Abu could never forget the day he first realized he was “a rich man.” It wasn’t the day he earned his first salary, nor the day he graduated from university. It was back in secondary school, on an ordinary morning, when a small act of friendship revealed a big truth about life.
His father was a modest civil servant who managed to give him ₦200 daily for feeding and dropped him off at school on a motorcycle. To Abu, that was simply normal. He had a close friend, Ibrahim, who always trekked to school and never bought anything during break time. Whenever Abu invited him to eat, Ibrahim would smile faintly and say he was fine or that he had already eaten. For months, Abu believed him, until curiosity and concern got the better of him.
One day, he asked directly, “Why do you never eat?” After a long pause and a shy smile, Ibrahim whispered, “I don’t have money. I’m from a poor family. I’m not like you—you’re from a rich family.”
The words hit Abu like a stone. His eyes welled with tears. Rich family? That was the first time he had ever heard himself described that way. At that moment, something shifted in his young heart. Out of compassion, and perhaps guilt, he decided to share. “From now on,” he told Ibrahim, “I’ll give you ₦100 every day, and I’ll save ₦100. I’ll also stop letting my father take me to school. We’ll walk together.”
That innocent decision marked the beginning of a lifelong principle. Abu discovered a strange joy in sharing, even when it meant having less for himself. Over time, he became known for helping classmates, supporting friends, and still finding ways to save. Each time he remembered Ibrahim’s words, he would smile and say to himself, “So, I am a rich man.”
Years later, after graduating from university, Abu joined the state civil service as a senior officer. He was sure that this time, life would be easier. He could finally afford the fine clothes, better meals, and a few comforts he had long desired. But when the first salary came, reality struck. The money vanished faster than it arrived. Every month ended with the same surprise—emptiness.
Then one day, his younger sister Azumi, whom he helped raise, blurted out in frustration, “Brother, you’re always complaining! You work, you earn, but you act as if you’re poor. Aren’t you supposed to be rich by now?”
Her words pierced him deeply. For a moment, he sat still, lost in thought. He remembered Ibrahim again. Back then, as a boy living on his father’s allowance, he was called rich. Now, as a working adult earning his own income, he was called poor. Something was not right with that equation.
Abu realized then that wealth was not about what one has, but what one does with what one has. A person is rich when they can share, no matter how small. Poverty, he thought, begins not in the pocket, but in the heart. “No,” he told himself quietly, “I am a rich man, not because I have more, but because I can give more.”
That mindset changed everything. Abu began to see that true wealth lies in contentment, generosity, and emotional intelligence, the ability to see abundance where others see scarcity. As the Stoic philosopher Seneca once wrote, “It is not the man who has too little, but the man who craves more, that is poor.”
Over time, he observed how people who earned much more than he did often complained of having little. They had traded contentment for consumption, generosity for greed. Many could once share food in school or lend a hand to friends, but now, despite earning in six figures, they struggled to send even a recharge card to a relative without grumbling.
Abu began to understand a paradox: in the pursuit of luxury, many lose their ability to live. A man earning ₦500,000 a month but desiring ₦600,000 worth of pleasures is poorer than one earning ₦50,000 but content with ₦40,000 needs. Riches, he realized, are not measured by possessions but by limited desires.
Society, he noticed, had drifted. The “rich men” of today, those chasing private jets, designer clothes, and exotic brands, often appear more desperate and restless than those living modestly. Wealth, without discipline, becomes a trap. As Aristotle once said, “The more you have, the more you are occupied; the less you have, the more you are free.”
Abu’s reflections extended to politics, too. He noticed that those who claim entitlement to power, the former governors, ministers, and senators, often behave like small gods, incapable of letting go, clinging to influence as if it were oxygen. Meanwhile, ordinary people, who have little, still find a way to contribute during weddings, funerals, and crises. The poor share out of love; the powerful hoard out of fear.
He came to believe that anyone waiting to “have more” before helping others may never do so. Generosity is not a product of wealth but of will. The moment one begins to act like a giver, one becomes rich, because, in giving, the heart multiplies what the hand releases.
True peace, he realized, comes from gratitude and moderation, the ability to look at one’s life and say, “I have enough.” Those who count what they lack will always feel poor, no matter how high they rise.
Whenever Abu sat down to eat, he asked himself: Which part of this meal is for God? Which part is for good? He remembered an old proverb: “He who eats alone dies alone, but he who shares lives forever.” And that became his life philosophy.
To say “I am a rich man” is not arrogance; it is an affirmation of gratitude, a mindset that cultivates empathy and balance. Psychologists call this positive self-schema, a mental framing that empowers resilience and generosity. By declaring himself rich, Abu conditioned his mind to abundance, not scarcity. He saw giving as proof of wealth, not a threat to it.
And in the end, perhaps that is the greatest secret of all: the truly rich are not those with full pockets, but those with open hearts.
So, like Abu, remind yourself each day—I am a rich man. Not because of what you own, but because of what you can give, how you can love, and how much peace you can spread in a world obsessed with wanting more.
Bagudu can be reached at bagudumohammed15197@gmail.com or on 0703 494 3575.
