Prosus N.V.: The $130 Billion Tech Investment Giant Born from African Media

I. Introduction & Episode Roadmap

Picture this: A Dutch company worth over $130 billion that most Europeans have never heard of. A tech giant that doesn't build products, run platforms, or sell services directly to consumers. Instead, Prosus N.V. operates as one of the world's most successful technology investors, with a portfolio touching 1.5 billion users across 89 markets. The paradox deepens when you learn its roots trace back to apartheid-era South African newspapers, and its fortune was built on a single bet on a Chinese startup that no Western investor wanted to touch.

The story of Prosus is really three intertwined narratives: how a 100-year-old Afrikaans newspaper company transformed into a global tech investor, how a desperate $32 million investment in 2001 became worth over $100 billion, and how the blessing of that singular success became a strategic straightjacket the company still struggles to escape.

At its core, Prosus represents Europe's largest consumer internet company by asset value—a fascinating contradiction given it was born from South African media and powered by Chinese technology. The company's journey from Die Nasionale Pers (The National Press) to a Amsterdam-listed tech conglomerate reads like corporate fiction, except every twist actually happened.

Today, Prosus faces a fundamental question that defines its future: Can it transcend its identity as "the company that owns Tencent" to become a true multi-asset technology powerhouse? The recent acquisitions of Despegar and Just Eat Takeaway.com suggest management believes the answer is yes. But with shares trading at a persistent 30-40% discount to net asset value, the market remains skeptical.

This is the unlikely story of how apartheid-era newspaper profits funded what became one of history's greatest venture capital investments, how that investment both made and trapped the company, and what happens when a single bet becomes too successful for its own good.

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II. The Naspers Origins: From Afrikaans Newspapers to Digital Dreams (1915-1997)

The year was 1915, and a group of Afrikaner intellectuals gathered in Cape Town with a mission: create a media voice for the Afrikaans-speaking population of South Africa. They founded De Nationale Pers Beperkt, later known as Naspers, initially publishing De Burger newspaper. What began as cultural preservation would evolve into something far more controversial—and ultimately, transformative.

By the 1940s, Naspers had become inseparable from the National Party's rise to power. The company didn't just report on apartheid; it helped architect the narrative that justified it. The relationship was financial as well as ideological—the National Party held 74,000 shares in Naspers by 1984, and the company reciprocated with political donations of R150,000 in 1987 and R220,000 in 1989. This symbiotic relationship created a media monopoly that dominated South African publishing for decades.

Yet even within this politically charged environment, seeds of innovation were sprouting. In 1985, Naspers launched M-Net, becoming one of the first companies outside the United States to successfully operate a pay-TV service. The move was audacious—asking South Africans to pay for television when the state broadcaster was free required both technical innovation and marketing genius. M-Net's decoder boxes became status symbols in suburban homes, and the channel's more liberal programming offered a window to the world beyond South Africa's borders.

The real transformation began in 1997 when Koos Bekker assumed the CEO role. Bekker was an unusual choice—a Columbia Business School graduate who understood both the Afrikaner establishment and the global technology revolution brewing in Silicon Valley. He recognized something his predecessors hadn't: the dot-com boom wasn't just an American phenomenon. It would fundamentally reshape media consumption worldwide, and companies that didn't adapt would die.

Bekker's first major digital initiative was MWeb, launched in 1997 as South Africa's answer to AOL. The platform was ambitious, offering messaging, blogging, email, and gaming—essentially everything needed for online life. The technology worked perfectly. The business model seemed sound. There was just one problem: Africa's internet penetration was virtually non-existent. MWeb was selling digital services to a continent that was barely connected. The MWeb failure taught Bekker a crucial lesson: being early wasn't enough if the market infrastructure wasn't ready. MWeb launched in 1997, offering cutting-edge technology to a continent that lacked the basic connectivity to use it. The expensive education would prove invaluable—teaching Naspers to look for markets where digital adoption was already reaching critical mass, not where it might theoretically emerge. This insight would soon lead them 7,000 miles away to a country experiencing the exact opposite trajectory.

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III. The China Misadventures & Pivot (1997-2001)

The boardroom at Naspers headquarters in Cape Town must have felt suffocating in early 2001. Koos Bekker had just returned from Beijing with news that would define his legacy—though at that moment, it felt more like failure. After burning nearly $100 million trying to crack the Chinese internet market, Naspers was ready to abandon the country entirely. Bekker would later admit they had been "victims of our own stupidity," a rare moment of public vulnerability from the typically confident executive.

