Anansi and the Wisdom Tree

Agoo! my clever children, gather close as the evening fire crackles and sends sparks dancing toward the stars. Tonight I shall tell you of Anansi the spider and the great Wisdom Tree, a tale that will teach you why knowledge shared grows stronger, while knowledge hoarded withers like fruit left too long in the sun. Listen well, for this story explains why wisdom is scattered throughout the world instead of being kept in one place, and why every person—great or small, young or old—carries some piece of the great understanding.

In the time when the earth was still learning its own shape and the sky was deciding what color blue should be, Anansi the spider lived in a magnificent web stretched between two mighty baobab trees at the edge of the great forest. Now, you must understand that Anansi in those days was already known throughout the land for his cleverness, but his cleverness was like a sharp knife that cut only for his own benefit.

Unlike his later adventures where his tricks would sometimes help others, in these early days Anansi’s heart was small and selfish. He hoarded his clever schemes like a miser hoards gold, sharing his knowledge only when it would bring him some advantage.

“Why should I teach others what I know?” he would say to himself as he sat in his web, watching the world below. “If everyone becomes as clever as I am, then what makes me special? No, it is better to keep my wisdom to myself and let others marvel at my intelligence.”

One morning, as the sun painted the forest gold and the birds began their daily symphony, Anansi noticed something strange happening in the deepest part of the woodland. A tree was growing there—but not growing in any normal way. This tree sprouted upward so fast that Anansi could actually watch it rise, its trunk thickening, its branches spreading, its leaves unfurling like green hands reaching toward the light.

But strangest of all, as the tree grew, Anansi began to hear voices coming from it—not the whisper of wind through leaves, but actual words spoken in languages he had never heard before, carrying ideas that made his spider brain tingle with excitement.

“How curious,” Anansi said to himself, his eight eyes glittering with interest. “What kind of tree speaks? And what secrets might it hold?”

Being Anansi, he could not resist investigating. He scrambled down from his web and scuttled through the forest, his legs moving like drumsticks keeping time to his racing thoughts. As he drew closer to the strange tree, the voices grew clearer, and Anansi realized with growing amazement that he was listening to the accumulated wisdom of all the ages.

The tree—which was indeed no ordinary tree but the legendary Nyansa Dua, the Wisdom Tree—contained within its trunk, branches, and leaves every piece of knowledge that had ever existed or ever would exist. Mathematical formulas that could solve any problem, agricultural techniques that could make the desert bloom, healing remedies that could cure any disease, philosophical insights that could answer life’s deepest questions—all of it was held within this miraculous tree.

As Anansi listened, his mind reeled with the possibilities. Here was knowledge beyond his wildest dreams, wisdom that could make him the most powerful being in all creation. Why, with such knowledge, he could solve any problem, answer any question, outwit any opponent!

But then, as his excitement grew, a troubling thought crept into his mind like a shadow across the sun. “What if others discover this tree?” he wondered. “What if they come and listen to its wisdom? Then I will no longer be the cleverest creature in the world. Everyone will be as wise as I am—or possibly wiser!”

The idea filled Anansi with such dread that he began to pace back and forth at the base of the tree, his legs clicking against the forest floor like an anxious rhythm. “I must do something,” he muttered. “I must find a way to keep this wisdom for myself alone.”

Being Anansi, it did not take him long to devise a plan. He would uproot the Wisdom Tree and carry it to the highest mountain in the land, where no one else could reach it. There, he would build his web around it and guard it jealously, allowing only himself to benefit from its incredible knowledge.

“Yes,” he said, rubbing his front legs together with glee. “I will be the sole keeper of all wisdom. People will have to come to me for every answer, beg me for every solution. They will make me offerings, sing my praises, bow down before my superior intelligence!”

Without wasting another moment, Anansi began to dig around the base of the Wisdom Tree. It was hard work for a spider, even one as determined as he, but his greed gave him strength. He dug and scraped with his legs until finally the tree’s roots came loose from the earth.

To his surprise, the uprooted tree became light as a feather in his grasp—the wisdom within it seeming to make it float rather than weigh it down. Anansi easily lifted the entire tree onto his back and began the long journey to Mount Krobo, the highest peak in the land.

As he traveled, carrying his precious burden, the Wisdom Tree continued to whisper its secrets. Anansi heard the formulas for creating rain during drought, the songs that could make crops grow in winter, the words that could heal broken hearts and mend shattered friendships. With each step, his excitement grew, but so did his paranoia about protecting his treasure.

“I must hide this tree where absolutely no one can find it,” he told himself. “Not on the mountaintop where it might be visible, but in a cave deep within the mountain itself. Yes, that’s perfect. No one will ever think to look there.”

The climb up Mount Krobo was treacherous, with steep cliffs and narrow paths that would challenge even the most sure-footed goat. But Anansi was determined, and the lightness of the tree made his burden manageable. As he climbed higher and higher, leaving the forest far below, he began to feel a sense of triumph.

“Soon,” he panted to himself, “all the wisdom in the world will be mine alone!”

But as he neared the summit, looking for the perfect cave to hide his treasure, something unexpected happened. A small voice called out from far below, echoing up the mountain face like a bird song.

“Uncle Anansi! Uncle Anansi! Where are you going with that beautiful tree?”

Anansi looked down and saw, to his great annoyance, a young boy from the village climbing up after him. The child was small and thin, his clothes patched and worn, but his eyes sparkled with the same curiosity that had once driven Anansi himself to seek out new knowledge.

“Go away, little pest!” Anansi called down irritably. “This is none of your business!”

