This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Moria had christened Afeez’s taxi “Ajagbe,” a name plucked from a word she had heard as a child “Ajagbe-mo-keferi.” A fitting moniker, she thought, for a car that rattled and groaned its way through Ibadan, yet, miraculously, never failed to deliver..

She had initially questioned her sanity in choosing this clattering chariot for her travels, but pragmatism had won. A last-minute phone call, received somewhere along the Lagos-Ibadan Expressway as Denrele drove her to Ibadan, had shattered her plans: her pre-arranged Ibadan transport had become a mangled wreck from an accident. Ajagbe and the unflappable Afeez had become her unexpected saviours.

The Moria who now sat in Ajagbe’s backseat was much different from the elegant figure Afeez had collected from Molete the previous day. Gone was the polished sophistication, replaced by a simple t-shirt, worn denim, and a discreet scarf. Only her signature eyeglasses and the lingering, unmistakable scent of her perfume remained unchanged. A wise voice, perhaps her own, perhaps Mulika’s, had whispered a crucial truth: leave the Boston persona behind. Blend, adapt, survive, and she had listened.

Afeez found himself strangely invested. More than a taxi driver, he was now a protector, a guide. Moria’s mission, however, remained shrouded in mystery. What drove her? What reward lay at the end of this dangerous path? Everyone knew the Agbekoya, their name a byword for courage in Ibadan’s folklore. Why was she so determined to understand their story? He had so many questions but lacked the boldness to seek answers from Moria as they started their trip for the day.

The Beere-Orita-Aperin Road stretches from Beere with its multiple intersections, descending sharply towards Oranyan, where it crosses the Kudeti River. As it starts its ascent at Oke-Labo, it crosses the Oluyoro River and then winds up through Elekuro to Orita-Aperin. It is on this arterial route that the Baale chose to build his house, not far from Wesley College, a renowned teachers’ training institution in Western Nigeria that produced prominent figures like Obafemi Awolowo, the first premier of the region.

Facing this winding road at Oke-Labo stands his impressive house, called Erikitola House. This two-and-a-half-story structure is influenced by British architecture. It stands out among the local houses due to its additional half-floor that serves as a third floor, providing an unobstructed view of the surrounding landscape. From here, one can see as far as Beere, Oja-Oba, and Oja-Igbo. Some visitors to the house have claimed that it offers a better view of Ibadan than that from the historical Bower’s Tower in Oke Are known for its 360-degree panorama of Ibadan.

Easily visible from the road is the large wooden signboard with a white background, prominently hanging from the metal balustrade that adorns the first floor. The inscription on the signboard, now faint but still legible, reads:

Samuel Tayo Bakare
Erikitola
S4/285 Oke-Labo, Ibadan

On one side of the board is the drawing of an elephant, while on the other is that of a tree in full bloom. Chipped on its edges and now hanging on a loose wire tied to the balustrade, it had all the telltale signs of its age.

Like many of Ibadan’s prosperous men of his time, the Baale had maintained a city residence, a haven of comfort far surpassing his village dwelling. It was to this house, now hemmed in by the skeletal frame of an unfinished building, partly blocking it from its former unobstructed view of the road, that Afeez brought Moria and Mulika, their journey leading them towards Ijebu-Igbo. Oladosu, a grandson of the Baale, was waiting by the side of the road to receive them.

Mulika’s tales of the Agbekoya’ assault on the house, riddling it with bullet holes, echoed in Moria’s ears as they stepped onto the balcony. Her eyes scanned the walls, searching for the scars of that violent day, but found nothing. A sigh escaped her lips. Time, she reasoned, had likely erased the evidence.

Inside, the house echoed with emptiness. No children’s laughter, no voices, not even the bleating of a goat disturbed the stillness. Moria felt the weight of absence; the silence spoke to her of lives lived and lost. The Baale was long gone, claimed by death a mere seven years after the Agbekoya uprising. Some whispered that the trauma of the conflict – his burnt farms, the forced exile, the siege of his own home – had hastened his demise. His wives, Adejoke, Faderera, and Olaoti, had followed him into the silence, one by one, with Olaoti being the last.

