Leadership, I’ve learned, isn’t truly tested in the glow of applause or the ease of a well-run program. Its real test comes in the silence that follows a mistake—the quiet after the embarrassment, the heaviness in your chest when things go wrong and you have to face the mirror. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the sting of some of my earliest failures, the restless nights and the questions that wouldn’t let me sleep. It’s not easy to admit, but that pain became my greatest teacher.
One of the most humbling moments in my journey happened during a fundraising event. I had a list of special guests, but it wasn’t complete or properly confirmed. I was working with a respected pastor as the MC, and as the event unfolded, we started calling up people to the stage to serve as fundraisers. The problem was, I hadn’t actually reached out to some of them or clearly told them they’d be featured. In the moment, I began adding names from the crowd—calling people up on the spot. I could see the confusion and even frustration on their faces. Some guests asked, “Why didn’t you tell us in time?” The embarrassment cut deep. I felt exposed and foolish. That day I realised: leadership isn’t just about making things happen. It’s about respecting people, being prepared, and communicating clearly. If you don’t plan well, you end up disrespecting those you need most. The hardest part wasn’t what people saw—it was the disappointment I felt in myself, knowing I’d let people down.
Then there was that O-Night in Kwekwe—a night that left me painfully aware of what happens when a leader is absent. I had trusted others to handle preparations and only arrived about thirty minutes before the program started, expecting everything to be ready. But when I got there, no one was around. The things we’d talked about and agreed to do weren’t done. The treasurer was missing, the chairs weren’t arranged, and the whole atmosphere felt flat. It’s a hollow feeling, standing in a half-empty hall, realizing you’ve let your people down before the event even starts. In that moment, I learned a leader can’t just assign duties and disappear. Oversight isn’t micromanagement—it’s presence. It’s care. You need to be on the ground, guiding, supporting, and making sure your vision turns into reality. Sometimes it’s not the big crises, but the small absences that hurt the most.
Another lesson—one that burned for a long time—came from believing humility alone was enough. I thought I could quietly work in the background, stay disciplined, let others take the spotlight, and everything would fall into place. But what I saw is that when I was silent, the whole group went silent too. People need to see their leader, hear their vision, and feel their energy. If you’re hiding, your team hides too. Sometimes, you must speak up, step forward, and give people something to rally behind. Presence and voice create momentum, not just discipline behind closed doors.
One of the hardest and most freeing lessons I learned—and one I finally wrote about in Hello Mr. Chairman—is that leadership is a role, not an identity. There is Simba the chairman, and there is Simba the person. The chairman is a position, a duty, something I act in and out of, like a role in a movie. But Simba the person is someone with dreams, struggles, family, friends, and a life outside the boardroom. Early on, I made the mistake of pouring everything into the role, losing myself in meetings, expectations, and the never-ending needs of others. I neglected the relationships and joys that made me whole. I forgot that I’m a son, a friend, a brother, a business owner, a man who loves and is loved outside any title. When you fail to draw the line between your true self and your leadership position, you risk burning out, losing perspective, and forgetting what really matters.
Looking back, the deepest pain of failure is often the loneliness that comes after. There have been days I didn’t want to show my face, pick up my phone, or talk about what went wrong. But with time, I learned to keep showing up. I learned to say, “I was wrong. Let’s try again.” That’s where the healing and growth begin. It’s not about pretending you never failed, but about how you carry yourself after the fall.
If I’m honest, I’m still learning. Real leadership is shaped by the wounds you own and the lessons you refuse to ignore. People may forgive your mistakes, but they never forget how you handled them. If you are leading a family, a business, a church, or any group—don’t run away from your failures. Face them. Talk about them. Grow from them. And always remember: you are more than your title. You are a whole person, worthy of love and life, even when leadership gets heavy.
The best leaders are not the ones who never make mistakes, but the ones who refuse to let failure have the last word.
When Leadership Fails: Mistakes I Made and What They Taught Me
Leadership in Zimbabwe isn’t measured by smooth events or applause, but by how you face your failures. Real leaders learn to own their mistakes, show up after falling, and never lose themselves in their titles. The pain of getting it wrong can be your greatest teacher if you let it shape you.
