Submitted by Observing
Once upon a time, in a little neighbourhood in Barbados, there stood two houses. Neither was particularly grand, but both were home to families trying to make their way in the world.
The first was run by a matriarch called Ma A.
Now, Ma A was no easy woman. She had rules. Plenty rules.
You washed your dishes, respected others, turned off lights and contributed to the household. Everybody had a say, but everybody had responsibilities. Wrongdoing was punished firmly but fairly, regardless of who you were.
Money was tight. Sometimes dinner was simple. But everybody ate, everybody mattered, and nobody was above the rules. There was a certain peace about that house. Not because everything was perfect, but because everybody knew what it stood for.
Down the road lived Ma B.
Ma B loved appearances. Fresh paint, pretty curtains, a well-swept gallery. She especially enjoyed compliments from people passing by. Inside, however, things were different.
Rules existed, but enforcement depended on who you were. Some could do almost anything. Others needed permission for everything. Meetings were held, but decisions often appeared to have been made beforehand.
Still, Ma B insisted things were going well. And from the road, you could almost believe her.
One day, some wealthy visitors arrived, offering TWICE the going rent for a stay. Twice!
Both matriarchs welcomed them. After all, additional income was useful.
But soon the visitors began leaving dishes in the sink, walking through the house with muddy shoes, playing loud music and inviting friends over without permission. They used all the internet, disturbed everybody’s sleep and eventually started demanding changes to the household itself.
Ma A called a meeting.
“You are welcome here. But this house had standards before you came, and it will have standards after you leave.”
The visitors protested, eventually offering three times the original rent.
Ma A considered the offer. The roof needed repairs. Bills were outstanding. But she thought about the people who had to live there.
“No,” she said. “We will manage. We always have.”
Some visitors left. Others stayed, understanding what was expected.
Down the road, Ma B took a different approach.
The visitors were important people, she explained. They brought money, connections and opportunities. The house was transformed. New furniture arrived, mostly on hire purchase. The outside was repainted. A construction magnate, conveniently a family friend, declared the property worth twice its previous value.
But inside, the culture changed, the visitors gradually became the ones setting the rules. Family members complained. Some were ignored. Others were accused of opposing progress.
A few supported the arrangement enthusiastically because they too could now do as they pleased. Meanwhile, much of the additional rent was being shared between Ma B and her two brothers.
The household was richer on paper. Its members were not necessarily better off. The fridge was full, but sometimes it was locked. The furniture was expensive, but the chairs were uncomfortable. The property value kept rising, yet ordinary life became increasingly difficult.
Years passed.
Ma A’s house remained modest. Repairs were made gradually. Disagreements occurred, and sometimes the rules changed. But fairness, accountability and a sense of belonging remained.
Visitors still came, bringing skills, ideas and resources. Some became permanent members of the household. They were welcomed, but everyone understood that belonging meant contributing, not simply occupying space.
Ma B’s house, meanwhile, looked magnificent.
But community had disappeared. Every favour carried a price. Every repair required negotiation. Some enjoyed privileges while others struggled.
Whenever problems arose, Ma B announced another improvement project.
Another coat of paint. Another set of curtains. Another promise of better days. Another trip to the mall.
One evening, an elderly neighbour watched both houses from his gallery.
“Funny thing, nuh?” he said to his grandson.
“Wha happen, Grandad?”
“One house never had much money, but the people always knew they had a home. The other got more money than ever before, but somehow the people lost the home in the process.”
“So which house better, Grandad?”
The old man smiled.
“That depends on what you think a house is for.”
And that perhaps, is the question.
Is success measured by wealth, property values and impressive appearances? Or by fairness, security, resilience and the well-being of those who belong?
There is nothing wrong with welcoming visitors, attracting money or improving property.
But, what is the value of prosperity if the people who call a place home feel increasingly excluded from it?
Which house would you rather live in?
The blogmaster invites you to join the discussion.