“What do I do?”
For three hours, he fed it: his arrogance, his hurry, his dismissal of old women and older gods. One by one, the troubles lifted. His wife called, confused about the “Abena” text—a glitch, she said. The grant was restored. The chief’s missing bracelet appeared in a goat’s stomach.
“Take it back,” she said without looking up.
She sighed. “Doctor, you think Asem is a specimen. It is not. It is a debt. You entered the grove not as a scientist, but as a thief. You took what was not given. Now Asem sits in your luggage like a bad relative who will not leave.” Dr. Paa Bobo - Asem Mpe Nipa
He never published the paper. But the next time a student asked him about Ghanaian proverbs, he smiled and said: “Some knowledge is not for export. Some trouble is not a problem to solve. It is a presence to respect.”
He didn’t understand until she pointed at the fungus, now pulsating inside his glass jar. He opened the lid. He placed the plantain inside. The fungus shuddered, then began to sing—a low, mournful tune in a dialect he almost recognized. It was the sound of every apology he had never made.
“I can’t. I… I dissected it. Preserved it in formalin.” “What do I do
Trouble does not like a person. It loves them. It clings. It multiplies. Every step he took to fix one problem birthed three more. His phone played voicemails from his dead mother. His car tires melted into red clay. The more he tried to name the trouble, to analyze it, to write it into a peer-reviewed paper, the worse it became.
The grove was wrong from the start. The trees grew in spirals. The air smelled of wet ash and forgotten arguments. Then he saw it: a single stalk of Cordyceps , glowing faintly orange in the dusk. He knelt to collect it.
He laughed it off. But back in his hotel room, the trouble began. A text from his wife: “Who is Abena? The hotel receptionist says you checked in with her.” He had never met anyone named Abena. The next morning, his research grant was frozen for “ethical violations” he didn’t commit. By noon, the chief accused him of stealing royal artifacts. By evening, his own shadow moved half a second too slow. The grant was restored
By dawn, the Cordyceps had turned to dust. And Dr. Paa Bobo understood at last: Asem mpe nipa does not mean trouble avoids the righteous. It means trouble is not a thing to be collected. It is a mirror. And when you stare too long, the mirror stares back—with your own face, asking why you came looking in the first place.
That’s when the silence fell. Not the quiet of nature—the silence of a courtroom after a verdict.
Frustrated, Paa Bobo decided to hike into the forbidden grove behind the old slave river. His GPS blinked. His latex gloves were snug. His notebook was ready. He was prepared.
Dr. Paa Bobo dismissed it as superstition. He was here to study a rare parasitic fungus, Cordyceps obeisei , which local healers claimed could “eat a man’s secrets.” But the fungus was nowhere to be found. Every sample plot came up empty. Every elder he interviewed grew silent when he mentioned the name.
The villagers had whispered it when he arrived. “Trouble does not like a person,” they’d say, shrugging. “If you seek Asem, Asem will find you.”