Every truck on the street

On a market street in Casablanca, one watermelon seller decided one summer that he would be the only watermelon seller.

He paid the growers a little extra to send their trucks to him and nobody else. He bought out the stall beside his. He kept his prices low until the seller across the road gave up, then let them drift back up. By August, if you wanted a watermelon on that street, you bought it from him.

It looked like winning. It was not.

The work that had made him good in the first place, knowing which melon was ripe, setting one aside for a regular, talking about the weather in the growing fields, slid to the bottom of his list. His days went on control: watching the growers, watching the street, watching for anyone new. He was guarding the market instead of looking after the people in it.

And the street changed. Shoppers used to come because there were five stalls to compare, and the noise of choosing was half the pleasure. With one stall there was nothing to compare and no reason to linger. Some began buying at the bigger market across town. The street he had won was quieter than the one he had joined.

This happens at every size, from a single stall to the largest companies. The ambition to own everything gradually replaces the ambition to be good, and the customers notice before the owner does.

A modest share of a busy street is worth more than the whole of an empty one.