The village of Shimalavandu was roaring with excitement.

The long-awaited end-of-year Festival was only a few days away, and the elders had declared that every man should contribute a bottle of his best wine to fill a large pot.

This way, when the festival night came, the people would drink until their laughter reached the ears of their ancestors.

The villagers borrowed a massive pot from the nearby town and placed it in the village square. It stood there like a silent judge, waiting to test the hearts of men.

Jatelo, a man whose tongue was faster than his hands, stood before the pot, staring at the wine in his bottle. A sly smile crept across his face.

"Why should I waste my best wine when there will be gallons of it here? If I pour just water, who will know? The wine will still be sweet, and I will drink to my fill without losing a thing!"

Smiling to himself, he emptied his bottle of water into the pot and strutted away, pleased with his brilliance.

But Jatelo was not the only man in Shimalavandu who had this bright idea.

When the festival night arrived, the village square was alive with songs. Women balanced heavy pots of steaming food on their heads, children weaved between the elders, and men clutched their drinking gourds, ready to drown the night in sweet wine.

At the center of it all stood the great pot, its tap waiting to release the river of celebration.

With the dignity of a man about to taste the work of his people, Mzee Makokha, the village chief, stepped forward. He dipped his cup and raised it to his lips.

Silence.

A few elders leaned forward. A child sneezed. Someone coughed.

Mzee Makokha smacked his lips, then frowned. He dipped his cup again, held it to the torchlight, and blinked.

It was clear as the morning dew.

Water.

A murmur ran through the crowd, rising like a troubled wind before a storm. Mothers clutched their pots of stew. The drummers paused mid-beat.

"Where is the wine?" Mzee Makokha asked, his voice carrying the weight of a thousand disappointments.

The villagers looked at each other, their faces shifting from confusion to shame. Jatelo, who had been preparing to take the most enormous gulp, suddenly found the ground very interesting.

Then, the truth settled on them one by one like dust after a stampede.

Each man had thought himself clever, believing that if he poured water, it would disappear into a sea of wine. But it turned out that the entire village had been brilliant—too clever for its own good.

The pot that was supposed to overflow with generosity now stood as a monument to greed.

Mzee Makokha sighed and shook his head.

This is why we remain poor," he said, "Not because we lack wealth, but because we trust that others will carry the burden while we enjoy the benefits. Now, drink your wisdom, my people!"

That night, instead of getting drunk on sweet wine, the people of Shimalavandu drank the bitter lesson of their foolishness.