When I was young—no taller than the grazing calves—I would walk beside my grandfather to Lare Forest. The forest was alive in ways I did not yet understand. The wind spoke in riddles, the birds argued like elders in council, and the earth itself seemed to remember stories older than memory.
On one such day, as the sun stretched long fingers through the branches and the cows grazed lazily, my grandfather leaned on his staff and looked at me with eyes that had seen many seasons. He asked, “My child, when does a person know he is wealthy? And when does he know he walks among wealthy men?” I laughed a little, for to me the answer was simple, as simple as counting cattle at dusk.
“Grandfather,” I said, “a person is wealthy when he has a thousand cows. And he walks with wealthy men when his friends also have a thousand cows.” My grandfather smiled—but it was the kind of smile that carries a lesson behind it.
“My child,” he said gently, “that is not the measure of wealth.” His words puzzled me. I watched the cows, thinking perhaps I had counted wrongly—not the cows, but the meaning of them. So I asked again, “Then how will a person know he is wealthy? And how will he know his friends are wealthy?”
My grandfather lifted his staff and pointed toward the trees where a lone bird cried out, sharp and unsettling. Then he said, slowly, as if placing each word carefully into my heart, “Itonga igírí itírí nyoni.” I frowned, for I did not yet understand. He turned to me and explained, “Two rich people do not wish each other a bird of ill omen.” He let the words settle like dust after a long journey.
Then he continued, “A person is truly wealthy when his heart carries no ill will toward others. When he does not wish misfortune, when he does not rejoice at another’s fall, when he walks with clean intentions—that is wealth.” He looked out over the grazing cattle, then back at me. “And if his friends do not wish him harm, if they guard his name in his absence, if they pray for his well-being rather than his downfall—then those friends are also wealthy.”
That day, the forest grew quieter, as if it too was listening. The cows still grazed. The birds still called. But something inside me had changed. I began to see that wealth was not counted in horns and hooves, but in the unseen things—intentions, kindness, and the absence of envy. And now, I am the storyteller. So I ask you, as my grandfather once asked me, “Are you wealthy? And are your friends wealthy?”
On one such day, as the sun stretched long fingers through the branches and the cows grazed lazily, my grandfather leaned on his staff and looked at me with eyes that had seen many seasons. He asked, “My child, when does a person know he is wealthy? And when does he know he walks among wealthy men?” I laughed a little, for to me the answer was simple, as simple as counting cattle at dusk.
“Grandfather,” I said, “a person is wealthy when he has a thousand cows. And he walks with wealthy men when his friends also have a thousand cows.” My grandfather smiled—but it was the kind of smile that carries a lesson behind it.
“My child,” he said gently, “that is not the measure of wealth.” His words puzzled me. I watched the cows, thinking perhaps I had counted wrongly—not the cows, but the meaning of them. So I asked again, “Then how will a person know he is wealthy? And how will he know his friends are wealthy?”
My grandfather lifted his staff and pointed toward the trees where a lone bird cried out, sharp and unsettling. Then he said, slowly, as if placing each word carefully into my heart, “Itonga igírí itírí nyoni.” I frowned, for I did not yet understand. He turned to me and explained, “Two rich people do not wish each other a bird of ill omen.” He let the words settle like dust after a long journey.
Then he continued, “A person is truly wealthy when his heart carries no ill will toward others. When he does not wish misfortune, when he does not rejoice at another’s fall, when he walks with clean intentions—that is wealth.” He looked out over the grazing cattle, then back at me. “And if his friends do not wish him harm, if they guard his name in his absence, if they pray for his well-being rather than his downfall—then those friends are also wealthy.”
That day, the forest grew quieter, as if it too was listening. The cows still grazed. The birds still called. But something inside me had changed. I began to see that wealth was not counted in horns and hooves, but in the unseen things—intentions, kindness, and the absence of envy. And now, I am the storyteller. So I ask you, as my grandfather once asked me, “Are you wealthy? And are your friends wealthy?”
