Does your business behave like a cheapskate?

I notice a disturbing trend in the favourite candies I have enjoyed since childhood. The quantities per piece or packet have been gradually shrinking. The packaging is often cheaper and more shoddy. And there is variation in quality depending on the target market: here in Africa, for example, there seems to be an assumption that we can be offered lesser quality, perhaps because we wouldn’t notice anyway.

And I think to myself: you total cheapskates.

This doesn’t just happen in confectionery. Your TV streaming service will routinely offer less variety to lesser markets, even though we pay just as much—or more—for the privilege of being underserved. Your insurer may grab your attention with eye-popping coverage amounts—and then run for the hills under cover of protective clauses when you actually lodge a claim someday. Your bank will blast you with relentless, inane advertising right there in your mobile app, getting in the way of what you came there to do—which is to complete a transaction quickly.

You might see it in air travel. Legroom is vanishing. Seats are narrower. Meals have shrunk to snacks. Service has become surly. And the tickets aren’t any cheaper—in fact, you now have to pay to choose a seat, to check in a bag, to dare to breathe on the plane. And dynamic pricing means that you can never be sure that you’re getting a fair price for that seat on that day. This troubles passengers and makes predicting trip budgets in advance very difficult. 

Everywhere you look, someone is trying to give you a little less while pretending nothing’s changed. Shouldn’t these businesses care? Oh wait—of course. I clean forgot. You’re all in the profit-maximisation business, not the customer-satisfaction business.

All this short-changing? It’s not even smart—unless your idea of smart is whatever tricks customers and generates quick, short-lived returns. Harming the customer experience is the worst kind of short-termism. It’s the path to long-term decline. Squeezing the customer only works for so long. The damage piles up quietly: goodwill evaporates, loyalty erodes, trust vanishes. Eventually, the customer starts to drift. Then bolt. And then talk to others.

The smart approach is altogether different. It regards customers as the linchpins of the business, not the dummies. The lifeblood, not the mark. It offers honour and respect–at every price point and every budget. It does not engage in trickery and deception. It plays long, in other words. It doesn’t make quality contingent on location, or generosity something to be rationed.

Great businesses know this. They don’t just serve; they uplift. They offer consistency, transparency, and value—not just in product, but in spirit. They don’t erode experiences to edge margins. They build experiences that build loyalty.

Look at the ones that last. The ones that customers speak about with affection, even reverence. They don’t play the game of “how much can we take away before anyone notices?” They ask instead: “how much more can we give—without asking for anything in return right now?”

Because playing long means playing generous.

That’s how reputations are built. That’s how emotional connection is earned. That’s how brands become verbs, and companies become companions. We remember who treated us fairly. Who showed up when they didn’t have to. Who gave more than was necessary. And in the end, it’s not the cheapskates who win. It’s the ones who made us feel seen.

So go ahead and shrink the bar. Cut the legroom. Load the app with noise. Do what you must, if the next quarter is all you care about. Don’t read this column, because it’s not your friend. But if you’re here to matter—for decades, not months—then give us something real. Something enduring. Something we’ll never forget.

Let me applaud the few businesses that do still care—those rare ones that regard customers as ends, not means. Who understand that delivering genuine value to people, easing a burden or brightening a moment, carries a quiet nobility. Who see the customer not as a walking wallet, but as a fellow human navigating a hard world.

Where this ethos lives, it starts from the very top. If the founders, owners, and shareholders care about building something meaningful—not just milking it—then the organisation can care, too. A bigger deal in the boardroom leads to better treatment in the back office, on the shop floor, and in the customer inbox.

But if the only agenda at the top table is more moolah, no matter the method—then cheapskatery will trickle down like a poisoned stream. The rot begins with the mindset. Treat people as margins, and you’ll create a business that leaks meaning even as it chases money.

You can always tell when a company is built around purpose. It’s in the way the support team responds, the way the store assistant speaks, the way the product feels. It’s in the absence of gimmicks. The presence of dignity. The steady hum of respect. Those are the businesses we return to. The ones we recommend, defend, even love. Not because they’re the cheapest, but because they don’t treat us cheaply.

(Sunday Nation, 13 April 2025)

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