by Antonio Napoli

A poor man and a rich man from an African city set out to climb a mountain. Legend spoke of a hidden treasure at its peak, a priceless gift that would change the fate of whoever found it.

The poor man nurtured a hope different from that of the rich man: he did not seek the treasure for himself but wished to bring it to others—to his friends, to those who lived in the same misery. The rich man, on the other hand, longed to find it only to grow even wealthier, adding gold and property to his already vast riches.

During the long journey, the rich man, unaccustomed to hardship, stopped many times, breathless and exhausted. The ascent was an unbearable burden for him. He thought that if the poor man managed to reach the summit, sooner or later, he would have to descend. And at that moment, the rich man would mock him, robbing him of the treasure.

The poor man pressed on, never looking back, determined in his climb, while the rich man, sitting and panting, watched him from afar, resigned to an effort that did not belong to him. And in the end, the poor man reached the summit. But when he came back down, he carried nothing with him.

“Where is the treasure?” asked the rich man, his voice betraying a mix of anxiety and hope.

“The treasure is immense,” replied the poor man with a serene smile. “But it cannot be carried.”

The poor man began to walk away, content, without saying another word, while the rich man remained there, suspended between uncertainty and frustration, unable to understand. So he decided to climb, determined to see with his own eyes what he so desperately craved. With great effort and perseverance, he nearly reached the top, but by then, his exhausted body could go no further. Gasping, he never got the chance to discover the legendary treasure.

And he died, there, just steps from the summit, under the gaze of the poor man who had turned at the sound of that final, ragged breath.

Yet the treasure had always been before the rich man’s eyes: it was not gold or gems. It was the magnificent view of the African land stretching beneath him, the profound stillness that emanated from that solitary peak, the realization—at last—of the vanity of his ambitions. The true treasure, in the end, was the discovery of how ridiculous human arrogance was, how insatiable the thirst for possession.

The poor man continued his descent as the sun set, wrapping the peak in golden light.

That evening, he ran to his people to tell them how he had seen a man chase a mirage to his death. He told them how, despite having before his eyes the greatest of gifts, the rich man had failed to recognize it.

His companions laughed; some shook their heads in pity. One of them asked, “And if you had told him? If you had revealed the secret before he died?”

The poor man shrugged and replied:
“He would not have listened to a man without riches. For those driven only by the desire for possession, the truth—which belongs to the spirit—will never be enough.”

“And we, the poor, can only comfort ourselves with this truth?”

“No, certainly not,” he answered, his eyes flashing. “But the mountain has told me that there is one thing we poor can trust in, and that is the land.”

He paused, then repeated the word with a deep, almost sacred emotion:
“The land.”