
Anansi the spider decided he would gather all the wisdom in the world into one pot. Then he alone would have it. Then he would be the wisest.

He traveled. He gathered. From every village, every elder, every leaf and every river-stone, he took a piece of wisdom and put it in the pot.

When the pot was full, he carried it home, and decided to hide it at the very top of a tall silk-cotton tree, where no one could reach it.

He tied the pot to his belly and began to climb. The pot bumped against his legs. He climbed slowly, awkwardly, slipping.

His son Ntikuma stood at the foot of the tree, watching.
After a while the boy called up — gently, so as not to startle his father —

“Father, would it not be easier to tie the pot to your back? Then your legs would be free to climb.”

Anansi was so astonished that his small son had a piece of wisdom he himself had not collected — the pot slipped from his hands.

It struck the ground and broke.

The wind caught the wisdom and scattered it across the world.

Which is why wisdom now lives in pieces, in every place — and no person, ever, has all of it.