But the boy continued climbing, his small hands finding holds in the rock that Anansi had missed. “But Uncle Anansi,” the child called, “why are you carrying that tree up the mountain? Trees grow better in soil than in rocks, don’t they?”

“Mind your own affairs!” Anansi snapped, but privately he was impressed by the boy’s climbing skill. How had such a small child managed to follow him so far up the treacherous mountain?

“Uncle Anansi,” the boy said as he drew closer, “if you’re trying to plant that tree somewhere safe, wouldn’t it be better to plant it in the village where everyone could enjoy its shade and fruit? My grandmother always says that good things should be shared, not hidden away.”

At the word “shared,” Anansi felt a chill run through his eight legs. “Shared?” he repeated in horror. “Who said anything about sharing? This tree is mine, and mine alone!”

“But Uncle,” said the boy, now close enough that Anansi could see the genuine puzzlement in his young face, “what good is a tree that gives shade to only one person? What joy is there in fruit that only one mouth can taste? My father says that happiness multiplies when it’s divided, but becomes smaller when it’s hoarded.”

The simple wisdom of the child’s words hit Anansi like a lightning bolt. Here was this small boy, with no formal education, no special training, no access to the secrets of the universe—and yet he understood something about wisdom that Anansi, for all his cleverness, had missed entirely.

“You don’t understand,” Anansi said, but his voice lacked its usual confidence. “This is not an ordinary tree. This tree contains all the wisdom of the world. If I share it, then everyone will be as wise as I am!”

The boy tilted his head thoughtfully. “But Uncle Anansi, if everyone is wise, wouldn’t that make the world a better place? Wouldn’t that mean less suffering, less ignorance, less fear? And if you were the one who brought that wisdom to the world, wouldn’t people remember you as the greatest hero who ever lived?”

As the child spoke these words, something extraordinary happened. The Wisdom Tree on Anansi’s back began to grow warm, and its whispered voices grew louder. But now, instead of speaking of formulas and techniques, the tree was speaking of love and generosity, of the joy that comes from lifting others up rather than keeping them down.

“True wisdom,” whispered the tree in a voice like wind through leaves, “is not meant to be possessed by one but shared among all. Knowledge hoarded becomes stagnant like water in a stopped pond. Knowledge shared flows like a living river, growing stronger as it goes.”

Anansi felt his grip on the tree loosening, not because he was tired, but because his heart was opening to a truth he had never considered. What would be the point of being the wisest creature in the world if he had to live in that world alone, surrounded by ignorance and suffering that he could ease but chose not to?

“But,” he said weakly, making one last attempt to justify his selfishness, “if I give away the wisdom, what will make me special?”

The little boy smiled—a smile so bright it seemed to light up the entire mountain. “Uncle Anansi, what could be more special than being the one who chose to make everyone else special too?”

At that moment, Anansi understood. He had been so focused on being superior to others that he had forgotten the greatest superiority of all—the choice to use one’s gifts in service of something larger than oneself.

With a deep breath that seemed to come from the very center of his being, Anansi lifted the Wisdom Tree high above his head. “You are right, little teacher,” he said to the boy. “Wisdom belongs to everyone, not just to me.”

And with that, he hurled the Wisdom Tree high into the sky, where it exploded like a burst of golden light, scattering its knowledge in countless directions across the earth. Seeds of wisdom rained down like stars, taking root in every corner of the world—in the minds of farmers and kings, children and elders, the learned and the simple.

Some seeds became the wisdom of mothers who know how to comfort crying babies. Others became the knowledge of craftsmen who can shape wood and metal into useful tools. Still others became the insight of storytellers who can weave truth into tales that teach and delight.

The boy, watching this magnificent sight with wonder-filled eyes, clapped his hands in joy. “Oh, Uncle Anansi! Look how beautiful it is! Look how the wisdom spreads everywhere!”

Anansi watched too, and for the first time in his life, felt true pride—not the pride of possession, but the pride of having done something genuinely good. As the last seeds of wisdom scattered and took root, he felt something wonderful happening within himself. Instead of becoming less wise as he had feared, he felt wiser than ever before—for he had learned the greatest wisdom of all.

“Little friend,” he said to the boy, “you have taught me something more valuable than all the knowledge in that tree. You have taught me that the truest wisdom is knowing when to share what you have.”

From that day forward, Anansi used his cleverness differently. Instead of hoarding his tricks and schemes, he began to use them to help others, to solve problems for his community, to bring laughter and learning to children like the boy who had shown him the way.

And that is why, my children, wisdom is not found in only one place or one person, but is scattered throughout the world like seeds on the wind. Every grandmother has her portion of wisdom about healing and love. Every farmer carries knowledge about the earth and growing things. Every child possesses insights that can teach even the wisest adults.

The little boy, whose simple questions had changed Anansi’s heart forever, grew up to become a great teacher himself, always remembering that the most profound truths often come from the most unexpected sources. And Anansi, whenever he met someone hoarding knowledge or keeping good things to themselves, would tell them the story of the Wisdom Tree and ask them the same question the boy had asked him: “What good is a blessing that only one person can enjoy?”

Years later, when people would ask Anansi why he had given up the chance to be the sole keeper of all wisdom, he would smile and say, “Because I learned that the greatest magic trick of all is making everyone else magical too.”

Agoo! my wise little ones, the stars shine bright and the story is complete. Remember that knowledge is like the fire around which we sit—it becomes more valuable when it is shared, lighting the way for others without diminishing our own flame. The wisdom within you is meant not just for yourself, but for the entire world family to which you belong.

Amee!