A Level 300 student Pass Away After Drinking Decoction his Malam Gave him for Money Rituals

The campus of Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology (KNUST) was always buzzing with life. From the echoing sounds of lectures at Great Hall to the laughter in Republic Hall, every student carried dreams of success. But in the shadows of those dreams, a new culture thrived—yahoo boys. Young men who lived large, drove cars students could only dream of, and made money not through exams, but through internet fraud.

Among the students was Kwame, a Level 300 Business Administration student. Kwame had tasted poverty all his life. His mother, a market woman in Kumasi Central Market, struggled to pay his fees. His father had died years ago, leaving the burden on her shoulders. Kwame swore that he would not graduate poor.

Every day, he watched his course mates flaunt iPhones, rock designer sneakers, and cruise in sleek rides. Some were ordinary students, but many were yahoo boys. To Kwame, the difference was clear: those with rituals had more money.

The Temptation

It began in Unity Hall, popularly called Conti. Kwame’s roommate, Yaw, was the flashy type—new clothes every weekend, popping bottles at Cubano and Vienna City, and never missing out on the latest gadgets.

One night, Kwame confronted him.

“Yaw, tell me the truth. How do you get all this money? Is it only yahoo?”

Yaw smirked, lowering his voice. “Charlie, yahoo alone won’t take you far. If you want the real cash, you need fortification. You need a malam.”

Kwame frowned. “Rituals? You mean blood money?”

Yaw shook his head. “Not exactly. You won’t kill anyone. You’ll just drink a concoction, and the spirits will make your clients obey you. Bro, you’re too smart to be broke.”

Kwame hesitated, but the thought of struggling with student loans after graduation weighed heavy. He wanted to make his mother proud, to stop her suffering. If I can just make it big, everything will be fine, he thought.

Yaw smiled knowingly. “If you’re serious, I’ll take you to my malam in Asawase.”

The Malam at Asawase

On a Friday evening, Kwame followed Yaw through Kumasi’s busy streets until they reached a secluded compound in Asawase. The air smelled of herbs and smoke. At the center of the room sat the malam, an old man wrapped in white cloth, his eyes sharp and unsettling.

“Young man, why are you here?” the malam asked.

Kwame bowed slightly. “I want wealth. I want to be great.”

The malam chuckled. “Wealth comes at a price. Are you ready?”

“Yes, Baba.”

The malam brought out a black pot covered with cowrie shells and feathers. He mixed herbs, poured palm wine, added powders, and whispered incantations. Finally, he spat into the calabash and stirred.

“Drink this,” he commanded.

Kwame hesitated, the thick black liquid smelling foul. But greed silenced his fear. He gulped it down, coughing violently.

“Good,” the malam said. “You will feel weak tonight. But by tomorrow, money will flow to you like water. Remember, you belong to the spirits now.”

The Sickness

That night in his Brunei hostel room, Kwame could not sleep. His stomach churned, and sweat poured down his face. He felt like knives were cutting him from within.

His girlfriend, Abena, panicked. “Kwame, let’s go to KNUST Hospital. You’re not fine.”

But Kwame shook his head. “It’s just the concoction working. By tomorrow, I’ll be rich.”

The next day, his condition worsened. His eyes turned bloodshot, his belly bloated, and he vomited black liquid that smelled like rot. Still, he refused medical help.

“This is the price of success,” he whispered, clenching his teeth.

By the third day, Kwame collapsed in front of the Business School lecture block. Students screamed as he convulsed on the ground. He was rushed to the hospital, but nothing the doctors did worked. His body shook violently before he fell still.

The Aftermath

Word spread like wildfire across campus: “Yahoo boy dies after drinking malam concoction.”

At Unity Hall, whispers filled the corridors.

“Did you hear? Kwame from Business died o. He wanted to blow quick, but the concoction killed him.”

On social media, the news trended. Some mocked him: Greed killed him. Others pitied him: If only he had waited, maybe life would have been different.

At his funeral in Kumasi, his mother wailed uncontrollably. “Kwame, I told you education was enough! Why did you rush into this?” But her cries changed nothing. Her only son was gone.

Abena, his girlfriend, could not forgive herself. She remembered the night she begged him to see a doctor. She wished she had forced him. But love is blind, and greed had deafened Kwame to every warning.

Yaw disappeared from campus, afraid of being exposed. Some said he went back to the malam. Others claimed he ran to Accra. But one thing was sure—he would not show his face again.

The Lesson

Kwame’s death became a lesson for KNUST students. Lecturers warned their classes:

“Hard work may be slow, but shortcuts end in disaster. Don’t let greed kill you.”

Parents called their children, begging them not to fall into temptation. Even among yahoo boys, fear spread. They still chased money, but few dared to drink a malam’s concoction again.

The clubs Kwame once loved soon forgot him. New boys came, flashing their cash, buying bottles, and dancing with girls. But those who knew his story whispered his name with caution.

In the end, Kwame got what he wanted—attention. But it was short-lived. He traded his future for a dream that lasted only days. Greed promised him gold, but delivered a coffin.

Word Count: ~1,002

Do you want me to make this read like a campus newspaper feature (KNUST Chronicle style), with eyewitness accounts and interviews, or keep it in this narrative cautionary tale style?