A tale as rich as chocolate, as clever as Ananse…

The rains came hard that year.

Water carved thin paths through the red earth, pooling at the edges of the cocoa farms. One morning, Ananse arrived to find a small wooden bridge washed half away, its planks loosened, its rope sagging.

People stood nearby, murmuring.

“This won’t hold,” someone said.

Ananse waved a hand. “It doesn’t need to last forever.”

He bent down and tied the rope tighter — fast, neat, impressive. He wedged a stone beneath one plank and pressed his foot against it, testing the weight.

“Ɛte sɛn?” Ananse asked, stepping back. How is it now?

The bridge held.

For now.

The villagers nodded, relieved. Cocoa baskets crossed carefully. Children followed, hopping lightly from plank to plank.

Ananse dusted off his hands.

“Fixed,” he declared.

By afternoon, the sun returned. The air filled with the smell of wet leaves and fermenting cocoa pulp warming again beneath banana leaves. Ananse lounged beneath a tree, pleased.

Then the rain returned — heavier.

The rope snapped.

The stone shifted.

The bridge collapsed quietly, without drama.

No one shouted. No one called Ananse’s name.

They simply rebuilt it properly — slower, stronger, with new wood carried from farther away.

Ananse watched from the shade.

He had repaired the bridge.

Just not enough.

Had Ananse fixed the problem — or only the moment?
What is repair if it doesn’t last?
And who carries the cost of a clever shortcut?

Well… that is a story for another time.

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