By Dr Rahim Said
Last week we explored how the poor stretched their MyKasih RM100 to survive. This week, we see something more powerful: how RM100, in the right hands, can spark dignity, pride, and growth.
Consider the makers of peknga, as the milk (coconut and dairy)-infused pancake is known in Kedah lingo. It’s also called Lempeng Kelapa in Kelantan and Terengganu.
With nothing more than flour, milk, santan (coconut milk), sugar, and a hot griddle, this weekend entrepreneur turns RM100 into a thriving micro-business. The breakdown is simple but inspiring.
A 10kg bag of flour costs RM32. Three cartons of milk add up to RM18. Two kg of santan come to RM30. A kg of sugar is RM2.85. Salt is often given freely by neighbours. In all, the start-up capital is just RM85—well within the RM100 MyKasih aid.
From that, the magic begins. One kg of flour makes about 20 pieces of peknga, each sold at RM2. With 10 kg of flour, the stall produces 200 pieces every morning.
By eleven o’clock, the pekngaare gone, leaving RM400 in sales. Work three mornings a week—Friday through Sunday—and the total reaches RM1,200. That is not survival money. That is a pathway out of dependency.
Step into the lane where the peknga stall sits, and the story comes alive. By dawn, the air is thick with the smell of coconut milk and flour crisping on the griddle. The sizzling sound draws neighbours from their homes. Customers line up with folded RM5 notes, waiting for their warm, fragrant peknga wrapped in paper.
Behind the griddle, husband and wife work side by side, batter in one hand and spatula in the other. Their children help pack, passing on not just food but the lesson that hard work can create abundance.
What looks like a humble pancake is, in truth, an economic blueprint. If one stall can do it, why not 10? Why not a cooperative of peknga makers pooling resources, sharing supplies, and reaching larger markets?
Imagine community kitchens in low-cost flats and kampungs, where families use MyKasih as seed capital to start businesses. Imagine neighbourhood bazaars alive with vendors, each turning RM100 of aid into hundreds more.
But why stop there? The peknga model has potential to scale. From roadside stalls to food trucks. From weekend sales to weekday catering. From hand-wrapped pieces to branded packs on supermarket shelves.
With Malaysia’s love for street food and the world’s appetite for authentic flavours, peknga could even travel abroad as our very own kampung pancake—joining roti canai and frozen prata as an export success.
But beyond numbers and scaling lies something more profound: dignity. The peknga makers did not see RM100 as a ceiling. They saw it as a beginning. They did not wait for grand committees or complicated policies. They acted.
And in doing so, they turned a welfare token into a foundation of self-respect and resilience.
This is the real story of the MyKasih aid. Not handouts that vanish in days, but opportunities that spark hope. Not dependency, but creativity. Not pity, but pride.
So here lies the challenge: what if policymakers and NGOs recognised this potential? Instead of endless debates over aid mechanisms, why not channel resources into micro-enterprise training, community kitchens, shared equipment, and small business support? One griddle can lift a family. Ten can lift a community. A thousand can reshape the grassroots economy.
The peknga makers’ story shows us what Malaysia’s poor have always known: survival is an art, and enterprise is born of necessity.
When given even the smallest chance, they will innovate, adapt, and succeed. The role of government and society is not to hand out fish endlessly, but to equip more people with rods, nets, and ponds.
Because sometimes, all it takes is a little flour, a dash of santan, and the courage to begin.
WE