Before them, a wooden staircase ascended, its steps worn smooth by countless feet. The handrails, adorned with intricate carvings, bore faded patches of their original green paint. Each worn step a remembrance of lives that had passed. At the landing, Oladosu had arranged seating on the first-floor veranda.

From this vantage point, Moria saw Afeez and his faithful Ajagbe parked below, and the ceaseless flow of traffic on Elekuro Road. The surrounding landscape was a sorry sight of decay, crumbling buildings hinting at a forgotten era. It was hard to imagine that this had once been a neighbourhood of influential men, their legacy now abandoned, their descendants scattered all over the world in search of opportunity.

Their initial phone call had set the stage. Moria’s goal—to understand the Agbekoya story—had resonated with Oladosu, a firsthand witness to the Baale’s involvement. His narrative flowed smoothly, polished from years of retelling. He explained Tayo was a pillar of the community, holding many roles: cocoa farmer, Baale of Olorunda Village, customary court judge in Akanran, and a member of the Ibadan City Council. As Oladosu spoke, Moria’s fingers flew across her notebook, capturing his words. She interrupted only occasionally for clarification, mostly allowing him to freely share his knowledge of the Baale’s role in the Agbekoya Uprising.

The story, as told by Oladosu, had unfolded in a flood of detail. Moria had recorded every word, but the story was not yet hers. It was only later, in the warm, dim light of the Premier Hotel’s bar, with the rich tones of Lady Essien Igbokwe filling the air, that she could finally process all she had heard. She opened her notebook and switched on her Palm Pilot, ready to reshape the raw facts into her own narrative and wrote:

It was evening when the Baale finally found a moment of peace on his modest home’s balcony, relaxing after a busy day. He was resting on the wooden rocking chair, and from where he sat, he could hear the voice of Akanno, his junior brother, talking to someone in the next building while his eyes were darting between watching the traffic on the road and his grandchildren playing “Okoto” nearby.

The news jingle, the short musical piece signalling the start of the news broadcast, came on air on the radio. He mused as he pondered on the true meanings of the bata drum beat in the jingle. With many interesting interpretations, he liked the one that interpreted the beats as “T’Olubadan ba ku, tani o’joye?”

He quietens his grandchildren from their noisy play so that he can listen to the news rendered in the English Language. The Baale’s brow furrowed on hearing the government’s announcement of a significant increase in taxes, a move that he immediately knew would undoubtedly hit the rural population hardest. As a cocoa farmer in the Akanran area, he had witnessed firsthand the struggles of his people, their resilience in the face of adversity, and their unwavering connection to the earth. The new taxes would be a catalyst for unrest.

In Ibadan, the very air hums with the memory of past prosperity. The city, built on the wealth of cocoa, showcases the region’s dominance in the trade. The towering Cocoa House, the tallest building in West Africa, stands as a silent monument to this.

Yet, that wealth is now feeling like a distant dream. The Nigeria Cocoa Marketing Board (NCMB) derisively nicknamed “Ensin embi”—”You are killing it and still asking”—by disgruntled farmers, controls the prices, dictating their livelihoods. But volatile international markets and shifting government policies have sent cocoa prices plummeting, and many farmers are now barely surviving.

The hardship isn’t limited to cocoa. Traders in other commodities are also feeling the pinch. Asake Olusoga, a palm oil trader, is a perfect example. She once made a decent living, buying palm oil from distant villages and selling it at Ibadan’s bustling Oja-Oba market. Her clients came from all over, Lagos and Ekiti, and she even shipped oil from Dugbe Terminus to customers as far away as Zaria by rail.

Not anymore. Her customers are struggling, and so is she. The cost of transporting the palm oil from the farms to the city has exploded, leaving her with barely any profit. Her customer base has shrunk dramatically. The income she makes now barely supplements the cost of her son, Tomoye’s education, even though his brilliance has secured him numerous scholarships. Everyone, it seems, is just trying to stay afloat.

Kolapo, on the other hand, is a product of a different era. He is one of the few who benefited from the produce licenses that the late premier, Samuel Ladoke Akintola, handed out to his supporters. Now, with Adebayo’s new government, he faces a future with less access to the trading opportunities he once took for granted. He has to act, and he isn’t going to wait to find out if his fears are true. If A.M.A. says it, he believes it, and A.M.A. had not minced words when he told him about Adebayo’s plans to raise taxes.

