extent of the pot’s power. Some neighbors who had initially been grateful for her generosity began to expect it as their due, arriving at her compound each day not with thanks but with assumption that she would continue to provide for them indefinitely.

A few villagers even began to suggest that Ama Serwaa should be required to share the pot itself, taking turns as its keeper so that everyone could benefit equally from its magic. “After all,” they argued, “she found it by the river that belongs to all of us. Why should she alone control such a powerful treasure?”

It was during this time of testing that Ama Serwaa learned the pot’s most important lesson. One morning, when a particularly demanding group of visitors had gathered in her compound, insisting that she feed them not just once but provide them with enough food to take back to their own villages for storage, Ama Serwaa found herself feeling resentful and burdened by their expectations.

For the first time since she had found the pot, she approached her cooking with reluctance rather than joy, feeling more like a servant required to perform a duty than a woman blessed with the ability to help others. She went through the motions of preparing the meal, but her heart was heavy with frustration and her spirit was clouded with the beginning of anger.

When she lifted the lid of the pot, expecting to find the usual abundance, she discovered instead only the small portion of ingredients she had originally placed there—a handful of rice, a few pieces of dried fish, barely enough for one modest meal.

The Wisdom of the Pot

The shock of seeing the pot empty—truly empty for the first time since she had found it—brought Ama Serwaa to her knees in her cooking area. She sat staring at the meager contents, trying to understand what had gone wrong, what she had done to cause the magic to fail.

As she sat there, the demanding voices of the visitors in her compound growing louder and more insistent, Ama Serwaa’s grandmother’s words came back to her like a gentle breeze carrying the scent of familiar flowers. “Ama,” her grandmother had often said, “a gift given with a reluctant heart becomes a burden to both the giver and the receiver. True generosity flows from joy, not from obligation.”

In that moment of clarity, Ama Serwaa understood. The pot’s magic had never been about the clay or the mysterious patterns carved into its surface. The true magic had always been in her own heart—in her genuine desire to ease others’ suffering, in her joy at being able to share, in her recognition that abundance shared was abundance multiplied.

When she had begun to give from obligation rather than love, when resentment had crept into her heart and expectations had replaced gratitude, the magic had naturally withdrawn. The pot was not a machine that produced food regardless of the operator’s intentions—it was a sacred vessel that responded only to the purest motivations.

Standing up with new understanding, Ama Serwaa walked out to face the demanding visitors. With quiet dignity, she explained that the pot would provide food only for those who truly needed it and only when she gave from a heart of genuine care and concern. Those who came with demands, with schemes for profit, or with attempts to manipulate her generosity would find themselves disappointed.

“This pot,” she said, her voice carrying a new authority born of spiritual understanding, “is not a business or a charity institution that operates according to your desires. It is a sacred gift that responds to sacred intentions. I will continue to share its bounty with any who come in genuine need and with grateful hearts, but I will not be compelled to serve those who mistake generosity for weakness or blessing for obligation.”

The Return of Magic

Many of the demanding visitors left grumbling and dissatisfied, but a few remained, and in their eyes Ama Serwaa saw something she had not noticed before—a recognition of the spiritual dimension of what was happening, an understanding that they were witnessing something far more profound than merely magical food production.

One young man from a distant village approached her with tears in his eyes. “Auntie,” he said, using the respectful term for an elder, “I came here with the wrong heart. I was thinking only of how this magic could solve my village’s problems, but I see now that I was thinking about it all wrong. Could you teach me what you have learned? Not about the pot, but about the kind of generosity that brings blessings?”

It was to this young man that Ama Serwaa first spoke the words that would become the foundation of the pot’s true teaching: “The magic is not in taking or even in receiving, but in giving with a heart so full of love that there is no room for resentment, expectation, or fear. When we give because we cannot help but give, when sharing brings us more joy than keeping, then we discover that abundance is not about having much, but about being much.”

As she spoke these words with a heart once again filled with genuine care, Ama Serwaa felt the familiar warmth returning to the pot. When she looked inside, it was once again full of perfectly prepared food, enough to feed everyone who had remained with sincere hearts and honest need.

The Spreading Lesson

The story of Ama Serwaa and the Magic Pot spread far beyond the borders of Nkwantakese, but it changed in the telling. Some who heard it focused only on the magical aspects, imagining that somewhere there was a pot that could solve all problems of hunger and want. These storytellers would travel to the village hoping to find and acquire this miraculous vessel for themselves.

