In which metaphors replace answers, mangoes fail to ripen, and staff mysteriously vanish

The vacuum

At the very peak of performance theatre, Little Johnny announced he would be away for four months on a Global Strategic Immersion Fellowship™ — “to witness strategy embodiment across geographies.”

Lionbum’s leafy communiqué followed, sprawling across screens in bold and italics, every word dripping chlorophyll:

“Dear colleagues, our branches have swayed, our roots have drunk deep, and much fruit has ripened on the boughs of Johnny’s tireless vision. Yet more orchards await! In his absence, let us not falter. Please lift your gaze and extend your welcome to Ms. Blund’Er, Interim Custodian of Living Strategy™, who shall tend the sacred grove until his triumphant return. GO TEAM.”

Within the hour, Ms. Blund’Er replied-all, cloaked in ceremonious cadence, her prose newly sprouting arboreal metaphors: “Honoured colleagues, I am profoundly humbled to resume my place as Interim Custodian of Living Strategy™. Together we shall nurture our roots, extend our branches, and protect the canopy of shared purpose. Our fruits will surely come to ripen, nourished by the fertile soil of our collective endeavour.”

(It was quietly noted that during her previous deputising, her vocabulary had been ceremonial, yes, but never leafy. Lionbum’s sap clearly rubbed off.)

Staff remembered her earlier reign — ambitious, ceremonial, and even less equipped.

And so, with Johnny gone to embody strategy abroad and Ms. Blund’Er dissolving into borrowed metaphors, a vacuum opened. Into it stepped Lionbum, eager shepherd of imagery and overseer of rituals.

Ald closed his notebook and muttered: “When gardeners start plagiarising each other’s roots, you can be sure no fruit is fit for harvest.”

The townhall

Week after week, Lionbum gathered the faithful for his Townhall. The Committees of Questions™ dutifully delivered their scrolls of inquiry, stacked high with pleas, clarifications, and existential despair. None were answered.

Instead, the pattern never wavered. Lionbum leaned forward, voice heavy with sap, and — ever the Master of Deflection — answered in metaphors thick as ivy. One week it might be, “Our roots are deep, our canopy wide, our fruits… forthcoming.” Another time, “Every branch bends differently in the wind, yet the tree remains whole.” Or perhaps, “Tomorrow’s harvest depends on today’s alignment.” Once even, “The sun does not ask permission to rise; neither should strategy.”

All of it sounded equally mysterious — and equally useless.

When murmurs rose about salaries, stock shortages, or missing generators, Lionbum smiled serenely and replied: “All things in their season. Mangoes ripen even in winter, if the vision is strong enough.”

And at the close — always the close — he lifted his hand in benediction: “GO TEAM.”

The faithful dispersed, already knowing they would return the next week, scrolls in hand, to rehearse the same unanswered ritual.

“Strong vision, weak harvest,” thought Ald.
After a moment, he added: “He really should stop talking to fruit.”

The fallout

Several staff quietly vanished on sick leave — officially termed Extended Reflective Recovery™. One Question Committee collapsed under the weight of its own unanswered inquiries, leaving behind only a pile of Post-its, an unclaimed flipchart stand, and a set of half-scribbled Vision Alignment Diagrams™ stillborn on the table. Another team attempted to reconcile their Matrix of Roots™ with the Framework of Wings™, producing only a blurred sketch of a flying tree.

By the fifth Townhall, Ald had stopped counting metaphors and started counting fruit. Neither ripened.

Meanwhile, staff whispers began to spread: if mangoes really did ripen in winter, perhaps salaries might too.

The higher echelons of SHOTE insisted the process was a success so far, result of brilliant thinking and leadership, even as the diagrams withered into compost, the branches of metaphor sagged under their own leafy weight, and the orchard of staff was steadily pruned by sick leave.

Ald shut his notebook. “Next comes ritual,” he thought. “Nothing cures burnout like a ceremony with flipcharts.”