Kolapo remembers Tafa and his antics with the Maiyegun League – a fiery group from the days when the government tried to cut down cocoa trees to fight the swollen-shoot disease. It’s time to get him involved.

Two days before the Governor’s announcement, Kolapo invites Tafa to his depot, where cocoa bags are graded and stored before being transported to Apapa for export. Over bottles of Fanta, a plate of Cabin biscuits, and some fresh kola nuts, he tells Tafa about the impending tax increases and the immense profits the Nigeria Cocoa Marketing Board (NCMB) is making from cocoa sales, all while the farmers struggle.

“Ma ma je keni keni tan e je,” Kolapo says, his voice dripping with false concern. “Don’t let anyone deceive you. The cocoa business is lucrative, but not for farmers like you.” He whispers, “We must resist these new taxes. This government needs to understand that farmers cannot continue to be exploited.”

As Tafa leaves that day, he thanks Kolapo for the information. Kolapo hands him an envelope with money for transportation, assuring him that he can always count on his support. The words echo in Tafa’s mind, fuelling a growing sense of determination.

These new words mix with the memory of Adisa. Tafa can still see the worry on Adisa’s face – a hardworking farmer forced to leave his village for the cruel uncertainty of unemployment in Ibadan. Tafa thinks of his own struggles; despite his backbreaking labour, he and his family live from hand to mouth, unable to afford a decent home for his wife, Suweba, and their children. He hears Suweba’s complaints about the maternity ward, and he remembers the roads, riddled with potholes that go unrepaired. Just the other day, his Bolekaja had narrowly avoided a head-on collision with a Peugeot pickup that swerved to miss a crater in the road.

He thinks of the cracks in his own mud house that he can’t afford to fix, and the gall of government officials living opulent lifestyles, now emboldened to increase taxes and worsen the plight of farmers. A Yoruba saying comes to his mind: “When you chase a goat to a wall, the goat will turn back and fight.”

If he has ever been determined to do anything, it is now. He knows the time for inaction has passed. It is time for the farmers to stand up and demand justice.

The alarm clock’s shriek sliced through the quiet. The Baale, feeling as though he hadn’t slept at all, reached out and silenced the insistent noise. A weight settled in his chest as he left the quiet of his home and stepped out into the pre-dawn chill, making his way to the local bus park.

As the bus arrived in Akanran, The Baale felt a knot of unease tighten in his stomach. The usual bustle of sellers setting up their stalls was absent. Alighting from the Bolekaja, he heard a distant commotion, a rising tide of sound that drew him forward. He knew this community. He knew that sound. It was the sound of farmers finally pushed to their limit. He was right. As he approached the town square, the voices grew louder, punctuated by a defiant chant: “A ko ni gba iyen!”[1]

The town square pulsed with a sombre tension. A crowd of farmers, their faces wild with determination, had gathered. Their leader, Mustafa, a fiery young man well-known to the Baale, stood at the centre, his voice booming with indignation.

“The government has pushed us too far!” he roared. “They think we are mere pawns to be manipulated and exploited. But we will not stand for it! We will fight for our rights, for our land, for our dignity!”

The crowd erupted, their cheers echoing through the town. The Baale listened, his heart swelling with a mixture of pride and fear. He had always known the people of Akanran were resilient and courageous, but today, he saw something new: unity, unwavering resolve, a readiness to fight for their future.

He recognised others in the crowd: Tafa Adeoye and Akekaaka, both familiar faces to the Baale. Tafa, quiet and thoughtful, was cut from a different cloth from the boisterous Akekaaka, who was standing firmly behind Mustafa, fuelling his passion. The Baale instinctively knew that Tafa, despite his quiet demeanour, was the true mastermind behind the uprising.

He also spotted Ajireni among those seated. Knowing Ajireni’s deep-seated hatred for him, the Baale decided against joining the gathering. Since the judgment he gave on Mulika’s case, the Baale had learned to avoid Ajireni. Their few encounters had made it clear: if Ajireni had his way, the Baale would be a dead man.

Without disturbing the scene in the town square, he quietly slipped away towards his village house in Olorunda, nearby. He knew what he had to do. He needed to speak with Tafa.

