The sun had barely lifted its golden head above the hills of Nwanta when Kentra’s nose caught the scent. It came wafting through the early mist like a promise… sweet, smoky, and full of mystery. She had smelled it before, once, long ago when her grandmother still hummed lullabies and the fire in their old clay hearth still danced like a spirit with secrets.

This morning, though, the smell was stronger. It pulled at her like a rope woven from sugar and honey, tugging her down the winding path behind the yam barns, past the stream where the egrets bathed, until she found herself standing before a small hut she had never seen before.

It was round, like a calabash turned upside down, its walls coated in red earth that glimmered faintly under the morning dew. And in front of the hut were pots — dozens of them — lined neatly on wooden planks. Some big enough to hide a goat, others small as her mother’s soup bowl. But all of them shared one thing: they glowed. Not with firelight, but with a strange, golden shimmer that seemed alive.

Kentra’s eyes widened. Her fingers twitched. The scent, gods, that scent! It was coming from the pots.

She crept closer. Each pot bore a symbol carved on its side, a star, a moon, a spiral, a bird. She touched one with the mark of a bird, and the lid quivered, releasing a puff of golden mist that smelled like roasted plantain dipped in palm honey.

“Oh, you shouldn’t do that,” came a voice from behind her.

Kentra spun around. An old woman stood in the doorway of the hut, her back bent like a bow, her eyes sharp and knowing. She wore a wrapper the color of burnt sugar and a necklace of cowries that clinked like tiny bells.

“I—I’m sorry,” Kentra stammered. “I just—”

“You smelled them,” the woman finished, smiling a smile that revealed teeth still strong, though stained with kola. “Everyone smells them, child. But only one person each century finds their way here.”

Kentra blinked. “Finds their way here?”

The woman nodded. “These are the Sweet Pots. They hold every flavor ever dreamed of — from the sweetness of a baby’s first laugh to the taste of rain after a long drought. But they are not for greed. Each pot gives, and each takes.”

“Takes?” Kentra repeated.

“Yes,” said the woman. “Sweetness always comes with a cost. Choose wisely, if you must choose at all.”

Kentra’s stomach growled — a betrayal. The scent of the pots was everywhere now: mango, honey, warm bread, sugarcane, ripe banana, and something deeper… something that smelled like home.

Her hand drifted to the smallest pot, painted with the symbol of a spiral. The lid lifted on its own, and inside swirled a syrupy light. Without thinking, Kentra dipped her finger in and tasted it.

The world exploded.

It wasn’t sweetness, no, it was memory.

She saw her grandmother again, laughing by the fire, stirring a pot of ogi while Kentra played with a wooden doll. She smelled the smoke of their hearth, heard her grandmother’s voice singing, felt the warmth of her lap. Tears sprang to Kentra’s eyes.

When the vision faded, the pot went dim. The old woman watched her silently.

“That one was Remembrance,” she said softly. “It gives a taste of what’s gone.”

Kentra wiped her tears. “Can I.. can I taste another?”

The woman shook her head. “The rule of the Sweet Pots is one taste only. Each pot feeds a hunger — and leaves another behind.”

Kentra looked down at her hands. They trembled, but her heart felt full in a way it hadn’t in years. She bowed deeply. “Thank you.”

As she turned to leave, the woman called after her. “Remember, child, sweetness is not in the pot. It is in what you remember when the taste is gone.”

Kentra walked home through the morning mist, the scent of sugar fading behind her. Yet even when the wind carried it away, the warmth of her grandmother’s laughter stayed — sweet, eternal, and hers alone.