In the dusty village of Amatara, nestled between two hills and a river, lived a humble potter named Baba Tunde. His clay pots were famous for their strength and beauty, even though he used the same old tools his father left him. Every morning, he would walk to the riverside, collect the soft earth, and mold it into something useful with patience and prayer.
One year, the village was struck by a severe drought. The river dried up, crops failed, and families were forced to travel miles for water. Still, Baba Tunde continued his work, believing that everything had its season — the good and the bad.
One afternoon, as he was shaping a particularly large pot, the village chief sent a messenger to him. The palace needed a water vessel strong enough to carry water from the far-off spring and store it without cracking under the scorching sun. Baba Tunde hesitated — the task was great, and failure could bring shame. But he agreed, trusting his hands and the God who gave him his gift.
He worked through the nights, pouring his faith into the clay. On the final day, he carried the massive pot to the palace. The villagers watched as the pot was filled and left under the sun. Days passed. Other pots cracked. Baba Tunde’s held firm.
News spread, and the chief returned to honor Baba Tunde publicly. “What magic did you use?” he asked. “How did your pot survive the heat while others failed?”
The old potter smiled. “No magic, my chief. Just faith and a prayer whispered into the clay each night.”
The chief removed a golden ring from his finger and placed it on Baba Tunde’s. “From today, you are the Royal Craftsman. You turned clay into a crown.”
The villagers cheered, but Baba Tunde lifted his eyes to the sky, tears running down his weathered cheeks. “Not by my power,” he said softly, “fOnly God can do it.”
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