The China strategy had seemed brilliant on paper. In 1998, fresh from the MWeb disappointment, Naspers decided to pivot from building products for non-existent African internet users to partnering with local entrepreneurs in emerging digital markets. China, with its population of 1.3 billion and rapidly growing internet penetration, appeared to be the perfect laboratory. What followed was a cascade of expensive failures that would ironically position the company for its greatest success. Naspers tried everything in China between 1997 and 2001. They launched web portals to compete with Sina and Sohu. They attempted e-commerce platforms. They built digital media properties. Every initiative was out-competed by home-grown leaders like Sina, Sohu, and Netease, losing millions of dollars in the process. The company's China division, MIH, watched its capital evaporate as each new venture failed to gain traction.

The company lost hundreds of millions of dollars in total, with about $100 million burned in China alone. The dot-com crash of 2000-2001 made the situation even more dire. Naspers stock plummeted along with tech stocks globally. The board in Cape Town was losing patience. After four years of expensive failures, the directive was clear: shut down the China operations and come home.

It was against this backdrop of complete failure that fate intervened. Naspers and Tencent found each other out of a combination of desperation and conviction that ended up rescuing each side from total failure. The MWeb experience had taught Naspers a crucial lesson—digital services needed an existing user base to succeed. In China, despite all their failures, they had learned something else: local entrepreneurs understood their markets better than any foreign company ever could.

At this moment of joint desperation for both Naspers and Tencent, the two companies' paths crossed. The stage was set for what would become one of the most consequential meetings in technology investment history—a last-ditch gamble by a company that had nothing left to lose.

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IV. The Tencent Investment: $32 Million That Changed Everything (2001)

David Wallerstein had been walking through Beijing's internet cafes for weeks, and he kept seeing the same thing: young Chinese users glued to their screens, chatting through a program with a distinctive penguin logo. QQ was everywhere. The MIH executive kept seeing QQ in every internet cafe he visited in China, got intrigued, found Tencent's office address, and went to visit the company to start negotiating an investment.

Meanwhile, Tencent was bleeding cash. Founded in 1998 by Ma Huateng (known as Pony Ma) and four co-founders, the company had built China's most popular instant messaging service. By 2001, QQ had millions of users—more than the entire internet population of Africa—but no viable business model. The dot-com crash had scared away most investors. IDG Capital and PCCW, early backers, wanted out. Back in Naspers' temporary Beijing office, negotiations were tense. IDG Capital eventually shopped the Tencent deal to Naspers when its China division, MIH, was running out of money and had barely enough funds left to make an investment. Some accounts suggested that IDG eventually shopped the Tencent deal to Naspers when its China division, MIH, was running out of money and had barely enough funds left to make an investment. The numbers were clear: QQ already had tens of millions of users in 2000 and the number of concurrent online QQ users topped 1 million by February 2001.

The investment that would change everything almost didn't happen. Naspers' legal counsel strongly advised against the deal. The dot-com crash was in full swing. The company had already lost a fortune in China. But Bekker saw something others didn't: QQ's user base was already in the millions and had surpassed the entire internet user base of Africa. The scars from MWeb had taught him the value of an established user base.

After a full year of deliberation, Naspers headquarters greenlighted the $34 million investment into Tencent. In May 2001, Naspers purchased 46.5 percent of Chinese internet company Tencent from early investors including PCCW and IDG Capital. The exact amount varies slightly in accounts—some sources cite $32 million, others $34 million—but the stake was clear: nearly half of a company that was hemorrhaging cash but had captured China's instant messaging market.

One crucial detail often overlooked: Naspers didn't just write a check and walk away. Charles Searle, who had worked under the pseudonym David Wallerstein in China, joined Tencent's board in 2001 and still serves as Chief eXploration Officer today. This hands-off-but-engaged approach would become central to Naspers' investment philosophy—backing local entrepreneurs while providing strategic support when needed.

The investment has been referred to as one of the most successful venture capital deals of all time. But in 2001, it looked like throwing good money after bad. Tencent had no clear path to profitability. The Chinese internet market was still nascent. Most Western investors thought Chinese users would never pay for digital services.

They were wrong. Within months of the Naspers investment, Tencent became the first Chinese internet company to achieve profitability, validating both the business model and the investment thesis. The $32 million bet would eventually be worth over $100 billion—a return that would both define and confine Naspers for decades to come.

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V. Building a Global Tech Investment Empire (2001-2019)

The Tencent investment fundamentally transformed Naspers' DNA. What had been a media company with tech aspirations became a technology investor with a media legacy. Koos Bekker and his team developed a thesis that would guide them for the next two decades: find talented local entrepreneurs in high-growth emerging markets, back them early, and let them run their businesses.

With the success of the investment in Tencent, Naspers became an investor in a number of consumer internet startups. In January 2007 Naspers purchased a 30% share of Russia's largest internet company VK (company) (formerly Mail.ru Group) for $165 million. The Russian investment followed the Tencent playbook—find the dominant player in a massive, underserved market and back them aggressively.

