The Book I Read in Uganda That Shaped How I Build My Business.

When I first went to Uganda, I did not arrive with a grand plan to save anyone. I was there to explore opportunities, understand the land, and see if beekeeping could work as a real business.

Somewhere along that journey, I chanced upon a book.

It was The Road to Hell: The Ravaging Effects of Foreign Aid and International Charity by Michael Maren.

The title alone was unsettling. The content was even more so.

Maren wrote from experience. He had lived inside the aid system in Africa and later returned as a journalist. His central argument was simple but uncomfortable. Much of foreign aid, despite good intentions, ends up doing long-term harm. Not because people are cruel, but because systems built on recurring help quietly distort behaviour.

Reading that book in Uganda forced me to pause.

It gave language to things I was already sensing on the ground.

People were capable. Resourceful. Hardworking. Yet many systems around them were designed in ways that made waiting safer than trying. Help, when repeated without an exit, changed incentives.

That book shaped how I approached beekeeping from the very beginning.

I knew I did not want to build something that depended on charity, donations, or perpetual support. I wanted a model that respected people enough to expect value creation, accountability, and ownership. That is how social enterprise became the starting point, not the fallback.

How the trap of recurring aid actually works

Years later, when I saw the framework often illustrated as The Trap of Recurring Aid, it perfectly visualised what that book had warned about.

On the recipient’s side, the journey often unfolds in five steps.

It starts with appreciation.

Help arrives at a real moment of need. Gratitude is sincere.

Then comes anticipation.

When help repeats, people begin to look forward to it. Plans subtly adjust.

Next is expectation.

Support is no longer a bonus. It is assumed. Delays create frustration.

Then entitlement creeps in.

Aid begins to feel deserved. The conversation shifts from thank you to why not.

Finally, dependency sets in.

Initiative weakens, risk-taking drops, and autonomy erodes. No one chooses this consciously. The system trains it.

At the same time, donors go through their own journey.

It begins with exhilaration.

Helping feels good. Impact feels visible.

Then a deepening sense of purpose forms.

Being needed becomes meaningful.

Next comes feeling necessary.

The donor believes their presence is essential to survival.

Eventually, feeling essential takes over.

Control replaces trust. Direction replaces support.

When both journeys reach their final step, the outcome is codependency.

The recipient cannot move forward without help. The donor cannot step away without guilt. Everyone stays. No one truly grows.

Why this mattered for beekeeping

Beekeeping does not respond to pity.

Bees do not care about intentions. They respond to systems, discipline, timing, and skill.

Honey only comes when value is created. If you get it wrong, there is no subsidy. No sympathy. No shortcut.

That is exactly why beekeeping made sense as a foundation.

It forced a business mindset from day one. Quality matters. Markets matter. Skills matter. If the honey is not good, no one buys it. If the system does not work, it collapses. That honesty protects dignity.

People are not beneficiaries. They are producers. Partners. Owners of their work.

Income is not given. It is earned through value that others willingly pay for.

Why social enterprise was the obvious choice

Social enterprise avoids the aid trap by design.

There is accountability instead of emotion. Capability instead of reliance. An exit instead of an obligation.

The goal is not to stay forever. The goal is to step back. Which is why I am back in Singapore and my farmers are continuing with their lives.

That perspective came early for me, shaped by what I read and what I observed on the ground in Uganda. It influenced how I chose to build, who I chose to work with, and what kind of impact I was willing to be part of.

The question I still ask today

Every project I am involved in is anchored to one question.

Does this make me less necessary over time?

If the answer is yes, then something meaningful is being built.

If the answer is no, then no matter how kind it sounds, it may already be harming.

That is the lesson I carried from a book I picked up in Uganda. And it continues to shape how I work today.