The Perils of Good Intentions:
Lessons about Mansa Musa and marital harmony
It was a lazy evening when my wife and I tuned into the news, only to be bombarded by yet another tale of government spending gone awry—a multi-billion-dollar infrastructure project ballooning into a black hole of delays and overruns. As the anchor droned on about taxpayer dollars vanishing into thin air, my wife turned to me with that earnest look she gets when injustice is afoot. "You know," she said, "the government should just give the money to the poor. At least then it would actually help people." Her heart, as big as the Sahara Desert, was in the right place but the economist in me saw holes in her plan right away. As I sat there, nodding along, my mind wandered to the dusty annals of history, where good intentions paved a road straight to economic chaos. (I kept these thoughts to myself, of course—after all, discretion is the better part of valor, especially when it comes to marital harmony.) Specifically, my thoughts fell upon the legendary Mansa Musa of the 14th-century Mali Empire, whose lavish generosity stemmed from a genuine desire to aid the needy.
Mansa Musa, often hailed as the richest person in history with a fortune that would make Elon say, “That might be too much”, embarked on his famous Hajj pilgrimage to Mecca in 1324. Mansa's trek was a monumental undertaking, involving a caravan of tens of thousands of people, including soldiers, slaves, officials, and merchants, along with hundreds of camels laden with gold bars, dust, and other treasures. The journey spanned over 2,700 miles from West Africa through the Sahara Desert to Mecca, passing through key cities like Cairo in Egypt. True to Islamic principles of charity (zakat) and his devout faith, Musa distributed vast quantities of gold along the route—gifting it to the poor, scholars, pilgrims, and local rulers, as well as funding the construction of mosques and madrasas. His intent was noble: to aid the needy, spread goodwill, and fulfill religious obligations, reflecting a spirit of altruism and empire-building diplomacy.
Sounds great? Well, this wouldn’t be much of a cautionary tale if it had a happy ending. This flood of gold into regional markets had unforeseen negative consequences. In Cairo alone, where he spent several months, Musa's entourage reportedly spent and gave away so much gold—equivalent to tons—that it saturated the local economy, causing the price of gold to plummet by as much as 25%. This devaluation persisted for years (some accounts suggest up to a decade or more), leading to widespread inflation in the prices of goods and services as the suddenly abundant gold lost its purchasing power. What started as acts of benevolence effectively disrupted trade, eroded savings for those holding gold-based wealth, and created economic instability across North Africa and the Middle East. Merchants and everyday people faced higher costs for essentials, and recovery was slow, with some regions experiencing a prolonged slump. Ironically, while Musa's actions elevated Mali's global prestige and drew scholars and traders back to his empire (boosting Timbuktu as a center of learning), the short-term fallout highlighted how injecting excessive liquidity—whether gold in medieval times or fiat money today—can backfire by diluting value and sparking unintended hardship.
We saw a modern parallel during the COVID-19 pandemic, when the U.S. government unleashed an unprecedented wave of relief spending totaling around $4.6–5 trillion across major packages like the $2.2 trillion CARES Act (2020) and the $1.9 trillion American Rescue Plan (2021), including direct stimulus checks, enhanced unemployment benefits, and aid to businesses and states. The goal was compassionate and urgent: cushion the blow of lockdowns, job losses, and economic shutdowns, preventing a deeper depression and helping millions stay afloat. Yet, this massive influx of money—combined with supply chain disruptions and pent-up demand as the economy reopened—contributed significantly to inflation surging to a peak of 9.1% in June 2022, the highest in four decades. When we compound the annual inflation rates from the COVID era, U.S. consumer prices rose by roughly 22–23% overall—echoing how Mansa Musa's flood of gold devalued the metal and drove up the cost of everyday goods across entire regions.
Fast-forward to today, and we see echoes of this in modern policy debates. What if, in the spirit of direct help, we gave $1,000,000 to every household in the bottom income quintile—the lowest 20%, where incomes typically fall under about $30,000 annually? With roughly 134 million total U.S. households, that bottom fifth encompasses around 26-27 million households, so the total payout would clock in at a mind-boggling $26-27 trillion—nearly the size of the entire annual U.S. GDP. Tone it down to a still enormous $100,000 each? That's $2.6-2.7 trillion, comparable to major stimulus packages but targeted solely at the poorest fifth.
Sure, the intent is pure: catapult those 60-65 million people in low-income households out of poverty overnight. But just as Musa's gold giveaway diluted its value, this mass injection would ignite severe inflation, eroding purchasing power for everyone. And here's a thornier hypothetical: imagine your family earns just over that cutoff—say, in the second or third quintile, scraping by on $40,000 or $70,000 a year. Suddenly, millions below you leapfrog into millionaire status (or at least six-figure windfalls), thrusting them up the socioeconomic ladder while inflation and potential resentment push middle groups downward in relative terms. Class battles could erupt: envy, policy backlash, demands for "fairness" extensions, or even social unrest as the newly enriched buy up homes, goods, and opportunities, pricing out those who "missed the cutoff." We've seen milder versions in lottery winners disrupting small communities or targeted aid sparking division
The lesson? Generosity without guardrails is a double-edged sword. Mansa Musa's trek teaches us that true help demands sustainability: invest in education, infrastructure, or skills training that builds lasting wealth, not fleeting windfalls. In our era of "boondoggles," perhaps policymakers should channel Musa's spirit but temper it with economics 101. Direct aid can work in targeted doses—like poverty alleviation programs—but blanket giveaways risk turning gold into fool's gold.
All that said, I sincerely hope my wife never stumbles across this post. Why tempt fate when a simple nod and an “absolutely, dear” keeps everything running smoothly? As every husband who values a joyous union eventually learns, sometimes the wisest move is to agree enthusiastically that the government should just hand out the cash… and then quietly pray the economists are on speed dial if anyone ever listens!
If this piece got you thinking about history, economics, or the fine art of marital diplomacy, I’d love to hear from you. Drop me an email at Jeremiah.Bauman@LPL.com or give me a call at 661-302-4531 —I’m always up for a good conversation about money, policy, or why good intentions sometimes need a reality check. Thanks for reading!