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

The morning began the same way it always did at Midunu House.

Cocoa beans rolled slowly in a wide pan, their shells loosening with quiet pops as heat worked its way inward. A tray of freshly tempered truffles rested nearby, their surfaces catching the light. Someone crushed ginger in an asanka — the traditional stone pestle — sharp and bright. Another measured out West African five spice, careful not to rush.

Ananse watched from the corner, unimpressed.

“So much time,” he muttered. “So many steps.”

When the room cleared, he slipped forward. He scooped cocoa powder into a pot, added milk, stirred quickly, then reached for what he could find — a pinch of spice here, a flick of heat there. He worked fast, pleased with himself.

The liquid warmed. Steam rose.

He tasted it.

Ananse paused.

It wasn’t unpleasant. But it didn’t linger. The heat arrived and disappeared. The flavor stopped where it began.

He frowned and added more — a sharper hand with the ginger, a bolder shake of spice. He stirred harder, as if speed alone could fix it.

Behind him, a chair shifted.

An older woman sat near the doorway, holding a cup that had clearly waited its turn. She didn’t look at him.

“Some things,” she said, almost to herself, “don’t respond to pressure.”

Ananse bristled. “Chocolate is chocolate,” he replied. “If it’s warm, it’s ready.”

She took a sip. Set the cup down.

“You can make it hot,” she said. “That part is easy.”

Ananse said nothing.

Guests began to arrive — sandals tapping softly on the floor as they were welcomed into the tasting room. Afternoon light rested quietly across the tables. Cups were poured. Conversations unfolded. The pot Ananse had rushed sat untouched on the stove.

By midday, Ananse had gone.

The guests lingered.

Someone poured the shortcut brew away. Another pot was set on the stove — this one left to take its time. Cups were passed. The room settled back into its familiar rhythm.

Ananse did not return.

But later, as the last guests stood to leave, someone set aside a small cup — not rushed, not hurried — and placed it near the doorway.

Would Ananse learn that waiting was part of the work?
Or would he return tomorrow, convinced there was still a faster way?

Well… that is a story for another time.

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