Siyabonga M

Part 2: Surviving Red and Yellow (The weekend edition)

Boom. Let’s not pretend — you felt the aftershocks. It’s the weekend — and oddly enough, we’re looking forward to Monday. That’s what emotional liberation does: it stirs something bold, something untamed. But don’t get too comfortable. Behind the smiles and side-eyes, a storm is brewing. The curtains are up, the scripts have been flipped, and in true dramatic fashion — someone must now be dragged to the butchering table. Egos have been bruised. Power has been questioned. And in places like this, that means one thing — a sacrificial lamb must be offered. Someone will be thrown under the bus, whether guilty or not, just to soothe wounded pride and maintain the illusion of control. The shadow meetings have ended. The whispering has turned into planning. So, while you sip your weekend coffee, here’s something to feed your appetite — because come Monday, the knives will be out. The moment that last letter hit, the atmosphere shifted. You could feel it in the stairwells. The air grew heavier. HR was suddenly more visible than Wi-Fi issues on deadline day. People stopped mid-sentence. Some blinked too fast. Others walked slower, like guilt might trip them. Meetings sprang up in strange corners. Whispered strategy sessions disguised as “quick check-ins.” But what they weren’t checking was the root of the problem — only the source of the noise. Now let’s be clear: this isn’t fiction. This isn’t drama. This is a documentary filmed in real-time, by those who live it. You can roll your eyes, but deep down, you know every line from the last letter was dressed in uncomfortable truth. The system isn’t broken — it’s functioning exactly as designed: hierarchical, fearful, and wildly performative. Since then, many of you have expressed gratitude — yes, I am listening, I heard you say — “Thank you, to whomever person who wrote this.” And I thank you right back. Your stories , your bravery, your refusal to keep swallowing the toxic poison — that’s what fuels this. Let’s face it: Red & Yellow is not a workplace. It’s a performance space, where survival depends on your ability to smile through disempowerment. A place where creative thinking is encouraged — as long as it doesn’t challenge authority. And what a show it’s been. Friday at 14:30 felt like a crime scene. People vanished from desks. Others returned with tension stitched into their faces. HR parked at reception like a friendly interrogator — clipboard in spirit if not in hand. The message was clear: We’re watching you, but not listening to you. The paranoia was louder than the coffee machine. Then the Favorite Child took center stage - We watched her play innocent, forgetting we’ve all witnessed the tantrums, the manipulation, the sudden exits of those who dared to challenge her. A walking red flag dressed in approval. Protected not by merit, but by proximity to power. And the Head of Academics? She continues to rule not with leadership, but with panic-fuelled micromanagement. Every email feels like a commandment. Every meeting a tribunal. There are no boundaries — she’s in admin, HR, operations, curriculum, enrolments. Control is her currency. Power, her oxygen. And when she told staff in a recorded meeting to “resign if you're unhappy,” people did. Not out of drama, but out of desperation. Because under her leadership, survival means silence. HR, meanwhile, continues to perform its most consistent role: the illusion of support. They collect complaints like souvenirs, only to bury them in polite responses and forced smiles. People are not protected — they are profiled. Speak too much, and you disappear. Show too much emotion, and you’re labelled “difficult.” Ask too many questions, and you’re “not the right culture fit.” Let’s be real: ice cream is not wellness. It's a distraction. A silent message that says, "Have a cone. Shut your mouth." But we’re full. Of sugar, and of your games. Lecturers are burnt out. Admin staff are juggling ten roles with two hands. Programmes run short-staffed, under-resourced, and over-enrolled. And when people leave, we’re expected to carry the weight — quietly, smiling. So here we are again — the curtain lifted once more. And if you’re still focused on who wrote this instead of why it had to be written, you are the problem. Stop calling it gossip. Call it what it really is — grief. We are mourning the version of this place we once believed in. And the more you ignore it, the louder the mourning gets. To my colleagues — those still hanging on, those halfway out the door, and those already gone: Don’t be silenced. Open a Yahoo account. Send your truth. Reach out to Honoris. Email the CHE. Speak. Before they brand your pain as politics. This isn’t personal. It’s systemic. And this? - This is bigger than you think. More are coming. Because we are prepared.