Meet Dicks Ön, a man whose name alone struck intrigue and suspicion in equal measure. He was the Head of Corporate Communications for the newly established HR firm, a firm that seemed to gather characters, not employees. Thick and tall, with the shoulders of a reluctant warrior and the gait of a half-exhausted rhinoceros, Dicks walked with a heavy thud that echoed slightly ahead of him as if warning the room to prepare itself.
His head was always bowed, not out of humility but from the sheer weight of a neck unused to uprightness. He kept his hoarse voice high, almost unnecessarily so, as though he feared that silence might make him invisible. It was a voice made of gravel and iron filings, a voice that forced you to listen whether you liked it or not. And he was always chewing something: gum, kola, or air, you never really knew. His jaw worked even when his mind didn’t.
Dicks was not much of a shaker of hands. No, that was beneath him. If he ever extended his palm, it was a limp, reluctant gesture. A formality he endured, not performed. He’d leave the task of completion to the other person, who often found themselves doing the work of two hands while Dicks stood staring at them with an expression that could curdle soup. He would peer into your soul with the kind of disinterest that felt offensive.
But if you thought Dicks Ön was bad, and there were many reasons to think so, then you hadn’t yet met White Pè, whose middle name, if truth were allowed to register on official documents, was incompetence.
2
White Pè was the kind of man who had tasted too many chances and spoiled each one. He had bounced from job to job like a pebble on a disturbed lake, never staying long enough to build anything except resentment. He had never served any organisation beyond a year. It became a running joke. White Pè was always gone before the second anniversary cake was baked. Sometimes, he didn’t even last till the end of his probation, but he always carried himself like he was handpicked by destiny itself.
Nothing he touched lived. It was as though misfortune and confusion were coded into his DNA. He had a rare talent for turning systems upside down and processes inside out. He had taken his last job, a modestly stable institution, and turned it into a circus before he was shown the door. His tenure had been marked by resignations, rumours, and an internal audit that somehow became a criminal investigation.
The HR organisation must have been his seventh or so employment in under ten years. Even that was speculation. Records were sketchy, and he had a curious ability to disappear from LinkedIn right after he was fired. One day, he’d be a “Results-Oriented Strategist,” and the next, his profile would redirect to a gospel meme.
Yet somehow, despite his dismal track record, White Pè had landed the role of Director of Human Resource. Not only that, he was the CEO’s confidante. Some whispered about tribal ties; others blamed the CEO’s poor judgment. A few believed in juju. Whatever the case, Pè had power, and he used it with all the grace of a chainsaw in a surgery ward.
3
Every man had his own strengths, and White Pè must have his too, but public speaking was definitely not one of them. In fact, he should have been banned from microphones and discouraged from forming sentences in public. He muttered and mumbled through every engagement, losing his own train of thought halfway through introductions and emerging with conclusions that had no link to what he started. His PowerPoint slides were a study in ambiguity, his diction a cocktail of anxiety and poor preparation.
Yet, the brightest feather in his cap, his single most consistent trait, was that he didn’t know. He had no idea about his speech handicap, so he spoke freely, exuberantly even, at public gatherings and offered advice like it came with a divine stamp of authority. He would call for team meetings just to mispronounce ‘synergy’ and use ‘policy’ in five contradictory ways within two minutes.
People often stared when he spoke, not in admiration but in disbelief. They waited for the punchline that never came, hoping that what they were hearing was a parody. But White Pè was no joke. He was the whole tragicomedy.
He was a man not in lack of anything. Not confidence, not presence, not gall. He strutted about the office in perfectly ironed shirts and overpriced loafers, always smelling of some cologne that tried too hard. He was cunning as he was brute. Where rationality failed him, his physical strength took over. He once lifted an entire desk to prove a point during a staff disagreement. Not the idea on the table, but the actual table.
His threats were veiled, and his humour questionable. He could quote policy documents he hadn’t read and misinterpret rules he’d written himself. Drollery was his stock in trade, and buffoonery, his hallmark. He once referred to a resignation letter as “a betrayal of organisational values” and insisted the departing staff should apologise to the entire HR team.
Despite it all, he remained powerful. Partly because of his alliance with the CEO and partly because no one really wanted to be the one to tell him the truth. He thrived in the ambiguity of office politics, dancing between the cracks with the elegance of a drunk ballet dancer. He left damage in his wake but always emerged with a smile.
4
Dicks Ön and White Pè made quite the pair. If one was the echo, the other was the thunder. Their presence in the HR firm created a unique atmosphere, a cocktail of anxiety, disbelief, and dark humour. Meetings led by the two were an exercise in endurance. Dicks would speak in long, gravelly monologues about “corporate image strategy” while chewing like a cow in mid-thought. White Pè would follow with a speech that started in English and ended in confusion.
Together, they transformed the workplace into a theatre. Staff members whispered in corridors, vented in coded WhatsApp groups, and updated their CVs monthly. Some left quietly; some erupted in meetings. But all shared one thing—the collective trauma of surviving Dicks Ön and White Pè.
But here’s the twist. Nothing happened to them. In an organisation that claimed to value excellence and competence, the two thrived not because they were competent, but because they were cunning, connected, and completely shameless. They had mastered the art of deflection, of acting important, of doing little but appearing to do everything.
And the rest of the team? Well, they endured. They tiptoed around egos, translated nonsense into deliverables, and waited for the day someone in upper management would finally see the emperor’s clothes for what they were: imaginary.
Until then, Dicks Ön would keep thudding through corridors, voice raised, jaws working endlessly. And White Pè would keep advising, misguiding, and mis-speaking, convinced that each disaster he created was an act of brilliance misunderstood by mere mortals.
They don’t make HR firms like they used to. Or perhaps they do, and we’ve just stopped laughing.