A gentle tap on her shoulder jolted her from the depths of her thoughts.
“Ma’am, we’re closing. Would you like to continue in your room?”

The music had stopped, the last echoes of the day fading into silence. She looked at her watch: 1:15 AM. The hours had vanished. For so long, she had been lost in a world of her own making, the words flowing effortlessly from her mind.

Her eyes fell on the notes from her meeting with Oladosu – so much still to write. A yawn broke free, heavy and unrestrained, betraying the fatigue she had stubbornly ignored. It was time to retreat to her presidential suite. Only then did she remember Mulika, likely fast asleep by now. The poor woman had been drained when they returned earlier, guided by Afeez and “Ajagbe,” after a day steeped in history: the solemn ground at Lalupon where Fajuyi and Ironsi were found, the sweeping views from Bower’s Tower, and the grandeur of Adebisi Mansion in Idikan.

Of all the stories, Adebisi’s had gripped her most – his bold pact with the colonial office to shoulder Ibadan’s tax burden, a man wrestling with the similar tax palaver that had now given rise to an uprising, shaping the city’s fate.

She had promised Mulika she’d only be gone a few minutes. But minutes had stretched into hours. With a quiet thank-you to the bartender, she gathered her things and took the elevator up. She didn’t stop by Mulika’s room. Instead, she slipped into her own, surrendering to the embrace of the bed. The story that had brought her here could wait. She would continue it tomorrow.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

From the moment she was welcomed into Mulika’s presence, she remembered how, after a few brief exchanges of pleasantries, the conversation had been dominated by Mulika’s storytelling. Moria had done her best to capture every detail, and only now did she have the time to weave it all into a narrative that fit seamlessly with the story so far. She began to write:

The seeds of revolt had been sown by the gods themselves. It all began on a rainy morning when the relentless downpour, a steady drumbeat against the thatched roof, seemed to echo the mournful howl of the wind. Tafa Adeoye stirred, his eyelids heavy with sleep, as the cold crept through the walls of his mud house. The wind, like a mischievous spirit, whistled through the cracks, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. A knock at the door jolted him awake. It was not yet daybreak, and even if it were, Tafa was not one to rise this early, especially since the cocoa harvest season had just ended. He reached for a matchstick and lit the Atupa[1] which casts a faint glow around the room.

Suweba, his pregnant wife, shifted beside him. “Who could that be at this hour?” she murmured, her voice barely audible. Grudgingly, Tafa crawled out of bed and made his way to the door. He swung it open, the cold air rushing in. Adisa, one of the village farmers, stood on the doorstep. His face was filled with sadness, and Tafa could see that he was fighting back tears.

“What is it, Adisa?” Tafa asked, his voice filled with concern. “Is something wrong?”

Adisa hesitated, his eyes darting nervously. “I came to tell you about the Chief,” he finally said. “He has asked me to leave his land and to do so within the week. I still have cocoyam that I have not harvested, and at the start of this year’s rains, I had planted cassava all over the one on the right side of Akinola, not far from the Oshun River. He is not compensating me for any of these.”

Tears welled up in Adisa’s eyes as he continued his lamentation. “Yes, the land is his but asking me to leave without adequate notice is just unfair. And you know what he did to Adeoba and his family; he is ruthless, and we all know no one is bold enough to ask him to desist, once his mind is made up.”

Tafa’s heart sank. While the news was overwhelming, it was not surprising. Adisa had been unable to pay the Isakole[2] to the Chief for a few years and had seen this coming for months now. The Chief’s underhanded tactics were nothing new, but this was different. Adisa was a hardworking man, and this land was his livelihood.

“What are you going to do?” Tafa asked.

Adisa shook his head. “I don’t know,” he replied. “I’m thinking of going to Ibadan. There might be work there.”

Tafa listened in silence, his mind racing. He knew that Adisa was desperate, and he couldn’t bear to see him leave the village. But what could he do? Adisa hadn’t come to him just because he needed a sympathetic ear, but obviously because he needed financial help, but his pride wouldn’t allow him to ask. Tafa understood; they had been friends for so long that he could interpret the lines of worry on Adisa’s face as that.

Adisa was a true friend. He recalled how Adisa had stood by him when he had the unfortunate incident of the snake bite on his cocoa farm. If not for Adisa, who had quickly applied local herbs and carried him on his back all the way from the farm to the village, he would have been a dead man. He owed Adisa his life.

