The Magic Cooking Pot

There was an old woman who sold the best palm-oil soup in the market. Nobody knew the old woman’s name nor where she lived. Nobody knew how she made such excellent soup nor why the soup was always so hot.

“This is a mystery,” the people at the market would say to each other, but they continued to buy the soup.

Every morning the old woman came into the market-place by the village carrying a big black pot of hot palm-oil soup on her head. Then she sat under a tall mango tree and soon all her soup was sold, for it was so good.

There was a boy in the village called Kalari. He had often enjoyed the old woman’s soup and he wanted to know how it was made. He wanted to know where the old woman lived.

Small boys are often curious and one evening when the market closed, Kalari followed the old woman. He followed her through the village and beside the river. Keeping himself out of sight, he followed her along a path that went up the side of a hill. Kalari began to be afraid. Nevertheless, he forced himself to continue and followed the old woman until she came to a small round hut with mud bricks for the walls and a grass thatch roof.

Outside the hut stood a very large cooking pot.

“It is the biggest pot,” thought Kalari, “that I have ever seen.”

The old woman went inside the hut. Kalari was so curious that he went quietly to the pot and looked inside. It was empty.

Hearing the old woman coming out of the hut, he hid himself behind some thorn bushes. He watched the old woman come out of the hut. She went to the very large cooking pot and, raising her arms above her head, she sang this song:

“Magic pot, magic pot,
Make hot soup for me.
Make hot soup for me.
Make soup of palm-oil.
Make soup of palm-oil.
Make soup with chicken.
Make soup, this soup, for me to sell.
For people to buy.
Magic pot, magic pot.”

From where Kalari was hidden he could soon hear the soup boiling and bubbling, and he saw steam coming from the pot. The smell of the soup was so good that it made Kalari feel hungry. When the old woman went back into her hut, he came softly from behind the thorn bushes.

Kalari looked under the pot. There was no fire beneath it. He looked into the pot: it was full of hot palm-oil soup with chicken.

“I must taste this,” said Kalari to himself, putting his hand into the pot to select a piece of chicken.

But suddenly the old woman came out of her hut. She saw Kalari and what he was doing.

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” cried the old woman. “Oh! Oh! Oh!”

Kalari was filled with fear. He turned and ran down the hillside path as fast as he could. Behind him he could hear the old woman. She was screaming and wailing, shouting and crying.

Kalari ran and ran until he reached the bottom of the hill. He ran beside the river. He ran until he passed the market and reached the village. He ran to the house of his family. He told his parents and the people of the village what had happened. He pointed to the hill. As the people looked at the hill they could see steam rising from it.

“The magic pot,” everyone said to everyone else.

From that day until this the old woman with her pot of chicken and palm-oil soup has never returned to the market. No one has ever gone up the hill to search for her, least of all Kalari. When clouds gather near the top of the hill the village people say to each other, “Look, there is the steam from the magic cooking pot.”