The portfolio expansion accelerated through the 2010s. OLX, the classified ads platform, gave Naspers a foothold in dozens of emerging markets. PayU, assembled through multiple acquisitions, became one of the largest payment processors outside the developed world. Delivery Hero provided exposure to the rapidly growing food delivery sector. Each investment reflected the same core belief: the next billion internet users would come from emerging markets, and they would need localized services.

India became a particular focus. Naspers had a particular focus on India, investing more than $4 billion from 2014 to 2019, across multiple sectors, including into Byju and ibibo. The crown jewel of the India strategy came in December 2018 when Naspers invested $1 billion into Indian online food ordering and delivery service Swiggy, the largest single investment made, outside of China, into a food tech company.

The emerging markets thesis wasn't just about geography—it was about timing and market dynamics. In developed markets, the winners had already emerged: Google, Amazon, Facebook. But in markets like India, Southeast Asia, and Latin America, the game was still being played. Local knowledge mattered. Regulatory relationships were crucial. And the ability to operate in chaotic, rapidly evolving environments was a competitive advantage.

By 2018, the Tencent stake had grown so valuable that it created a unique problem. Naspers had become too large for the Johannesburg Stock Exchange, representing over 20% of the entire index. South African pension funds were hitting regulatory limits on their exposure to a single stock. The company was trading at a massive discount to its net asset value, primarily because investors couldn't separate the Tencent exposure from the rest of the portfolio.

The solution was radical: in March 2018, Naspers sold part of its Tencent stake for $10 billion, with the initial $32 million investment valued at over $175 billion. But selling Tencent shares was only a temporary fix. The company needed a structural solution to the discount problem.

The talent strategy evolved alongside the portfolio. Naspers began attracting executives from PayPal, Mastercard, eBay, Facebook, and Google—people who understood both emerging markets and global technology platforms. The company wasn't just investing capital; it was building a network of expertise that could help portfolio companies scale.

Bob van Dijk, who became CEO in 2014, embodied this evolution. A Dutchman who had built eBay's classified business globally, he understood both the opportunities and challenges of operating across multiple emerging markets. Under his leadership, Naspers accelerated its transformation from a company that owned tech assets to one that actively built and operated them.

Yet even as the portfolio diversified, one reality remained inescapable: Tencent still represented the vast majority of Naspers' value. The blessing of that single investment had become a strategic straightjacket. Investors valued Naspers primarily as a Tencent holding vehicle, essentially assigning negative value to everything else the company did. This persistent discount would drive the next major strategic decision—one that would create Europe's largest internet company overnight.

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VI. The Prosus Spin-off: Solving the Discount Problem (2019)

Bob van Dijk stood before a room of investment bankers in early 2019, presenting what seemed like an impossibly complex solution to a simple problem. Naspers was trading at a 30% discount to just its Tencent stake alone, meaning the market was effectively valuing its entire portfolio of other investments—PayU, OLX, Swiggy, and dozens more—at less than zero. The proposed solution: create a new entity called Prosus, list it in Amsterdam, and fundamentally restructure how the world's most successful tech investment was held.

The Johannesburg problem had become acute. Naspers represented about 25% of the entire JSE index, creating distortions throughout South African capital markets. Local pension funds were forced sellers due to single-stock concentration limits. International investors who wanted exposure to Tencent without the South African country risk had no clean option. The company needed a listing in a deeper, more liquid market that could properly value a global internet portfolio.

On September 11, 2019, Prosus N.V. listed on Euronext Amsterdam at a valuation of approximately €100 billion. In 2019, Naspers listed its global internet investment business unit Prosus (including a 31% stake in Tencent) on Euronext Amsterdam. The IPO was the largest ever in Europe by market capitalization at listing, instantly making Prosus the continent's most valuable technology company.

The structure was deliberately complex. Naspers would retain a 73% stake in Prosus, while Prosus would hold all of Naspers' international internet assets, including the Tencent stake. The cross-holding created a circular ownership structure that finance professors would debate for years, but it achieved the immediate goal: giving international investors direct access to the portfolio without South African market constraints. Market reaction was immediate and dramatic. The Amsterdam-listed subsidiary, still 73% Naspers-owned, saw its share price jump by 29% on the Euronext at its opening on 11 September. In the first day of trading, Prosus became one of the largest listed tech companies in Europe as its market cap reached €120 billion. The listing instantly created Europe's second-biggest technology company by market value, behind only ASML.

But the structural complexity came with unintended consequences. Naspers shares slumped by a commensurate +/- 30% on the day of listing, and the JSE giant ended the month 34% lower. The market was essentially repricing the same assets across two listings, and the arbitrage opportunities created volatility in both stocks.