Suweba is having a troubled pregnancy. The maternity ward at the Akanran Health Centre was derelict, with no drugs and the nursing team treating patients as if they were rendering a favour rather than the services they were being paid to render. Just the previous day, Suweba had come home complaining about the eerie glow of the peeling paint in the maternity ward, the stale scent of disinfectant and antiseptic, and the heat due to the lack of electricity to power the fans. At her last visit, she had been called into the small and cramped examination room, with faded curtains, and asked to lie on a worn, vinyl mattress. Her back ached as if she had lain there for hours before the midwife eventually got to examine her by running her hands all over her stomach, trying to feel the kick of the unborn baby, all while the midwife was distracted.

Suweba’s fear was palpable. Tafa remembered the look in her eyes as she pleaded with him to make arrangements for her to go to Adeoyo Maternity Hospital in Ibadan when her labour begins. “I don’t want to die during childbirth,” she had said, her worry clear in her expression. Since that discussion, all Adisa’s savings were being directed towards taking care of Suweba, and he is low on finances for anything else.

All these thoughts raced through Tafa’s mind, but despite them, he felt Adisa needed help now. He asked his visitor to wait as he took the Atupa and headed back into his room. Suweba, still asleep, asked, “Who is there? Hope all is well?” She turned on the bed facing the wall without waiting for a response and continued with her sleep.

Tafa took another look at his wife, the mother of his children, and the bed on which she slept, then around the mud-plastered room in which they slept. A teardrop formed in his eyes. He was sure they deserved better. They were not lazy people. Year in and year out, he had been cultivating the little Cocoa farm that he inherited from his father, but the income had not been enough to cater to the needs of his growing family. He was almost lost in his self-pity when the sound of a little movement in the room he had left brought him back to the present.

He reached for one of the dresses that he had hanging on the nail on the wall, checked the pocket, and took out one Nigerian pound. That was what he could afford, and he hoped it could provide some succour to Adisa as he faced an uncertain future. Back to where he had left Adisa, he handed him the note, explaining to him to accept it as his widow’s mite.

“Isn’t this too much?” Adisa said while receiving the money. “I am very grateful. This will help a lot with our transportation and the first few days of our arrival in Ibadan.”

“Don’t mention,” Tafa answered. “I wish we had more. I could have given to you, but please try to make use of that as you need.”

With Adisa out of the house, Tafa turned the wooden bolt back at the door and locked it. He opened the door of the next room to check on his children and then went back to meet Suweba on the bed, putting off the Atupa.

As he lay on the bed, Tafa started ruminating on his life journey. Tafa, a cocoa farmer with a small plot of land, had always managed to make ends meet. He supplemented his cocoa crop with seasonal plantings of cocoyam and corn, ensuring a steady supply of food for his family and a little surplus to sell at the market. However, as the years passed, the challenges of farming grew more daunting.

The recent announcement of new taxes on farmers was the final straw. An otherwise gentle soul, he was filled with a quiet anger. He understood the government’s need for revenue, but he felt that the new policies were inconsiderate and would only exacerbate the hardships faced by farmers like him.

While pondering the implications of the new taxes, Tafa made a decision. He knew he was not the only one struggling. He would have to speak out, to let the government know that their policies were hurting the people they were supposed to be serving.

Sleep finally claimed Tafa, but it was a restless embrace. A premonition, perhaps, of the tumultuous days to come. His peaceful slumber, once a nightly sanctuary, was now tainted with an unsettling unease. He couldn’t have known it then, of course, but his decision to speak his mind would shatter the quiet rhythm of his life as a farmer. His name would soon be plastered across the front pages of the Daily Sketch, the Tribune, and every major newspaper in the land, including the revered Daily Times. Even in the distant corridors of power at Dodan Barracks, in the bustling metropolis of Lagos, whispers of Tafa would echo through the halls. His story would become a battleground for national discourse, to be debated for years to come.

If Tafa could have glimpsed the future, he would have slammed the door shut on Adisa. The quietude of his life and the simple rhythm of the seasons were all he had ever truly desired.

It was all that Moria could write before her parched throat made her ask Mulika for water. “Mulika,” she rasped, “could I please have some water?”

