Leadership

Let me take you back to an era before “Human Resources” was even a term most companies used. Genesis When I was starting out, people who worked with employees were called Personnel. Personnel Clerk. Personnel Officer. Personnel Manager — all tucked under Finance and Administration, and nobody questioned it. Training was training. Simple. I was young, freshly diplomed in Personnel Management, and quietly determined to change things. I lobbied my General Manager, made the case for a standalone HR department, and won. Then I designed what felt like the logical next step: a Graduate Trainee Programme. Two students came on board. I called them HR Attachés. They reported to me. I was proud. Acts Then one morning, everything shifted. I was walking past one of the HR offices when I caught a glimpse, just a flicker, of an elderly factory employee seated across from one of my trainees. His posture said everything. Shoulders dropped. Head low. The body language of a man being made to feel like a problem. I had a full day ahead. I kept walking. But that image wouldn’t leave me. So I had him called to my office. When he came in, he went straight to his knees in front of my desk, begging for forgiveness, saying he’d never repeat his mistake. I was completely disoriented. I’m not God. I came around the desk, pulled him up gently, took his hands, and got him seated. Then I called in the graduate trainee. He arrived slowly. Unhurried. Sauntered in with his hands in his pockets and leaned against the doorframe like he’d wandered in from a lunch break. The moment he appeared, I watched the elderly man’s face tighten with fear. I asked what had happened. The trainee shrugged and responded in Shona: “Oooh, mudhara uyu akajambwa necomputer. Pane ka$5-00 kake kasina kubhadharwa, saka ndamuudza kuti achaiwana next month.” For those who don’t follow: “This old man’s $5 payment was skipped by the computer. I told him he’d get it next month.” That was it. A $5 underpayment. An administrative error. And this young man, educated, placed with authority over the financial wellbeing of factory workers, had handled a frightened elderly employee with the casual indifference of someone clearing spam email. Armageddon I blew up. The trainee was removed from the building, out of company accommodation, and left at a highway bus stop that same afternoon. The university was notified. The $5 was paid immediately, and I personally apologised to the employee. Then I shut down the Graduate Trainee Programme on the spot. I told myself I was doing the right thing. It took time, and honesty, to sit with what had actually happened. Yes, the trainee had behaved appallingly. But I had placed him in front of vulnerable people and assumed that a diploma and good intentions were enough preparation. I had not once sat him down and said: the people in those chairs are carrying lives. Their salaries are not numbers. They are school fees, groceries, rent, dignity. I had taught him the system. I hadn’t taught him what the system was for. There’s a question that comes to me often when I think about Learning and Development: Do fish know they are wet? A fish has never known anything other than water. It cannot step outside its environment to see it, name it, or question it. The water is simply… everything. Invisible precisely because it’s always there. We build programmes. We write competency frameworks. We onboard graduates and measure learning outcomes. And we can do all of that rigorously and still produce people who are technically capable and humanly unprepared. The gap between knowledge and wisdom is not filled by more content. It’s filled by intentional formation: by helping people understand who they’re serving, why it matters, and what it means to hold someone else’s vulnerability with care. That is the work. And it doesn’t show up on a training register.