The cross-holding structure, while elegant in theory, created new problems. Naspers owned 73% of Prosus, but Prosus would later acquire shares in Naspers, creating a circular ownership that confused investors and arguably exacerbated rather than solved the discount problem. Finance professors would later use the Naspers-Prosus structure as a case study in how financial engineering can sometimes create more problems than it solves.

Bob van Dijk defended the structure vigorously. "The listing of Prosus is an exciting step forward for the group, giving global technology investors direct access to our unique and attractive portfolio of international consumer internet businesses," he said at the time. The argument was that European and American investors who couldn't or wouldn't invest in South African securities could now access the portfolio directly.

Yet the fundamental problem persisted. Shares in the company were reported to have "soared on debut," although the company was trading at a significant discount to the value of its portfolio. The Tencent stake still dominated the valuation. The other investments, while growing rapidly, hadn't yet reached the scale to meaningfully impact the overall narrative.

The Prosus listing did achieve some objectives. It created liquidity in a deeper market. It gave the company a European platform for potential acquisitions using its own stock as currency. It established Prosus as a legitimate European tech giant, even if most of its value came from Asian assets. But the persistent discount remained, setting the stage for even more aggressive strategic moves in the years to come.

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VII. Portfolio Evolution & Strategic Bets (2019-2025)

The Amsterdam trading floor hadn't even opened when Bob van Dijk received the call that would reshape Prosus's strategy for the next half-decade. It was early 2020, and the COVID-19 pandemic was accelerating digital adoption globally by years in mere months. Food delivery orders were exploding. E-commerce penetration in emerging markets was hitting inflection points previously forecast for 2025. The portfolio companies were scaling faster than anyone had anticipated, but they were also burning cash at unprecedented rates.

Prosus had invested across social networking, gaming, classifieds, payments, fintech, edtech, food delivery, real estate, ecommerce—a sprawling portfolio that touched virtually every aspect of digital life. Products and services of its businesses and investments were used by more than 1.5 billion people in 89 markets. The breadth was both a strength and a challenge. How do you manage such diversity while maintaining focus?

The food delivery vertical became a particular obsession. iFood dominated Brazil. Swiggy battled Zomato in India. Delivery Hero operated across dozens of markets. The thesis was simple: food delivery was still in its infancy in emerging markets, and the winner in each geography would enjoy network effects similar to what Uber had achieved in ride-sharing. But unlike ride-sharing, food delivery had better unit economics once scale was achieved.

PayU emerged as the crown jewel of the non-Tencent portfolio. Assembled through multiple acquisitions and organic growth, it had become one of the largest payment processors in emerging markets. The fintech operated in over 20 countries, processing billions in transaction volume annually. More importantly, it was approaching profitability—a rarity in the Prosus portfolio outside of Tencent.

OLX, the classifieds business, represented a different model entirely. In markets where Amazon and eBay hadn't achieved dominance, OLX filled the gap with a marketplace for everything from used cars to real estate. The capital-light model generated strong cash flows in established markets, funding expansion into new territories. The Russians particularly loved the platform, though this would later become problematic.

The Tencent dilemma intensified during this period. The stake, while incredibly valuable, had become a strategic burden. Prosus began gradually reducing its Tencent holdings to fund new investments, but each sale was scrutinized by the market. Sell too much, and investors worried you were abandoning your best asset. Sell too little, and you couldn't fund the growth investments needed to diversify.

By 2024, a significant milestone was reached: Ecommerce segments recorded profit of US$110m in FY24, versus loss of US$264m in FY23. This wasn't just an accounting victory—it validated the thesis that emerging market tech companies could achieve profitability at scale. The path from investment to profitability had taken longer than Silicon Valley standards, but the markets Prosus operated in were fundamentally different.

The AI revolution presented both opportunity and challenge. Unlike the mobile internet wave that Prosus had ridden successfully, AI required massive upfront investments in technology and talent. The company pivoted to an AI-first strategy, integrating machine learning across portfolio companies to improve everything from payment fraud detection to food delivery routing algorithms. But competing with Google, Microsoft, and Chinese tech giants in AI was a different game entirely.

Building repeatable investment processes became crucial as the portfolio expanded. Prosus developed a playbook: identify markets at digital inflection points, find the best local entrepreneurs, provide capital and strategic support, but let local teams run the business. This hands-off approach contrasted sharply with SoftBank's more interventionist style, and arguably produced better results with less drama.

The portfolio's geographic diversity became increasingly important as geopolitical tensions rose. When China cracked down on tech companies, the Latin American and Indian investments provided ballast. When India restricted Chinese apps, the Southeast Asian portfolio benefited from redirected investment. This diversification by design rather than accident became a key differentiator.

