All human beings are born entrepreneurs. Some get a chance to

Host: The morning sun spilled through the half-open shutters of a small roadside diner, casting stripes of gold and dust across the checkered floor. A radio in the corner hummed an old folk tune, crackling between frequencies. The smell of coffee, fried eggs, and hope hung in the air — that familiar scent of ordinary dreams in ordinary places.

Jack sat by the window, his sleeves rolled up, hands calloused, his eyes cold steel that reflected the light but absorbed none. Jeeny sat across from him, her hair loose, her notebook open, pen tapping the table with soft rhythm, like she was keeping time with her thoughts.

Jeeny: “Muhammad Yunus once said, ‘All human beings are born entrepreneurs. Some get a chance to unleash that capacity. Some never got the chance…’”
(she smiles faintly, eyes bright) “I’ve always loved that. It’s such a simple truth — that potential isn’t the privilege of a few, it’s the birthright of all.”

Jack: (lets out a low chuckle) “You talk like the world is a fair classroom, Jeeny. It’s not. Some people are born with capital, others with debts. How can you call everyone an entrepreneur when half the world can’t even afford a decent meal?”

Host: The waitress refilled their cups, the steam rising like unspoken arguments between them. Outside, a truck engine roared, and a child’s laughter cut through the noise — a small sound, but hopeful, like light leaking through a crack.

Jeeny: “You’re missing his point, Jack. Yunus wasn’t talking about money, he was talking about mindset. About human instinct — the urge to create, to survive, to innovate. A mother in Bangladesh who starts a tiny business with a microloan — that’s entrepreneurship too. It’s not about profit. It’s about possibility.”

Jack: (leans forward, voice low) “Possibility doesn’t feed people, Jeeny. It’s a luxury to talk about mindset when your stomach’s empty. You think everyone’s an entrepreneur? Tell that to the miners in Congo or the sweatshop workers in Dhaka. They don’t need a pep talk — they need a system that works.”

Jeeny: “But they are the system, Jack! That’s the irony. They’re the backbone of global production, the engine of economies, yet we treat them like they’re replaceable parts. Yunus didn’t say everyone succeeds — he said everyone can. The capacity is there, buried under circumstance.”

Host: A gust of wind pushed the door open, and the bells above it jingled softly. The sound felt like a pause in the conversation, a breath before the next collision. Jack watched a homeless man pass by, dragging a cart of scrap metal. His gaze hardened, not out of disdain, but recognition.

Jack: “I’ve seen what poverty does, Jeeny. It doesn’t inspire entrepreneurship — it kills it. When you’re born fighting for survival, your creativity isn’t a choice, it’s a weapon. That’s not freedom, that’s desperation.”

Jeeny: “And yet, some of the world’s greatest innovators came from desperation. Look at Malala Yousafzai — her fight wasn’t for business, but it was still entrepreneurial in spirit. She created a movement out of her voice. Or Yunus himself — he saw women who were trapped by loan sharks and built an entirely new financial system for them. Isn’t that proof that creation can emerge from constraint?”

Jack: (grits his teeth) “Exceptions, Jeeny. You’re talking about miracles, not models. For every Yunus, there are a million who never had the chance. The system doesn’t just ignore them — it profits from their helplessness.”

Jeeny: (leans in, her eyes fierce) “Then that’s the crime, isn’t it? Not that they can’t, but that they’re not allowed to. That’s what Yunus meant. Society cages the instinct that’s born in us all. If the system were built to nurture, not exploit, we’d see a different world.”

Host: The sunlight shifted, falling across their faces, illuminating Jeeny’s determined expression and Jack’s skeptical frown. The diners around them faded into a blur — the clinking of spoons, the hum of voices, all melting into the background. The tension between them was the only real thing left.

Jack: “You talk like the system can just be rewired. You know what happens when you give someone a loan in a village where there’s no infrastructure, no education? You create another debt cycle. The same trap, just with a different name.”

Jeeny: “No. You create a seed. Maybe it doesn’t grow everywhere, but where it does — it changes the soil. Yunus’s microcredit idea wasn’t perfect, but it lifted millions of women into agency. They built businesses, fed families, educated children. That’s not a trap. That’s transformation.”

Jack: (shakes his head) “You make it sound romantic. But entrepreneurship isn’t romance, Jeeny — it’s risk. And risk needs safety nets. When you tell people ‘you can do it,’ but don’t fix the foundations, you’re not empowering them — you’re setting them up to fall.”

Jeeny: (firmly) “And doing nothing — that’s what, then? Mercy? Pity? People don’t need rescue, Jack. They need recognition. You can’t teach someone to dream if you keep telling them it’s impossible.”

Host: A silence settled between them — not the angry kind, but the heavy one that follows truth. The radio shifted stations, catching a brief snippet of a news broadcast — something about startups, funding rounds, and venture capital. The words felt like a different universe, a language far removed from the world Yunus once imagined.

Jack stirred his coffee, watching the swirl like a miniature storm.

Jack: (softly) “Maybe you’re right, Jeeny. Maybe it’s not about money at all. Maybe it’s about belief. But I still can’t shake the feeling that belief is a luxury for those who’ve already eaten.”

Jeeny: (smiles gently) “No, Jack. Belief is the only meal some people have. You’d be surprised how far a human being can go on a spoonful of hope.”

Host: The light outside grew brighter, filtering through the dust like a quiet blessing. A truck horn blared in the distance, a reminder of work, of movement, of life still unfolding.

Jeeny closed her notebook, tucking a small photo inside — a picture of a woman in a village, smiling beside a tiny stall of woven baskets. Her eyes were tired, but alive.

Jeeny: “She was one of Yunus’s first borrowers. She used her first loan — less than fifty dollars — to buy a goat. That goat became milk, the milk became income, and her children went to school. That’s all it takes — one chance. That’s what he meant.”

Jack: (quiet, contemplative) “A goat, huh? Small start for a big idea.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because entrepreneurship isn’t about owning companies, Jack. It’s about owning your choices.”

Host: The morning crowd had thinned. The diners were emptying, but the sun stayed, warming the chrome of the counter, the faces of two souls who, for a moment, had bridged the distance between skepticism and faith.

Jack stood, adjusting his jacket, his expression softer, less armored.

Jack: “Maybe we’re all born entrepreneurs, Jeeny. Just that some of us are too busy surviving to notice it.”

Jeeny: (stands too, meeting his eyes) “Then maybe our job — yours, mine, the system’s — is to make sure they get the chance to.”

Host: The camera would pull back, the diner door closing softly behind them, leaving behind the sound of cups clinking, conversations fading, and the radio still playing.

Outside, the sunlight spilled across the asphalt, catching on the shimmering puddles — like small mirrors, each one reflecting a different world, each one waiting for someone to see the possibility within.