DollyKat T

Surviving the Red and Yellow Circus

Working at Red & Yellow Creative School of Business is not just a job — it’s a psychological experience that few are prepared for. At first glance, everything seems vibrant and hopeful. The students are brilliant — kind, innovative, and refreshingly creative. Some of your colleagues appear warm and supportive. But give it time, and the cracks start to show. The deeper you go, the more you realise: this isn’t your typical workplace. It’s a pressure cooker disguised as a creative institution. And at the heart of that pressure lies a deeply toxic work culture — one perpetuated and protected by certain members of senior management. We are chronically understaffed. There’s always a vacancy. Always a role that’s waiting to be filled — usually left behind by someone who couldn’t take it anymore. And those who remain? We simply absorb the work. It’s become normal to juggle multiple roles, often outside your job description, while pretending everything is manageable. There’s also an unspoken culture of throwing each other under the bus. Accountability is rarely upward — it flows sideways and downward, with whispers behind closed doors. And after this review? The corridors will be filled with suspicious glances and finger-pointing — “Who wrote it?” — instead of the more important question: “What are we doing wrong?” The answer? Start with how the Head of Academics treats staff. Her panic-fuelled leadership style forces her direct reports and managers to bend over backwards to satisfy her ever-changing moods. She feeds off urgency and fear, creating an environment where no one feels secure. The male senior manager, equally problematic, has a tendency to speak over others, override decisions, and take over people’s projects without regard for boundaries or roles. Staff are bogged down in endless, unnecessary meetings. Micromanagement is a daily reality. And the biggest cancer of all? Gossip. It’s not just a bad habit here — it’s part of the institutional culture. It’s how information moves, how reputations are shaped, and how decisions are often made. Shockingly, even the MD participates. Rather than curbing it, she enables and perpetuates it. It’s no wonder we’re working in fear. Most of us don’t know when our time will be up. There’s a well-known, disturbing tale of someone who was allegedly dismissed after the reception camera recorded their voice. Yes — apparently, voice surveillance. Is that even legal? The fact that this story is widely accepted shows just how deep the fear runs. To survive, some staff have resigned themselves to playing the game — becoming the “teacher’s pet,” staying close to power, and keeping their head down. Speaking up feels like self-sabotage. And honestly? No one is coming to save us. Many of us are quietly preparing to leave — or staying for now while scanning job boards during lunch breaks. If only those who already left could speak up. Their silence hides a deeper truth: the Head of Academics and her favourite manager have played leading roles in their departure. There’s a particular staff member — often treated as the golden child — who has developed a reputation for overreacting, blowing things out of proportion, and triggering disciplinary chaos over personal feelings. Her influence is disproportionate, and her emotional instability has cost good people their jobs. Let’s not forget: programme design is often handed to the favourite, regardless of actual leadership capability. And while the organisation praises creativity externally, the human cost of that creativity is brutal. Staff are burnt out. Lecturers are abruptly cut off because “someone doesn’t like them.” Underqualified individuals are hired for convenience. Some programmes run with only one lecturer, while others carry the load of three. Overworked. Under-resourced. Undervalued. There are still good people here — kind, thoughtful, talented professionals — but fear has twisted even them. Some have begun to reflect the very toxicity they once stood against. It’s survival. It’s self-preservation. But it’s also incredibly sad. We need Honoris to conduct a real investigation — anonymous, thorough, and uncensored. We need CHE to ask the hard questions: At what human cost is this creativity being produced? Why are so many staff members quietly leaving? Why is silence the only form of safety? Until then, we remain in this well-branded chaos, watching the circus from within. We work in fear, hold our breath in meetings, and carry the weight of a hundred small indignities. And as the internal hunt for this review begins — yes, they’ll look for the author — know that this isn’t about one person. This is about a system that is long overdue for accountability. Let the circus begin.