When I was young—no taller than the grazing calves and no wiser than a bird chasing its own shadow—I spent many of my days following my grandfather through the hills and forests of our homeland. Those were the years before I knew the weight of responsibility. Before I understood the hidden meanings inside the words of elders. Before life had taught me that some lessons arrive quietly, disguised as ordinary conversations.
My grandfather was a man of the forest. Not because he lived in it, but because he understood it. He knew which trees could heal sickness and which ones carried poison. He knew where the bees hid their honey and where leopards preferred to sleep. He could read animal tracks the way educated people read books.
When he walked through the forest, he never seemed lost. The forest knew him. And he knew the forest. Many mornings, before the sun climbed high enough to warm the hills, he would take me with him to Lare Forest. I loved those journeys. The forest was alive in ways I did not yet understand. The wind spoke in riddles through the trees. The birds argued like elders sitting in council. Monkeys scolded one another from the branches. The streams sang songs older than memory. And the earth itself seemed to carry secrets buried long before my grandfather was born.
As we walked, my grandfather rarely hurried. Old men know that wisdom does not run. It walks. Sometimes he would stop for no reason that I could understand. He would stare at a tree. Or watch a bird. Or simply listen. Then he would continue walking. I learned much later that elders often listen to things young people cannot hear.
On one particular day, the sky was clear and blue. The cows grazed peacefully among the trees, tearing at the grass without concern for tomorrow. My grandfather leaned on his staff. For a long time he watched the cattle. Then he turned toward me. His eyes were calm, carrying the wisdom of many seasons.
"My child," he asked, "when does a person know he is wealthy?" I smiled immediately. To me, the answer was obvious. I was a village boy. In our world, wealth had horns. It mooed. It grazed. It reproduced. We counted prosperity in livestock. Without hesitation, I answered. "A person is wealthy when he owns a thousand cows." My grandfather nodded. "And when does he know he walks among wealthy men?" I laughed. "That is easy too." "When his friends also own a thousand cows." The old man smiled. But it was not the smile of agreement. It was the smile elders give when they are preparing to teach. The kind of smile that says: You have answered correctly according to your age. Now let me show you a deeper answer.
He remained silent for a moment. The cows continued grazing. The forest continued speaking its language. Then he said quietly, "My child, that is not the measure of wealth." His words surprised me. I looked at the cattle. Perhaps I had counted wrongly. Perhaps a thousand cows were not enough. Maybe true wealth required two thousand. Or ten thousand. I did not know.
So, I asked him. "Grandfather, if wealth is not measured by cattle, how does a person know he is wealthy?" "And how does he know that his friends are wealthy?" The old man lifted his walking stick. He pointed toward the trees. High above us, a lone bird cried out. Its call was sharp. Unsettling. The kind of sound that makes people stop and look around. My grandfather listened carefully.
Then he spoke. Slowly. Carefully. As elders do when placing wisdom into a young heart. "Itonga igírí itírí nyoni." I stared at him. The words were familiar. The meaning was not. Seeing my confusion, he smiled gently. Then he explained. "Two rich people do not wish each other a bird." He paused. The bird called again from somewhere deep in the forest.
In our traditions, certain birds were considered messengers of misfortune. Their cries carried warnings. Their appearance brought fear. To wish such a bird upon someone was to wish them trouble. To wish them suffering. To wish them loss. My grandfather pointed toward the bird. Then he continued. "A truly wealthy person does not wish misfortune upon another." The forest seemed to grow quieter. I listened carefully. "A wealthy person does not celebrate when another person falls." "He does not smile when his neighbor loses." "He does not pray for another person's failure." "He does not wait eagerly for bad news."
The old man leaned closer. "Wealth begins in the heart." I had never heard such words before. In my young mind, wealth was something a person owned. My grandfather was teaching me that wealth was also something a person became.
He continued. "A poor man may own many cows." "A poor man may own much land." "A poor man may sleep on money." "But if envy fills his heart, he remains poor." The wind moved softly through the trees. The cows lifted their heads briefly and returned to grazing.
My grandfather's voice became softer. "Real wealth is when your heart is free from wishing harm upon others." "When another person succeeds and you are happy." "When another person builds and you celebrate." "When another person prospers and you bless them." "That is wealth." I thought about his words. They felt strange. Yet true.
