When Mr Raay Lim started selling durians in May 2020 during the Covid-19 circuit breaker, he expected the long hours and physical toil, but not the non-stop yapping that would come to define his job now.

Growing up, communication was never his strong suit. He had a habit of stammering and stuttering, so a career as a live streamer was the furthest thing from his mind. He went into the durian business to facilitate conversations, not lead them.

“I started out because my grandma loved durians a lot. Every durian season, we’d lay out the newspaper, sit and eat together. It’s something I’ll always remember. So, I hope that by starting my business, I’ll be able to replicate these family moments for other people,” says the 32-year-old Singaporean owner of Zen Zu Fu Durians, which operates from a kerbside stall in Tiong Bahru.

He set up shop first in Queenstown, then Sin Ming and Bedok, and finally Tiong Bahru. But each successive neighbourhood proved no warmer than the last, with residents reluctant to leave their homes during the pandemic. “It was very hard to build up a neighbourhood base. You need to give customers a reason to choose you over other more established stalls.”

To a young newcomer like him, it was clear that the traditional model of business – a bricks-and-mortar stall, steady base of neighbourhood regulars – no longer cut it.

The answer, then, lay online, on the one app that was taking over the world: TikTok.

In June 2023, Mr Lim logged on and started live selling durians for the first time. It turned out to be the right move.

About 70 per cent of his revenue now comes from TikTok Shop, where mao shan wang is priced at $50 a 500g box – the same as de-husked durians at his physical stall. He estimates that he racks up six figures in total in TikTok Shop sales during the main durian season in June. The harvests in December and March yield more modest returns.

Other enterprising thorn sellers started to do the same, lured by the platform’s sprawling reach and quick commerce.

Over the last year, the app has yielded a bumper crop. The number of durian sellers on TikTok Shop grew by some 40 per cent, while gross merchandise value surged 185 per cent year-on-year, according to the company.

Sellers such as Mr Josiah Jeremy Seow of Golden Moments Durian Cafe in Bugis and Mr Tony Seah of Vlack Durian in Bukit Batok also tried to catch the wave over the last couple of years.

“The era of business has changed, and we have to adapt and enter the streaming arena,” says Mr Seah, a 41-year-old Singaporean.

He launched Vlack in 2020 and started live selling in June 2024. The results were remarkable. By the following year, revenue had risen by 40 to 50 per cent.

A 400g to 450g box of mao shan wang sells for around $60 on Vlack’s TikTok Shop, 10 per cent more than at the physical store due to charges such as platform fees.

Because his store is in an industrial estate, online outreach is a necessity. “We can’t attract thousands of customers daily with just our physical store, but on TikTok, we can get thousands to learn about our brand.”

 (In association with Asia News Network)

For seasoned live streamers like Ms Emily Tan, who goes by @EmObsessed online, durians have also proven a risky – as perishable foods tend to be – but lucrative trade. She had heard that durians were one of the easiest things to sell online, with a higher eyeballs-to-sales conversion rate than other fruit.

“At first, I was like, are you serious? Who buys durians on TikTok? I thought you’d want to get a feel or try the durian. But after doing one live stream, I realised the cult of durians is real,” says the 32-year-old Singaporean of her first live stream with Zen Zu Fu in April. She usually touts family-centric products online such as Zappy wipes.

She sold a five-figure sum from four hours with Zen Zu Fu, slightly more than the mid-four-to-five figures she usually generates from selling other products online.

Friends first

Online, the prickly product cannot speak for itself. It demands a personable host: charismatic, knowledgeable and ready to talk for hours.

On Mr Lim’s live streams, conversation ranges far beyond durians, running the gamut from routine exchanges – “How are you” and “Have you eaten?” – to deeper concerns, like the rising cost of living and how to help friends with mental health issues. The sessions can run for up to six hours.

Sometimes, he chops durians concurrently. But multitasking can be exhausting and dangerous, so he takes occasional breaks from physical work to engage his viewers.

“I would say it’s 20 per cent selling, 80 per cent chatting,” he says, taking care to differentiate himself from sellers who urge customers to just “buy, buy, buy”.

“To do business, you must first build your community. When people know your sincerity and who you are, they are more likely to buy from you. The way I approach the live streaming is by thinking that maybe we can be friends first.”

It seems to have worked. Viewers hang around for an average of two hours – for him, not the durians.

Singaporean Ng Shu Huai, for example, has been following Zen Zu Fu’s TikTok live sales for a year now. The 39-year-old, who works in the supply chain sector, tunes in every day after work and on weekends.