Yet questions persisted about capital allocation. With Tencent still representing the majority of NAV, was Prosus simply shuffling deck chairs while the Titanic-sized concentration risk remained? The next phase of the company's evolution would require even bolder moves—and force difficult decisions about assets once considered untouchable.

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VIII. Crisis Management: Russia, Geopolitics, and Tough Decisions (2022-2023)

The emergency board meeting convened at 3 AM Amsterdam time on February 25, 2022. Russia had invaded Ukraine the previous day, and Prosus faced an immediate crisis: its Russian assets, particularly the classified site Avito, were now toxic. What had been a profitable, growing business worth billions was transforming into a reputational nightmare and potential legal liability within hours. The criticism was immediate and fierce. Ever since the beginning of spring, Avito has been accused of posting numerous ads about recruiting soldiers to the Russian army and private military companies to participate in the war on the territory of Ukraine. The platform, with its monthly audience of more than 90 million users, had become an inadvertent tool for military recruitment—a reputational disaster for a Dutch company committed to ESG principles.

In March 2022, Prosus announced it would write off its 25.9% stake in VK worth $700 million after the CEO was put on U.S. sanctions list. Prosus NV expects to write off $769 million and asked its directors on the board of social media platform VK Co. Ltd. to resign following sanctions against the Russian firm's chief executive officer. The speed of the writedown shocked investors—this was a profitable, growing asset being marked to zero virtually overnight.

The Avito situation proved even more complex. Before the start of the "special operation" Bloomberg estimated Avito at $6 billion, and already in June most analysts were leaning towards an estimate close to $1-1.5 billion. The platform wasn't just losing value; it was becoming a liability. Human rights organizations accused Prosus of complicity in Russian military recruitment. European regulators questioned how a Dutch company could continue operating in Russia while maintaining ESG credentials.

The sale process became a diplomatic minefield. Prosus eventually sold Avito to Kismet Capital for $2.4 billion in October 2022, a fraction of its pre-war value. The complex transaction structure, involving Luxembourg entities and careful navigation of sanctions regimes, demonstrated how geopolitical risk had become as important as market risk for global technology investors.

Meanwhile, China presented different but equally challenging headwinds. The Chinese government's crackdown on technology companies throughout 2021-2022 decimated Tencent's valuation. Gaming restrictions limited playtime for minors. Antitrust investigations targeted the company's dominant position in messaging and payments. The "common prosperity" campaign pressured tech giants to redistribute wealth. Tencent's stock fell over 60% from its peak, dragging Prosus down with it.

The portfolio companies weren't immune to the global tech downturn either. Rising interest rates made profitless growth companies suddenly unattractive. Food delivery margins compressed as competition intensified and labor costs rose. The e-commerce boom of the pandemic years gave way to a harsh normalization. Prosus announced staff reductions across portfolio companies, pushing for profitability over growth—a dramatic shift from the previous decade's playbook.

Bob van Dijk faced the most challenging period of his tenure. The company that had expertly navigated emerging market chaos for decades suddenly found itself caught between great power competition. The Russia exit demonstrated that some risks couldn't be managed, only avoided. The China exposure, once the company's greatest strength, had become its most significant vulnerability.

Yet amidst the crisis, signs of resilience emerged. The food delivery businesses approached profitability. PayU continued its steady growth. The classifieds operations in markets unaffected by geopolitical tensions generated strong cash flows. The company had survived its trial by fire, but emerged changed—more cautious, more focused, and determined to reduce its dependence on any single market or asset.

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IX. Recent Mega-Deals & Future Vision (2024-2025)

The boardroom in Amsterdam was electric with tension in December 2024. After years of being criticized for over-dependence on Tencent, Prosus was about to make its boldest move yet. In December 2024, Prosus announced it had entered into an agreement to acquire Despegar, a Latin American travel agency, for USD 1.7 billion. The acquisition represented a dramatic pivot—from investing in early-stage companies to buying established, profitable businesses at scale.

Despegar wasn't just another portfolio addition. As Latin America's leading online travel agency, it operated in a market where digital adoption was accelerating but still had massive headroom for growth. The company was profitable, generated strong cash flows, and operated in a sector adjacent to Prosus's existing capabilities in payments and marketplaces. It was exactly the kind of asset that could help reduce the Tencent concentration.

But the real shock came in February 2025. On February 24th 2025 the company announced it reached an agreement to acquire Just Eat Takeaway.com for €4.1b in cash. In 2019, the company had attempted to acquire the then-independent Just Eat, but lost the bidding war to Takeaway.com. The irony was delicious—Prosus was buying the company that had outbid it six years earlier, but at a fraction of the peak valuation. The Just Eat Takeaway acquisition was particularly strategic. Since then, shares have plunged by around 80 per cent from their pandemic highs. The company that had been worth over €15 billion at its peak in 2021 was being acquired for €4.1 billion—a dramatic fall that created opportunity for Prosus. The consolidation play in food delivery made strategic sense: Prosus already held substantial stakes in Delivery Hero, iFood, and Swiggy. Adding Just Eat Takeaway would create synergies across markets and potentially path to profitability through reduced competition.