The old man was not finished. "I also asked how a person knows his friends are wealthy." I nodded. He smiled. "My child, your friends are wealthy when they protect your name in your absence." "When they do not gossip about you." "When they do not rejoice at your mistakes." "When they pray for your success." "When they celebrate your victories." "When they defend you even when you are not present." He pointed toward the forest path. "A poor friend walks beside you while secretly hoping you fail." "A wealthy friend walks beside you while hoping you rise." The elders say, "A friend who envies you is a snake warming itself in your house."
The old man continued. "Many people have companions." "Few people have wealthy friends." I looked at him curiously. "What do you mean?" He laughed softly. "I have seen men share beer together every evening and still hate one another." "I have seen brothers sit on the same bench while secretly wishing each other misfortune." "I have seen relatives smile during the day and curse each other at night." The old man shook his head. "That is poverty." The word surprised me. Because those people often had money. Some owned cattle. Some owned businesses. Some owned land. Yet my grandfather called them poor. He tapped his chest. "Poverty begins here." Then he pointed toward his heart. "And wealth begins here too." The lesson stayed with me.
Years passed. I grew older. I left the forests of my childhood. I met educated people. I met wealthy people. I met successful people. And slowly, I discovered that my grandfather had been right. Some people possess everything yet remain poor in spirit. They cannot celebrate another person's success. They cannot watch another person prosper. They are wounded by another person's blessings. They carry envy like a sickness. Others possess little. Yet they rejoice when others rise. They encourage. They support. They bless. They build. Their hearts are rich. And now I am the storyteller.
My grandfather has long since taken the journey of no return. The cows of those days are gone. The forest paths have changed. The bird he pointed to has probably sung its last song. But the wisdom remains. It walks beside me even now. And so I ask you the same question my grandfather asked me many years ago beneath the trees of Lare Forest. Are you wealthy? Not in cattle. Not in land. Not in money. But in heart. Can you celebrate another person's success without bitterness? Can you bless those who rise higher than you? Can you sincerely wish others well?
My grandfather was a man of the forest. Not because he lived in it, but because he understood it. He knew which trees could heal sickness and which ones carried poison. He knew where the bees hid their honey and where leopards preferred to sleep. He could read animal tracks the way educated people read books.
When he walked through the forest, he never seemed lost. The forest knew him. And he knew the forest. Many mornings, before the sun climbed high enough to warm the hills, he would take me with him to Lare Forest. I loved those journeys. The forest was alive in ways I did not yet understand. The wind spoke in riddles through the trees. The birds argued like elders sitting in council. Monkeys scolded one another from the branches. The streams sang songs older than memory. And the earth itself seemed to carry secrets buried long before my grandfather was born.
As we walked, my grandfather rarely hurried. Old men know that wisdom does not run. It walks. Sometimes he would stop for no reason that I could understand. He would stare at a tree. Or watch a bird. Or simply listen. Then he would continue walking. I learned much later that elders often listen to things young people cannot hear.
On one particular day, the sky was clear and blue. The cows grazed peacefully among the trees, tearing at the grass without concern for tomorrow. My grandfather leaned on his staff. For a long time he watched the cattle. Then he turned toward me. His eyes were calm, carrying the wisdom of many seasons.
"My child," he asked, "when does a person know he is wealthy?" I smiled immediately. To me, the answer was obvious. I was a village boy. In our world, wealth had horns. It mooed. It grazed. It reproduced. We counted prosperity in livestock. Without hesitation, I answered. "A person is wealthy when he owns a thousand cows." My grandfather nodded. "And when does he know he walks among wealthy men?" I laughed. "That is easy too." "When his friends also own a thousand cows." The old man smiled. But it was not the smile of agreement. It was the smile elders give when they are preparing to teach. The kind of smile that says: You have answered correctly according to your age. Now let me show you a deeper answer.
He remained silent for a moment. The cows continued grazing. The forest continued speaking its language. Then he said quietly, "My child, that is not the measure of wealth." His words surprised me. I looked at the cattle. Perhaps I had counted wrongly. Perhaps a thousand cows were not enough. Maybe true wealth required two thousand. Or ten thousand. I did not know.
