The schoolyard in Mong Kok smelled of chalk, sweat, and fried fish balls from a vendor who stationed himself just outside the gate every afternoon. Boys in white shirts and blue shorts shouted as they kicked a battered football, chasing it across the dusty ground. Teachers tried to herd the younger ones into lines, but order was always fragile here.
Alexander leaned against the wall, his schoolbag clutched loosely in one hand, eyes narrowed. Yesterday he had schemed in the tailor's shop, speaking in riddles about polyester and cheap suits. But here, in this crowded schoolyard, a different opportunity shimmered before him: a market of children, hungry for possessions, status, and snacks.
He pulled a single coin from his pocket and flicked it with his thumb, watching the light glint off its dull surface. Two dollars. Enough to buy fish balls or red bean ice at a stall, and in this world, children traded treats the way adults traded stocks.
"Give me one bite, I'll lend you my eraser."
"I'll trade two bottle caps for your ink pen."
It was crude, unsophisticated—but to Alexander, it was raw capitalism in its purest form. He remembered Wall Street, skyscrapers, governments courting investors. At its heart, it had always been the same principle: people trading what they wanted with what little they had.
And here, surrounded by loud voices and tinkling coins, he saw his laboratory.
That afternoon, as his classmates swarmed the fish-ball stall, Alexander calmly bought two packs of foreign chewing gum from a small grocery near the gate. Foreign candy was still a prize in 1970s Hong Kong—rare, coveted, a luxury.
Sure enough, as soon as he unwrapped the foil, half a dozen pairs of eyes followed him.
"Eh, Ah Lek! Where did you get that?" one boy asked, wide-eyed.
"My cousin gave it to me," Alexander lied smoothly. "They sell it in Tsim Sha Tsui, but it's expensive."
The boy licked his lips. "Can I have one piece?"
Alexander chewed slowly, then pretended to hesitate. "One piece costs fifty cents."
The boy groaned but dug into his pocket and slapped a coin into Alexander's palm. Within ten minutes, he had resold every stick of gum at three times the purchase price. His classmates only saw a treat. He saw the first glimmer of profit.
By the time he returned home, he had made an extra three dollars—enough to double tomorrow's experiment.
But beneath the thrill of small success, caution stirred. He could not become too obvious. A boy making money off classmates might draw the wrong kind of attention. He had lived through entire decades to know how quickly jealousy could turn into danger.
Still, it had worked. He had learned his first lesson here: scarcity and desire would always create opportunity, whether on a schoolyard or in a stock exchange.
That night, as his family ate bowls of congee and stir-fried greens, Alexander observed in silence. His father spoke of tailor clients, while his mother fretted over rising pork prices.
"How many customers today?" she asked.
"Three," his father muttered. "Two bought cheap cloth. One wanted price cut."
Alexander stirred his rice absentmindedly, then said in a small voice, "Papa… if things are too cheap, maybe make packages. Six shirts together, cheaper than one. Like the snacks in school—they sell better when you give more for less."
His father frowned. "And lose money?"
"Not lose. Sell more pieces, faster. Customers come back."
The table went silent. His mother chuckled nervously. "Listen to this boy. Always talking trade."
But Alexander noticed the way his father's jaw clenched, not dismissive this time but thoughtful. Another seed buried.
Later that night, in his notebook, he wrote:
Schoolyard = first experiment in supply and demand. Scarcity inflates value, especially with foreign goods.
Family dinner = test ground for ideas. Repeat suggestion strategies until Father listens.
Rule: Never reveal full knowledge. Act as boy. Plant ideas slowly.
He stared at the last line and added one more, etched in bold letters:
By the end of 1978, I must make my first true investment.
In the dark, as the harbor breeze pushed against the rattling window, Alexander closed his eyes. His mind conjured visions—not of gum or schoolboys, but of neon towers rising, cranes building bridges, money shifting from the suits of bankers into his own pockets.
He murmured into the silence, almost like a prayer:
"All great fortunes begin small. Today it was chewing gum. Tomorrow, land. One step at a time."
The city outside seemed to hum in agreement, as if Victoria Harbour itself understood.