“Raay’s quite funny and the chats are always light-hearted, which helps me unwind after a long day,” she says. “What keeps me coming back is Raay’s honesty and sincerity. He never hard sells and remembers viewers’ names, preferences and where they live.”

On the other hand, she adds, buying in person can be quite intimidating.

It is a sentiment Mr Lim says many millennial and Gen Z customers share, which is why he thinks TikTok has helped him reach a new demographic. “Durian sellers can be intimidating in terms of their voices being loud. It’s a bit hard to go down to their shop and speak to them because a lot of people can give into this kind of pressure.”

On TikTok, however, the customer is king. Order a box if you like what you see. If not, just swipe past.

Honesty is the best policy

Ms Tan is not one to beg for business.

Her style, she maintains, is transparent and honest, not pushy. She adds: “If a customer says, ‘Emily, I can’t decide between red prawn and mao shan wang’, some sellers will say, ‘Buy both.’

“But I’ll be like, ‘Ask yourself if you want to eat something sweeter or a bit bigger? And you can just purchase one. If it’s good, next time, you can come back.’”

Also emphasising candour, Mr Seow describes his style as educational. He starts by delving into the different types of durians and their tastes in an engaging monologue, sprinkled with facts and examples. For instance, he might explain why the price of durians is going up or break down what a bumper crop means for Singaporean buyers.

“When they know that we know our stuff, that’s when we establish trust and rapport,” says the 36-year-old, who founded Golden Moments in 2017. Online, his durians are priced from $22 to $38 for each 400g box.

The live streaming at Golden Moments runs from 1 to 10pm every day, with shifts divided into two- to three-hour long blocks hosted by in-house staff or a roster of about 20 freelancers it cycles through.

Mr Seow is conscious of the difference between online consumers and those who patronise his physical store. Shoppers on TikTok are more price-conscious, as the platform allows them to compare the cost across various stores at once.

“They tend to be more critical about the brand and product because they can see how many boxes have been sold and what a store’s rating is like before making a decision to buy,” he notes.

In response, he has tightened customer service, ensuring that chats are replied to and deliveries made on time. The durians are usually delivered within 90 minutes, as promised on its TikTok page, affording quick gratification.

Vlack’s Mr Seah takes a similarly informative approach. He introduces himself, answers questions, discusses the season’s forecast and guides viewers through the types of durians in a manner that is “very direct, very clear”.

Trust, in his case, is built by keeping the camera trained on a box of golden flesh, with a member of his team de-husking durians in the background. “We’re a premium durian specialist, so we believe in flexing the quality of our durians, instead of attracting people by showing our faces,” he quips.

Because TikTok Shop accounts for 70 per cent of Vlack’s sales, the team live streams from 3 to 10pm daily. Mr Seah admits that it can get tiring, even when live-selling duties are shared among his team of six.

Does he ever run out of things to say? “No, I love to eat durians. So, I’m doing what I like on a daily basis.”

Thorny side of TikTok

Not every part of the process is sweet, however. The rush hour, which is usually from 5 to 8pm and brings a surge of around 50 orders, always gives the team a bit of a headache – albeit a happy one.

It has to manage expectations, keep track of deliveries, get durians to customers within two to three hours, as well as soothe the ruffled feathers of those asked to reschedule their deliveries, should stocks run out.

And if any box fails to meet expectations, customers are urged to reach out to Vlack’s service recovery team. “Durians are so expensive. We don’t want customers to eat lousy quality durians. Just reach out to us. Don’t be afraid, we’re very friendly,” he assures.

But refunds occasionally pose a challenge to Mr Seow. “Some customers are a bit harder to deal with, they’re obviously there to troll. So they will tell you that it’s very bad, but when you ask for photos and videos, they don’t want to send. Then how do you justify the refund?”

Sellers on TikTok Shop must respond to refund requests within one working day, but can reject a request on grounds of lack of evidence or if the product is “used, damaged or removed from the original packaging”.

Then there is the emotional exhaustion of having to continually pump out good vibes. While Mr Lim can usually feed off the energy of 50 to 100 viewers, his live stream has its quieter moments too.

“The toughest thing is motivating yourself when there are no viewers,” he says. “You have to talk with the same kind of energy, but honestly, it’s hard because you know you’re talking to a wall.”

But he keeps going anyway, for the sake of his business and to push himself out of his comfort zone.

As for his stutter? After hours upon hours of chatting into a phone camera, only a trace of it remains. “If people want to laugh at my stutter, honestly, just let them laugh,” he says. “Everyone has his or her own shortcomings. You just have to accept who you are and face it.”