THE AFRICAN SAGE

  In quiet corners of each day, Where simple hearts find time to stay, Lies magic not in gold or fame, But in a kind and gentle name. In a little matatu, a coin pressed gently in a palm, To ease a fare or bring some calm, A child now smiles on dusty seats, For lunch, for books, or scribbled sheets. A loaf of bread, a plate, a hand, Offered where street families stand , They dine as kings beneath the sky, And lift their heads and spirits high. No trumpet sounds, no flashing light, Just kindness walking through the night, The smallest deed , a quiet spar k, Can light a fire against the dark. A note, a hug, a held-back tear, A stranger drawing someone near. We think them small, but oh, they grow , Like seeds that bloom where love does sow. For joy is not in grand display, But in the grace we give away. And those who give , unseen, unknown , Feel richest when they’re not alone. So let us move with open eyes, To find the need where silence lies. For hear...

The moth, Drawn again to the flame’s soft chant, the moth writes circles in burning ink, its wings stuttering through heat and habit, a fragile hymn to what it cannot hold. Each night it rises not for the stars, but the nearest flicker that pretends to be one. It knows the scorch, has worn the ash, yet returns as if longing could become a ladder.   We, too, dance around false suns: a job that dulls, a love that drains, a thought we mistook for truth. We build our prisons out of patterns that once felt like homes. But one night, the moth hovers , pauses ,  senses the wind not as resistance,  but as an invitation. Turns, falters, then flies toward dark unknowns where no warmth lures, but freedom breathes. It is not easy ;  The sky is wide and full of new, uncertain rhythms. But oh, the first rush of cool air against unstained wings! The wide gasp of not knowing and still going.   We do not always escape the cycle, we break one ...

  In a house of wire and measured grain, Sits the Broiler , lord of his limited domain. Water drips at his beak’s lazy call, Corn rains down without a fall. No wind tousles his glossy crown, No hawk dares swoop, no fox bears down. Fed by the clock, fatted with care, He grows rich on a diet of coddled despair. Yet, whispered between his swollen sighs, Lingers a memory he can’t quite disguise — Of wings that once might have kissed the skies, Of fields beyond these measured ties. Out in the thistle, the Free Range roams, A vagabond spirit with tattered combs. Beak to the dirt, toes in the grime, Earning each seed with sweat and time. The rain whips raw on his ragged back, The sun beats harshly on his wandering track. Each meal a gamble, each dawn a test, Yet his heart flaps wildly in his feathered chest. He leaps, he dodges, he clucks in delight — Alive in the peril, ablaze in the fight. A feast of freedom, bitter and sweet, Seasoned with dust, but seasoned...

The call to "think outside the box" has become a tired cliché in the modern workplace. Managers, innovators, and thought leaders casually toss it around as if creativity were simply a matter of stepping beyond invisible boundaries. Yet few stop to ask: What is the box? And is it even possible to think outside of it without first deeply understanding the one you are already in? I propose that all thinking is inescapably within a box; a product of our beliefs, experiences, education, socialisation, environment, and reinforced behaviours. Our minds are shaped by countless forces, most of which operate so subtly and consistently that we rarely notice them. Each narrative we believe, each framework we use to make sense of the world, each strategy we deploy at work — these are all constructed within specific "boxes" that guide, limit, and sometimes inspire our thinking. Understanding the Box In a workplace context, a "box" may take the form of organisati...