There once was an organisation — not quite an NGO, not quite a think tank, but something vaguely operational with just enough field presence to justify its funding. It existed in the hazy borderlands of humanitarian good intentions and procedural inertia. Officially, it was committed to Change — one of those grand, universally agreeable missions that looked excellent in funding proposals and could be earnestly discussed for hours without ever being pinned to specifics. Unofficially, it was committed to quarterly reports and PowerPoint decks.

The people inside were polite, well-meaning, and deeply committed to concepts like ‘alignment’, ‘participation’, and the occasional afternoon workshop. They were not only fair-minded and practical but also spirited, empathetic, bold, and open-hearted. They believed in things like fairness, common sense, and the occasional afternoon nap. They had rules, traditions, and a way of doing things that, while not perfect, generally worked.

They trusted that those in charge had at least skimmed the strategy before speaking about it in public.

And then came Johnny Dolittle.

Sustainable Humanitarian Initiative and Technical Expertise (originally known—unfortunately—as SHITE) was not always called that. It had been many things over the years: a coalition, a taskforce, an operational alliance, and for a brief period, a “strategic accelerator hub”. Eventually, during a particularly earnest strategy workshop, someone finally wrote out the acronym on a flipchart, prompting a long, awkward silence. By the end of the week, ‘Initiative’ was discreetly replaced with ‘Outreach’, and SHITE became SHOTE—Sustainable Humanitarian Outreach and Technical Expertise. But in spirit, especially for old-timers, it remained SHITE forever. It occupied a large compound on the edge of the capital, overflowing with posters about resilience, laminated flowcharts, and motivational quotes from people no one remembered.

It was here that Little Johnny Dolittle (JD for short, Little Johnny for friends) arrived with great potential—or at least, that’s what he claimed. He was a man of grand ideas, delivered with big smiles, bigger hand gestures, and an endless stream of words that flowed so confidently most people forgot to ask what he was actually saying. His voice became a kind of office wallpaper — always there, faintly reassuring, occasionally decorative, and impossible to remove. The details were vague, but that was part of the magic.

He didn’t enter SHITE as a leader. No, he was ushered in quietly as a Promising Young Professional—a title which implied both potential and deniability. He was assigned to The Office of Future Strategic Excellence™, a subsection of SHITE known for its circular diagrams, perpetual pilots, and complete immunity to field reality.

Johnny had just the right mix of ambition and ambiguity. He was never too radical, never too precise, always ready with a catchphrase and a confident nod. He made noise, and noise was often mistaken for progress.

It didn’t take long for him to catch the eye of Manager the 4th, a figure known more widely by his unofficial name: the Lionbum. He had recently returned to SHITE after some years away — though no one could quite recall where he’d gone or why. He now held the title of SHITE manager, though in his earlier incarnation he had been something else entirely — a coordinator of something that had since been renamed, restructured, or quietly buried under a wave of strategic realignments. He was impeccably dressed — not flamboyantly, just strategically neutral in a way that suggested dependability without risk — consistently vague, and famous for his ability to turn any critique into a compliment. He spoke in lengthy, reassuring sentences that wrapped around themselves like soft snakes.

Some admired him. Others suspected he might be powered entirely by ambient jargon.

Manager the 4th recognised a kindred spirit in Johnny. Here was someone who could talk for hours without ever risking a firm opinion. He brought Johnny into meetings. He praised his “fresh perspective” and “engagement energy.” He assigned him bold tasks with no deliverables. When Johnny proposed something wildly unworkable, the Lionbum would chuckle and say, “That’s bold, Johnny. Let’s refine it.”

Nothing was ever refined.

Soon, Johnny was not just in meetings—he was chairing them. Staff stopped questioning him, mostly because they couldn’t remember the original question. Donors smiled politely. Colleagues nodded rhythmically. And when the Lionbum grew weary of accountability, he had a solution ready:

“Johnny, why don’t you handle this? The people need someone with vision.”

And thus, Johnny became the face of the leadership.

He arrived to the headquarter as a breath of fresh air, which, in retrospect, should have been taken as a warning. He had no past to answer for, no real accomplishments to examine—just pure, unfiltered potential. And potential, as everyone in SHITE knows, is much safer than performance.

Some say he still speaks in long meetings. Others say he has been promoted beyond consequence. But all agree on one thing:

He never actually did anything wrong.

Which, in SHITE, is often more important than doing anything right.

<<<TBC>>>