Ẹbití Ò P'ĚŔÁ

Once, in a quiet village tucked between whispering hills, there lived a poor weaver named Tunde. Everyday, Tunde worked until his fingers were raw, yet his cupboards remained bare. Desperate for a change, he climbed the stony path to the mountaintop shrine where the Old Priest dwelled—a man said to hold the ear of the Heavens. ​Tunde knelt before the altar, bowed his head, and prayed, "Great Father, I have labored long and suffered much. Grant me fortune, so my family may eat." ​The Old Priest placed a heavy hand on Tunde’s shoulder, his voice as calm as a slow-moving river. "Do not rush the Heavens, my son. Man measures life in days, but God measures life in seasons. God's time is the best—go home and wait." ​So, Tunde returned to his loom. He waited through the scorching dry season and through the long rains. He waited while the moon grew full and withered twelve times over. Yet, his coin pouch remained flat, and poverty kept its sharp teeth in his side. ​When the year had turned full circle, Tunde climbed the mountain once more. His knees were weary, and his heart was heavy with doubts. ​"Father," Tunde pleaded, dropping to his knees. "I waited as you commanded. A whole year has withered away, yet the fortune I asked for has not arrived. Why has the sky closed its ears to me?" ​The Old Priest closed his eyes, slowly swinging his iron censer as smoke curled into the cold air. ​"The sun does not rise because the rooster crows, nor does the rain fall because the soil is thirsty," the priest replied, his tone sharper this time. "God’s time remains the best. If your hands are still empty, perhaps it is not Heaven that is slow, but your own heart that is doubtful. Go back, hold fast to your faith, and wait—for a seed planted in faint belief bears no fruit." ​Tunde bowed his head, the priest's words echoing in his mind like a striking bell, leaving him to walk back down the mountain path into the gathering shadows.