“Yes, of course,” Mulika replied, struggling to rise. “I apologise for not thinking of it.”

Moria saw the pain on Mulika’s face and suspected the early onset of arthritis, a common but often misdiagnosed ailment in this area. The thick scent of Robb and Mentholatum balms filled the air, reminding Moria of how her own grandmother struggled with pain management.

“Please don’t worry,” Moria said. “I’ll get it myself. Could you tell me where the water is?”

‘The Amu[3] is in the corner of the room, at the foot of the bed,’ Mulika replied.

Moria rose from the seat, glancing at her watch in surprise. Two hours had already passed. She couldn’t believe she had been sitting there for so long.” Moria had sat with rapt attention, typing as fast as she could on the Pilot, completely absorbed by Mulika’s stories. Mulika’s words tumbled out, a long-awaited release, poured out like a burst dam as the floodgates of her memories were unleashed. She recounted everything she had heard about Tafa Adeoye, the celebrated leader of the Agbekoya, and the circumstances that had thrust him into the leadership of the movement.

When she arrived, the joy of seeing Mulika face-to-face was overwhelming for both. Though they had spoken on the phone a few times, the sheer delight of seeing each other’s faces was undeniable. Looking about fifteen years older than Moria, Mulika had aged, of course; no longer the beautiful, radiant young girl Moria remembered.

During school breaks, Moria’s father would take them to visit Mulika in the village, explaining that they were cousins. Moria, not one for genealogy, never questioned their exact relationship. They played, an inseparable pair, developing a deep affection for each other. She would often follow Mulika to the stream to fetch water, both girls bathing in the cool water before returning home, their heads laden with heavy clay pots.

Though Moria had always known that fate had placed her and Mulika on separate paths, her warm welcome hadn’t driven home the reality of their divergent lives. It wasn’t until she stepped into Mulika’s room that the differences became painfully clear. The difference between Mulika’s living conditions and her own comfortable Massachusetts life was immense. Life, she was sure, had dealt her a far gentler hand. And here they were, years later, reunited by the very story that had changed their lives in different ways, a story Moria was only now beginning to grasp fully.

Not that she needed any conviction, but entering the room leaves Moria with no further doubt that Mulika is a woman of very little means. Next to the wall was her single bed with some of her clothes piled up on it and taking a good chunk of the space. The room had a wooden window, cracked in the middle with age, through which a ray of light streaks into the room, offering the only illumination during the day, except when the single light bulb hanging from the wooden ceiling is switched on.

Mulika’s wooden cupboard, about five feet tall with two padlocked doors, stood directly across from the bed. Two black clay pots, one larger than the other, sat on top. Moria recognised them; her own mother had used similar pots, one for stew and the other for soup. Old newspaper sheets, carefully placed to protect the wood from soot, lay beneath the pots. Moria didn’t open the cupboard, but she correctly assumed it held Mulika’s food. She knew this type of cupboard; her parents had one in their room when she was growing up.

She spotted the Amu in the corner of the room and scooped some water into the plastic cup provided. A wave of hesitation washed over her. Was it wise to drink this water? Her urban immune system might not be prepared for whatever pathogens could be lurking within. Should she ask Mulika to buy her bottled water? The thought lingered, but ultimately, her American pragmatism prevailed: “Better safe than sorry.” With that, she set the cup aside, abandoning the idea of drinking the water, and made her way back to the corridor where Mulika was waiting for her.

“Mulika,” she said, “please forgive me. I’m no longer used to drinking from the Amu. Let’s go out and have a meal instead.”

To her surprise, Mulika understood completely. She asked for a moment to get ready, excusing herself to dress up. As she waited, Moria couldn’t help but reflect on the capricious hand of fate – a cruel and unpredictable force that so often derails lives. She and Mulika had started their journeys with such similar hopes, and Mulika, with her academic brilliance, had been the one expected to thrive. Yet now, they found themselves holding vastly different hands, dealt by life’s unpredictable game. The outcomes were worlds apart, and Moria couldn’t shake the thought of how fragile and fickle destiny could be.

[1] Palm oil lamp

[2] Annual tribute for the rights to use the land

[3] Amu – Clay water pot, usually kept in a corner of the room to keep drinking water cold.