Let’s talk  about skills gaps, leadership pipelines, and the “future of work.” We like those conversation, and we like to talk about investing in training programmes, graduate schemes, and capacity-building initiatives meant to prepare young women for what lies ahead. And yet, in one very real way, many of us are actively undermining that future — quietly, politely, and with good manners intact. Let me explain. If you are a competent, experienced professional woman who refuses to make yourself visible, you are stealing from the next generation of young women. “Who, me?” you might ask. Yes. You. Because here’s the uncomfortable truth we don’t say often enough in learning and development spaces: you can’t become what you never see. If we want our young women to become leaders in business, in politics, in entrepreneurship, or in the community, we need to give them the opportunity to see such people in action — people like you and me. We need to provide them with visible, accessible role models. Credibility is not built on competence alone. It is built at the intersection of believability and visibility. Believability comes from substance: your qualifications, your skills, your experience, your track record, your judgement. It is the quiet, disciplined work of becoming good at what you do. Visibility, on the other hand, is about presence: being seen, being heard, being recognised as someone whose voice matters in the room, in the industry, and in the public record. Too many professional women invest heavily in believability and treat visibility as optional, indulgent, or even distasteful. We assume that if we are good enough, we will be noticed. That our work will speak for itself, and  someone, somewhere, will connect the dots. But in the real world — especially in learning environments, leadership pipelines, and succession planning — credibility is constructed, not discovered. If believability is the foundation, visibility is the structure built on top of it. Without both, the house simply doesn’t stand. When capable women remain invisible, the result is not humility — it is erasure. Decision-makers scan the landscape and conclude that expertise is scarce. Young women scan the horizon and see no one they can model themselves after. The absence is interpreted as a lack of substance, not a surplus of modesty. Every time a credible woman chooses invisibility, she doesn’t just limit her own influence — she collapses the learning pathway for those watching from below, trying to understand what credibility looks like in practice. While a measure of modesty is understandable and perhaps even desirable, a lifelong habit of placing your lamp under a bushel is not really helpful at all. The reason is that it doesn’t just affect you — it affects the generations that follow us. It is in fact, about all the other women whose lives stand to be transformed by your story. If they never get to hear your story, then you’ve stolen their opportunity for transformation. As a mom of girls, ~I am constantly asking myself questions about teh future of girls in Africa. How many will make it through high school? How many will go on to be high achievers in business, in science, in academia, in the corporate world, in sport, or anywhere for that matter? How many will fulfill their potential? Not because this measure of excelling is the only thing that validates their existence, but because women are in fact incredibly useful in all these sectors, and would make a huge impact on society as a whole.  The truth is,  women are exceptional financial managers. Women are more successful at reaching consensus on important global issues, across a wide range of disparate views. Women communicate better than men, and tend to handle stress better than men. Women are able to work longer and harder than men and are better at innovation. They  have better people skills, are better at strategy development and so much more.  It’s not that we are in competition against men. It’s just that we lose so much goodness when women aren’t included. When we have something wonderful, we ought to share it. And, as the statistics show, our women are phenomenal in so many ways. We need  to share their achievements and stories with everyone, and particularly with younger women, so they can know what is possible. More importantly, they can know that if it’s possible for anyone, then it’s possible for them too. If you won’t shine for yourself, shine for the women coming after you.

Is it just me, or are tables getting a bad deal these days? If it’s not men asking women what they “bring to the table,” it’s women demanding a seat at one. The table has become shorthand for power, access, legitimacy — and aspiration. And yes, we all want a seat at it. A place where our voices are heard, our ideas valued, and our influence felt. But what we don’t talk about enough is what happens after you sit down. Moving into an executive position can be challenging for anyone, but for women, the journey is often layered with additional obstacles, unspoken rules, and cultural bias. A seat at the table opens doors to opportunity, but it also comes with visibility, scrutiny, and responsibility. In those moments, it’s not uncommon to quietly wonder whether we are truly ready for what lies ahead. Having a seat at the table is about far more than representation. It is about having the freedom to listen, contribute, question, and influence without fear of dismissal or retribution. It means your ideas are taken seriously, your cautions are heard, and your options are genuinely considered in decision-making. It is a marker of progress — an acknowledgement that women add real, tangible value in leadership spaces. Still, the weight of expectation can feel heavy. The pressure to perform, to prove yourself, and to avoid missteps can be overwhelming. Doubt creeps in. Fear of failure whispers loudly. These feelings are not a sign of inadequacy — they are a natural response to growth, responsibility, and being seen. This is where the power of community becomes essential. Leadership was never meant to be navigated alone. When we connect with others who are on similar paths, we find perspective, grounding, and strength. Communities create spaces to share experiences honestly, learn collectively, and draw on the wisdom of those who have gone before us. In peer-based spaces, we quickly realise we are not alone in our doubts or uncertainties. Others have felt the same hesitation, faced similar challenges, and survived them. Their insights, advice, and reassurance remind us that confidence is often built in company, not isolation. Engaging with people who are walking alongside us also reframes our understanding of success. We see that even the most accomplished leaders have stumbled, questioned themselves, and recalibrated along the way. By sharing our own stories, we not only find relief, but we help normalise the leadership journey for others. Through these connections, confidence deepens. We speak up more clearly, ask better questions, and challenge the status quo with courage. Together, we become more than individuals occupying seats — we become a collective force shaping the table itself. Perhaps the real work, then, is not only about getting a seat at the table, but about building tables that are wider, sturdier, and designed to hold all of us. Because when women support one another, the room changes — and so does what becomes possible. Email us if you’d like to learn more about our programmes for women in leadership.