But others understood the deeper teaching embedded in the tale. They realized that the true magic lay not in any external object, but in the transformation of the human heart from scarcity thinking to abundance thinking, from fear-based hoarding to love-based sharing.

These wiser listeners would return to their own communities and begin practicing the pot’s real lesson—giving freely of whatever they had, sharing their skills and knowledge, opening their homes and hearts to those in need. And they discovered, to their amazement, that when they gave in this spirit, their own resources seemed to stretch further, their own needs were met in unexpected ways, and their communities became stronger and more prosperous.

Villages that embraced the pot’s teaching found that cooperation replaced competition, that neighbors supported each other through difficult times, and that the welfare of each individual became the concern of the entire community. They discovered that when everyone gave according to their ability and received according to their need, scarcity became rare and abundance became the normal experience.

The Eternal Teaching

Years passed, and Ama Serwaa grew old in the service of her sacred trust. The pot continued to provide for all who came with genuine need and grateful hearts, and the village of Nkwantakese became known throughout the region as a place where strangers were welcomed, the hungry were fed, and the spirit of community was stronger than the challenges of any particular season.

When Ama Serwaa’s time came to join the ancestors, the villagers wondered what would happen to the magical pot. Some thought it should be buried with her, others believed it should be kept in the chief’s compound, and still others suggested it should be moved to the village shrine where the priests could oversee its use.

But on the morning after Ama Serwaa’s burial, when the mourning period had ended and the community gathered to decide the pot’s fate, they made a remarkable discovery. The pot was gone from its usual place in Ama Serwaa’s cooking area. In its place was a simple calabash bowl filled with ordinary rice—enough for one small meal, nothing more.

At first there was panic and accusations. Had someone stolen the magical pot? Had thieves taken advantage of the village’s grief to make off with their most precious treasure? But as the villagers searched and questioned and worried, old Nana Akosua, the neighbor who had been the first to receive Ama Serwaa’s generosity, made a profound observation.

“Perhaps,” she said in her wavering but wise voice, “the pot has served its purpose. Perhaps its magic was never in the clay itself, but in what it taught us about ourselves and our community. Look around you—do we not still share with each other freely? Do we not still care for our neighbors’ needs as if they were our own? Do we not still give with joy rather than reluctance?”

As the villagers considered her words, they realized she was right. In the years since Ama Serwaa had found the pot, their entire way of life had changed. The habits of generosity, the instincts of community care, the understanding that true abundance comes from sharing rather than hoarding—all of these had become so deeply embedded in their daily lives that they no longer needed a magical pot to remind them.

The pot had taught them to become the magic themselves.

The Living Legacy

And so it is, my children, that when we speak of Kuruwa a Ensa Da, the Magic Pot That Never Empties, we speak not just of an ancient miracle, but of a living truth that continues to bless communities wherever it is understood and practiced.

The pot teaches us that scarcity is often an illusion created by our fears and our selfishness, while abundance is a reality that emerges when we trust in the generosity of life itself and participate in that generosity through our own giving.

It reminds us that what we hoard diminishes, while what we share multiplies. A smile shared brightens two faces. Knowledge shared increases wisdom in both teacher and student. Love given freely returns to the giver multiplied many times over.

Most importantly, the story teaches us that we each carry within ourselves the capacity to be a magic pot—a source of nourishment and blessing for our communities. When we give our time, our skills, our attention, our compassion with the same spirit that Ama Serwaa showed, we discover that we become conduits for abundance that seems to flow from sources far greater than our individual resources.

Ɔpɛ a wɔkyɛ mu no na ɛdɔɔso - That which is shared increases.

This ancient wisdom reminds us that the laws of the spirit world operate differently from the laws of the material world. In the material realm, if I give you half of my yam, I have less yam. But in the spiritual realm, if I give you half of my love, my wisdom, or my hope, I discover that I have more than I started with.

So when you break your bread tomorrow morning, my children, remember the magic pot and ask yourself: Am I eating this meal with a heart ready to share, or with a spirit of fearful hoarding? When you encounter someone in need, remember Ama Serwaa and ask: How can I be a vessel of abundance in this moment?

The fire grows low now, and the stars shine bright above us, but the magic of the pot burns eternal in every heart that chooses generosity over greed, community over isolation, trust over fear. May you carry this magic with you always, and may you discover the deep joy that comes from being a blessing in the lives of others.

Kuruwa a ensa da wɔ wo koma mu - The pot that never empties is in your heart.