Fabricio Bloisi, who had recently become Prosus CEO, called Just Eat a "European tech champion" in the making. The Brazilian executive, former head of iFood, brought a different perspective than his Dutch predecessor. He understood emerging markets viscerally, having built one of Latin America's most successful tech companies. His vision was clear: consolidate where possible, achieve profitability everywhere, and gradually reduce Tencent dependency through strategic M&A.

The consolidation strategy extended beyond food delivery. Prosus was actively looking at combining portfolio companies across verticals. PayU could provide payment infrastructure for all e-commerce investments. The classifieds businesses could share technology and best practices. The food delivery companies could jointly negotiate with restaurants and optimize logistics. This wasn't just financial engineering—it was operational integration at scale.

Building synergies across portfolio companies became the new mantra. Instead of viewing each investment as a standalone bet, Prosus began treating its portfolio as an ecosystem. When Swiggy needed payment solutions, PayU was there. When OLX expanded into a new market, it could leverage insights from other portfolio companies operating there. This interconnected approach distinguished Prosus from pure financial investors like SoftBank.

The AI integration accelerated under Bloisi's leadership. Every portfolio company was mandated to develop an AI strategy. Food delivery apps used machine learning for demand prediction and delivery routing. Payment companies deployed AI for fraud detection. Classifieds platforms used natural language processing to improve search and recommendations. This wasn't about competing with OpenAI or Google in foundational models, but rather applying existing AI capabilities to specific business problems.

The path to reducing Tencent dependency was finally becoming clearer. With the Despegar and Just Eat Takeaway acquisitions, plus organic growth in existing portfolio companies, non-Tencent assets were approaching meaningful scale. The goal wasn't to eliminate Tencent exposure—that golden goose still laid massive dividends—but to ensure that Prosus had a compelling investment thesis independent of its Chinese anchor.

Market reaction to the acquisition spree was mixed. Some investors applauded the aggressive moves to consolidate and build scale. Others worried about execution risk and the debt being taken on for acquisitions. The persistent NAV discount remained, though it had narrowed slightly. The question wasn't whether Prosus could successfully integrate these massive acquisitions, but whether doing so would finally solve the valuation puzzle that had plagued the company since inception.

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X. Playbook: Investment Philosophy & Lessons

The conference room in Cape Town overlooked the harbor where Dutch ships had arrived centuries earlier, establishing the trade routes that would eventually create modern South Africa. Bob van Dijk was explaining Prosus's investment philosophy to a group of young analysts, and he kept returning to the same theme: patience. "Silicon Valley thinks in quarters," he said. "We think in decades."

Long-term thinking in volatile emerging markets wasn't just a philosophy—it was a survival mechanism. When Prosus invested in a company, the assumption was that it would face currency crises, regulatory changes, competitive battles, and market downturns. The companies that survived would be battle-tested in ways that Silicon Valley unicorns never were. This Darwinian process created stronger businesses, even if the path to profitability was longer.

The "local entrepreneurs" approach had been refined over two decades. Hands-off after investment meant truly hands-off. Prosus didn't parachute in Western executives or impose standardized playbooks. Local founders understood their markets' peculiarities—why Indians preferred cash on delivery, why Brazilians used WhatsApp for customer service, why Russians loved classified ads. The role of Prosus was to provide capital, connections, and occasional strategic advice, not operational control.

Managing concentration risk had become an art form. The blessing and curse of mega-winners like Tencent created a paradox: the better an investment performed, the more problematic it became for portfolio balance. The company had learned to live with this tension, gradually reducing concentrated positions while reinvesting proceeds into new bets. It was like rebuilding a ship while sailing—complex, risky, but necessary.

Capital allocation between returning cash and new bets reflected this tension. Every dollar from Tencent dividends or stake sales faced competing demands: return it to shareholders via buybacks, invest in new ventures, or double down on existing portfolio companies approaching inflection points. The decision matrix considered not just financial returns but strategic value—would this investment help reduce Tencent dependency? Create synergies with existing holdings? Open new markets?

The emerging markets thesis had evolved but remained core. Why emerging markets offer better risk-reward than developed markets came down to simple math: higher growth rates, less competition from global tech giants, and the opportunity to build foundational infrastructure. While a payment company in the U.S. competed with dozens of well-funded rivals, PayU could dominate entire countries where digital payments were just beginning.