So, I asked him. "Grandfather, if wealth is not measured by cattle, how does a person know he is wealthy?" "And how does he know that his friends are wealthy?" The old man lifted his walking stick. He pointed toward the trees. High above us, a lone bird cried out. Its call was sharp. Unsettling. The kind of sound that makes people stop and look around. My grandfather listened carefully.
Then he spoke. Slowly. Carefully. As elders do when placing wisdom into a young heart. "Itonga igírí itírí nyoni." I stared at him. The words were familiar. The meaning was not. Seeing my confusion, he smiled gently. Then he explained. "Two rich people do not wish each other a bird." He paused. The bird called again from somewhere deep in the forest.
In our traditions, certain birds were considered messengers of misfortune. Their cries carried warnings. Their appearance brought fear. To wish such a bird upon someone was to wish them trouble. To wish them suffering. To wish them loss. My grandfather pointed toward the bird. Then he continued. "A truly wealthy person does not wish misfortune upon another." The forest seemed to grow quieter. I listened carefully. "A wealthy person does not celebrate when another person falls." "He does not smile when his neighbor loses." "He does not pray for another person's failure." "He does not wait eagerly for bad news."
The old man leaned closer. "Wealth begins in the heart." I had never heard such words before. In my young mind, wealth was something a person owned. My grandfather was teaching me that wealth was also something a person became.
He continued. "A poor man may own many cows." "A poor man may own much land." "A poor man may sleep on money." "But if envy fills his heart, he remains poor." The wind moved softly through the trees. The cows lifted their heads briefly and returned to grazing.
My grandfather's voice became softer. "Real wealth is when your heart is free from wishing harm upon others." "When another person succeeds and you are happy." "When another person builds and you celebrate." "When another person prospers and you bless them." "That is wealth." I thought about his words. They felt strange. Yet true.
The old man was not finished. "I also asked how a person knows his friends are wealthy." I nodded. He smiled. "My child, your friends are wealthy when they protect your name in your absence." "When they do not gossip about you." "When they do not rejoice at your mistakes." "When they pray for your success." "When they celebrate your victories." "When they defend you even when you are not present." He pointed toward the forest path. "A poor friend walks beside you while secretly hoping you fail." "A wealthy friend walks beside you while hoping you rise." The elders say, "A friend who envies you is a snake warming itself in your house."
The old man continued. "Many people have companions." "Few people have wealthy friends." I looked at him curiously. "What do you mean?" He laughed softly. "I have seen men share beer together every evening and still hate one another." "I have seen brothers sit on the same bench while secretly wishing each other misfortune." "I have seen relatives smile during the day and curse each other at night." The old man shook his head. "That is poverty." The word surprised me. Because those people often had money. Some owned cattle. Some owned businesses. Some owned land. Yet my grandfather called them poor. He tapped his chest. "Poverty begins here." Then he pointed toward his heart. "And wealth begins here too." The lesson stayed with me.
Years passed. I grew older. I left the forests of my childhood. I met educated people. I met wealthy people. I met successful people. And slowly, I discovered that my grandfather had been right. Some people possess everything yet remain poor in spirit. They cannot celebrate another person's success. They cannot watch another person prosper. They are wounded by another person's blessings. They carry envy like a sickness. Others possess little. Yet they rejoice when others rise. They encourage. They support. They bless. They build. Their hearts are rich. And now I am the storyteller.
My grandfather has long since taken the journey of no return. The cows of those days are gone. The forest paths have changed. The bird he pointed to has probably sung its last song. But the wisdom remains. It walks beside me even now. And so I ask you the same question my grandfather asked me many years ago beneath the trees of Lare Forest. Are you wealthy? Not in cattle. Not in land. Not in money. But in heart. Can you celebrate another person's success without bitterness? Can you bless those who rise higher than you? Can you sincerely wish others well?
And your friends... Are they wealthy? Do they guard your name when you are absent? Do they pray for your future? Do they rejoice when good things happen to you? Or do they secretly wait for you to stumble? Remember the wisdom of the elders; itonga igírí itírí nyoni. Two truly wealthy people do not wish each other misfortune. For wealth is not measured by what fills your granary. It is measured by what fills your heart. And that, my children, is the story.