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@ ODILI ONUOHA
2025-06-12 07:23:37In a secluded mountain village, where the winds howled like wolves and the earth bore deep scars from ancient quakes, lived a deaf potter named Mazi. The villagers pitied him, not because he was deaf, but because he rarely spoke his silence louder than any thunderstorm that rumbled through their peaks.
Mazi spent his days shaping clay in a modest workshop. He did not hear the mockery of children mimicking his silent gestures. He did not flinch at the villagers who whispered, “He makes pots, but he hears nothing. What could he possibly understand about life?”
But his hands understood.
Each piece Mazi created was a marvel curved like whispers, solid like promises, smooth like forgiveness. His pottery bore no symbols, yet every visitor who touched them felt something stir inside: grief softening, joy surfacing, questions echoing.
One winter, an avalanche trapped the village under ice and silence. The road was blocked. Supplies ran out. Tempers flared. Hope withered.
Then, from the snowy haze, Mazi emerged with a cart stacked not with food or firewood, but with his clay pots.
At first, the villagers laughed. “Will we eat pottery, Mazi?” they jeered.
But when he placed a pot in front of each home, and signed, “Fill these with what matters,” a strange stillness fell.
One by one, families placed letters, tokens, songs, and prayers into the pots. In that quiet act, they began listening not with ears, but with hearts.
Soon, Mazi’s pots became vessels of unity. Messages were passed through them. Water was shared. Stories revived. And slowly, the snow relented.
When spring came, a traveler arrived and asked, “Who saved this village?”
They pointed to the silent potter shaping a new vessel beside a blooming tree.
He heard nothing. Yet his silence had spoken.
Moral: You don’t need to be loud to be heard. In silence, we often find the truest strength and deepest understanding.