The importance of being early and patient couldn't be overstated. Tencent took years to become profitable. iFood operated at losses for over a decade. But being early meant building unassailable market positions. When competitors eventually arrived with bigger checkbooks—often American or Chinese giants—the local champion was too entrenched to dislodge. Time was the ultimate moat.

The playbook also included lessons from failures. The Russia exit taught the importance of political risk assessment. The persistent NAV discount demonstrated that financial engineering couldn't solve fundamental perception problems. The slow path to profitability in food delivery showed that some business models required massive scale before unit economics worked.

Cultural adaptation proved crucial. Prosus learned to operate differently in each market. In India, relationships and government affairs mattered enormously. In Latin America, family-owned businesses required different negotiation approaches. In Southeast Asia, complex ownership structures and regional variations demanded flexibility. This cultural fluency became a competitive advantage against more rigid Western investors.

The portfolio approach created unexpected benefits. Failed investments weren't total losses—the teams, technology, and market knowledge could be redeployed to other portfolio companies. When a payment company didn't work out in one market, its technology might be perfect for another geography. This recycling of assets and expertise reduced the real cost of failure.

Looking forward, the playbook continued evolving. AI and automation would change the economics of many portfolio companies. Geopolitical fragmentation meant regional champions might matter more than global platforms. Sustainability and social impact were becoming necessary, not optional. The next decade would require adapting the playbook while maintaining core principles that had worked for 25 years. The art was knowing which lessons were timeless and which needed updating.

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XI. Analysis & Bear vs. Bull Case

The analysts at Morgan Stanley had been debating Prosus for hours, and the whiteboard was covered with contradictory arrows and valuations. On one side, the bulls argued for a sum-of-the-parts value exceeding €200 billion. On the other, bears insisted the company was simply an expensive way to own Tencent with a grab bag of unprofitable ventures attached. Both sides had compelling arguments.

The Bull Case started with the unmatched emerging market expertise. No other global investor had successfully built and exited positions across as many developing economies. The institutional knowledge—from navigating Indian regulations to understanding Latin American payment preferences—represented decades of expensive education that competitors couldn't replicate. This expertise was becoming more valuable as emerging markets digitized rapidly.

The proven track record spoke for itself. Beyond Tencent, the company had generated strong returns from exits like Flipkart (sold to Walmart for $16 billion) and multiple IPOs of portfolio companies. The hit rate was impressive for venture-style investing, and the power law dynamics meant a few big winners more than compensated for failures.

Portfolio reaching profitability changed the narrative entirely. The e-commerce segments achieving profitability in FY24 validated the thesis that these businesses could generate cash at scale. PayU approaching $10 billion in total payment volume. OLX generating hundreds of millions in EBITDA. These weren't science projects anymore—they were real businesses.

The strategic consolidation plays in food delivery and travel created genuine synergies. Combining Just Eat Takeaway with existing food delivery holdings could reduce competitive intensity and improve unit economics. The Despegar acquisition provided a profitable platform for expansion across Latin American travel. This wasn't financial engineering but industrial logic.

The Bear Case was equally forceful. Over-reliance on Tencent remained the elephant in the room. Despite years of diversification efforts, Tencent still represented the majority of NAV. Every Chinese regulatory announcement, every gaming restriction, every geopolitical tension directly impacted Prosus's valuation. This wasn't a diversified portfolio—it was Tencent plus other stuff.

The persistent holding company discount had proven impossible to solve. The Prosus spinoff, the buyback programs, the operational improvements—nothing had sustainably closed the gap between market cap and NAV. Markets clearly didn't value Prosus's capital allocation capabilities or believe management could create value beyond lucky bets.

Geopolitical risks were multiplying, not diminishing. The Russia write-offs demonstrated how quickly valuable assets could become worthless. China tensions with the West threatened Tencent's international expansion. India's periodic crackdowns on foreign tech companies created regulatory uncertainty. Operating in emerging markets meant accepting political risks that developed market investors increasingly wouldn't tolerate.

Questionable capital allocation decisions haunted the company. Why spend billions on mature assets like Just Eat Takeaway instead of returning cash to shareholders? Why maintain positions in struggling companies instead of cutting losses quickly? The reluctance to sell Tencent more aggressively suggested emotional attachment to the trophy asset rather than rational portfolio management.

Competitive positioning versus other tech investors had become more challenging. SoftBank, despite its troubles, had deeper pockets. Tiger Global and other growth investors could move faster. Chinese tech giants were increasingly investing internationally themselves. Regional players like Sea Limited and Grab were building their own ecosystems. The competitive landscape was far more crowded than during the Tencent investment era.

The €30-50 trading range reflected this uncertainty. The stock seemed stuck in a band that represented neither the bull case NAV nor the bear case Tencent-only valuation. This trading range had persisted for years, suggesting markets had reached an equilibrium view that was hard to shift. The NAV discount dynamics had become self-fulfilling—investors avoided the stock because of the discount, which perpetuated the discount.

