Mũmbi collected a dollop of clay from the riverside and conjured a beautiful earthen pot that shimmered with mystical energy. Wanjikũ, with her green little fingers grew some vines in her enchanted garden by her mother’s nyũmba. Little Wambũi, with her tender hands, made a wicker basket for bearing the pot.
One morning, Wambũi skipped to the river with the pot. A one-eyed ogre reclined by a rock, relishing the sweetness of a sugarcane. “What a beautiful pot you have there!” the ogre cooed. Wambũi blushed, hiding the pot on the crook of her arm. “Hold my sugarcane, that I may feel it’s beauty.” The ogre lied.
“Its…. a gift from mama,” Wambũi explained, twirling her chubby fingers around the pot’s rim. “She will whack you if you scratch it with your rough fingers.”
“I am a very gentle soul.” The ogre lied again, an evil grin spreading on its mouth. As Wambũi enjoyed the cloying juices, a sudden crash echoed-kwa! When she looked around, the ogre was gone.
Dusk was descending fast. Wambũi now hurried home, clutching the pot’s sherds in her leather skirt.
“Who broke our pot?” Waithĩra asked, her little hands planted firmly on her waist. Wambũi recounted the sad encounter at the river. “I hate that ugly ogre!” She cursed.
“It is not the ogre that shattered your pot.” Mũmbi revealed. “But your yearning for free sugarcane.”
“When will our pot be mended?” Wambũi asked, her big round eyes welling with tears.
“Ask not when, but how,” Mũmbi corrected her.
“Mama, how will you do it?” The five girls chorused.
Mũmbi raked the fire in the hearth and grabbed some ash. Then, she mixed it with ira, the mysterious white ash from Kĩrĩnyaga. With delicate hands, she fused the mixture onto the cracks, binding the pieces together. The girls watched her, while Wangũi, the youngest sang a song to the sick pot. Finally, Mũmbi placed the pot beneath a shade, instructing the girls to observe it.
“Can we use it now?” they chorused after looking at it for a short while.
“Healing takes time,” Mũmbi advised, returning the pot to the shade. Days passed. Mũmbi turned it. Several turns later, she assigned each of the girls a day to turn the pot.
“But it’s your work, Mama,” Her daughters protested.
“No, it’s our work,” Mũmbi affirmed. “How else will you teach your children to mend a pot if you do not learn now?”
Finally, the pot was ready for use again. Its cracks formed beautiful patterns, like they were part of it. Whenever the five girls visited the river, they cradled it together with their little hands, like a cherished infant. From then, the pot, imbued with ageless ash of Kĩrĩnyaga, never shattered again.