ESG concerns added another layer of complexity. The Russia controversy had damaged the company's reputation. Investing in emerging markets often meant partnering with companies that didn't meet Western governance standards. The Tencent relationship created indirect exposure to Chinese government policies that many Western investors found problematic.

The fundamental question remained: was Prosus a world-class capital allocator handicapped by structure and perception, or a lucky lottery winner struggling to replicate early success? The answer would determine whether the next decade saw the company finally escape Tencent's shadow or remain forever defined by that single, spectacular bet made in a desperate moment 24 years ago.

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XII. Epilogue & Final Reflections

From the top floor of the Amsterdam headquarters, you can see the canals that once carried spices from the Dutch East Indies, the world's first multinational corporation. The parallel isn't lost on Prosus executives—they too are building trade routes, but digital ones that connect billions of users across emerging markets. The transformation from apartheid-era newspapers to global tech investor represents one of business history's most unlikely pivots.

The Tencent investment will forever define Prosus, simultaneously its greatest triumph and its most confining legacy. That $32 million bet in 2001 created more value than most companies generate in a century. Yet it also created a gilded cage—no matter what else Prosus achieves, it will always be measured against that one spectacular success. The investment was both making and limiting the company, a paradox that management has struggled to resolve for over two decades.

What Prosus represents for European tech ambitions is particularly significant. In a continent that has struggled to produce global technology champions, Prosus stands as Europe's largest internet company by asset value—even if most of that value comes from Asian investments. It offers European investors exposure to emerging market tech growth without the complexity of investing directly in those markets. Yet it also highlights Europe's challenge: its biggest tech success story is essentially a holding company for other regions' innovations.

The key lessons for investors and entrepreneurs in emerging markets are nuanced. First, timing matters more than technology—MWeb had great technology but failed because Africa wasn't ready; QQ had simple technology but succeeded because China was at an inflection point. Second, local knowledge and patience can overcome global competition—the companies that win in emerging markets are rarely the first movers but rather the most persistent and adaptable.

Third, concentration risk is both necessary and dangerous in emerging markets. The power law dynamics mean that one or two investments will drive the vast majority of returns. But this concentration creates vulnerabilities to regulatory, political, and market risks that can destroy value overnight. Managing this tension requires accepting that some risks can't be hedged, only acknowledged.

The cultural bridge that Prosus built—between African origins, European governance, and Asian growth—offers a model for globalization's next phase. As the world fragments into regional blocs, companies that can operate across cultural and political divides become more valuable. Prosus's ability to be simultaneously African, European, and Asian might be its most underappreciated asset.

Looking forward, Prosus faces an existential question about identity. Is it a technology investor, an operator of internet platforms, or a hybrid that defies classification? The recent acquisitions suggest a move toward operational integration, building synergies across portfolio companies rather than treating them as standalone investments. This transition from investor to operator represents the next evolution, but execution remains uncertain.

The persistence of the NAV discount suggests deeper questions about market structure and investor psychology. Perhaps holding companies will always trade at discounts in efficient markets, where investors can recreate portfolios themselves. Or perhaps the discount reflects skepticism about management's ability to deploy capital as successfully in the future as in the past. Either way, financial engineering seems unlikely to solve what is fundamentally a trust problem.

The sustainability of emerging market tech investing faces new challenges. As these markets mature, returns will likely normalize. The easy wins—digitizing payments, food delivery, classifieds—have largely been claimed. The next wave of opportunities might require deeper technical innovation rather than simply applying proven models to new geographies. This shift favors different capabilities than those Prosus has historically demonstrated.

Yet the fundamental thesis remains compelling. Billions of people in emerging markets are still coming online, building digital financial histories, and changing consumption patterns. The companies serving these users will create enormous value over the coming decades. The question is whether Prosus, with its unique history and complicated structure, is the right vehicle to capture that value.

The story of Prosus ultimately reflects the messy reality of building businesses across cultures, time zones, and political systems. It's a reminder that the greatest investments often come from desperation rather than design, that patient capital can overcome numerous mistakes, and that success creates its own problems. From Afrikaans newspapers to Chinese social networks to global food delivery, the journey has been anything but linear.

As one senior executive reflected recently, "We've been incredibly lucky, but luck favors the prepared and the persistent. We were in China when everyone was leaving. We stayed in markets when others ran. We backed entrepreneurs when they had no other options. That's not luck—that's conviction."

Whether that conviction will continue generating returns in a more complex, fragmented, and competitive world remains to be seen. But one thing is certain: the company that started as Die Nasionale Pers in 1915 has traveled further than its founders could have ever imagined, carrying with it all the contradictions, opportunities, and challenges of emerging market capitalism in the 21st century.