Of Larvae and Leaders

From 2007 to 2009, I studied forestry at Zambia Forestry College in Kitwe’s Mwekera, a transformative experience that earned me the stripes to be called a ‘Kapenda Mabula’ (Tree Leaves Accountant). It was baptism by fire, with 16 courses to tackle in the first term alone. Among them was Beekeeping, a niche course at the time but has revealed profound metaphors for leadership, human potential and social cohesion in retrospect. Beekeeping, also known as apiculture, is a vital practice with multifaceted benefits that range from honey production to forest conservation.  We learnt about things like honey bee biology and behavior, apiary management, harvesting quality honey, beekeeping equipment, and addressing problems such as bee pests, predators, and diseases. Recently, it is being promoted more as a tool for forest conservation and sustainable livelihoods for communities.

This course was anchored by a very good man who went by the name Benious Ikachana. God bless him.

Now, honey bees are social insects, which means that they live together in large, well-organized family groups. Social insects are highly evolved insects that engage in a variety of complex tasks not practiced by the multitude of solitary insects. Communication, complex nest construction, environmental control, defense and division of the labor are just some of the behaviors that honey bees have developed to exist successfully in social colonies. These fascinating behaviors make social insects in general, and bees in particular, among the most fascinating creatures on earth.

In the early 20th century, French mining engineer Henri Fayol developed what we globally call The 14 Principles of Management. Upon examining these principles, however, one will realize that they mirror the natural behaviors of social insects like honeybees. Bees, not Fayol, should be considered the true pioneers of Modern Management Theory, but true to the age old saying, "Until the bee learns to write its story, the tale will always glorify Henri Fayol."

A bee colony typically consists of three kinds of adult bees: workers (all females), drones (the males) and a (single) queen. A serious caste system is observed which is also called eusocial. Several thousand worker bees cooperate in nest building, food collection, and brood (offspring) rearing. Each member has a definite task to perform, related to its adult age. But surviving and reproducing take the combined efforts of the entire colony. Individual bees (workers, drones, and queens) cannot survive without the support of the colony.

The queen has two primary functions: one is reproduction and the second is producing pheromones that serve as a social “glue” unifying and helping to give individual identity to a bee colony.

When the queen bee (leader) dies, however, bees don’t descend into panic or despair or succession conflicts like we usually witness in humans. Instead, they respond with purpose, revealing a profound lesson about leadership, potential, and the power of nurture. This natural process, both scientific and poetic, offers a blueprint for how humans can cultivate greatness in themselves and others.

The Transition

The death of a queen is a pivotal moment for a beehive. Without her, the colony’s rhythm falters as her pheromones, which unify and direct the hive, fade, and her egg-laying ceases, threatening the future. Yet, the hive doesn’t collapse. With remarkable resilience, worker bees begin a deliberate process to create a new queen. This isn’t a frantic scramble but a calculated act of adaptation, driven by instinct and collective purpose.

From a sea of ordinary female larvae, a few are chosen, not because they’re inherently exceptional, but because they have potential. These larvae, no older than three days, are indistinguishable from those destined to become workers. What sets them apart isn’t fate or lineage but a single, transformative act: they are fed royal jelly. This is a nutrient-rich secretion produced by nurse bees. This “nectar of transformation” rewires their development, turning a common larva into a queen capable of leading the hive.

Nurture Over Nature

The creation of a queen is a typical example of nurture over nature. In bees, any female larva has the genetic potential to become a queen, but only those fed royal jelly undergo the epigenetic changes that unlock this destiny. This special diet triggers the expression of genes that lead to a larger body, reproductive organs, and a lifespan far longer than that of a worker bee. A queen bee lives up to five years compared to a life expectancy of six weeks for worker bees.

Royal jelly isn’t magic; it’s a concentrated blend of proteins, sugars, and vitamins that fuels this metamorphosis. The chosen larvae are bathed in it, housed in larger cells to accommodate their growth. Over days, they transform, emerging as queens ready to restore order. Often, multiple larvae are nurtured as potential queens, but only one will reign. Typically, the first to emerge eliminate her rivals to claim her role.

This process underscores a critical truth: leaders aren’t born; they’re made. The hive doesn’t wait for a predestined leader to appear. Instead, it invests in the ordinary, providing extraordinary support to unlock latent potential.

Leaders Are Born from Crises

In the hive, a queen’s role is to bring stability and continuity. She lays thousands of eggs daily, ensuring the colony’s survival, and her pheromones maintain social cohesion. When a new queen takes her place, the hive’s rhythm returns as workers resume their tasks, and the hum of activity fills the silence left by her predecessor. Crisis, in this context, doesn’t create chaos; it creates leadership.

This resilience is a powerful metaphor for human systems. Like the hive, we often face moments of loss and disruption, whether it’s the departure of a leader, a personal setback or a societal challenge. The hive teaches us that these moments are opportunities to cultivate new leaders, not from a select few but from the many. Greatness isn’t confined to those with titles or pedigrees; it can emerge from anyone given the right support.

Leaders Are Among Us

The hive’s lesson is clear: potential is abundant, but it requires nurturing to flourish. Just as royal jelly transforms a larva, extraordinary care, education, mentorship and encouragement can unlock human potential. Don’t let potential die on your watch. Do something about it and when you are old and grey, you will be glad that you did. Too often, we limit our search for leaders to those who already stand out, overlooking the quiet potential in the ordinary. What if we invested in people the way the hive does, feeding them the resources and belief they need to grow?

This isn’t just about individuals; it’s about communities. The hive thrives because every worker contributes to the queen-making process, from producing royal jelly to tending the larvae. Similarly, we can build systems that uplift everyone like schools that inspire, workplaces that empower and societies that provide opportunities for all. When we “feed each other better futures,” we create a cycle of growth and leadership.

I will conclude by emphasizing that we need to rethink how we identify and nurture potential. Let’s commit to being the nurse bees of our world, offering the “royal jelly” of support, resources and belief to those around us. By doing so, we will raise more leaders who emerge not because they were destined but because they were given the chance to become. While talent and hard work are universal, opportunity is not. Someone has to give it before the fire goes out while waiting for a stroke of serendipity. Our humanity is contingent on the humanity of others. I think it is in everyone’s interest to contribute to social advancement by thinking of ways to create more leaders. The future is bleak unless we can crack this code. In a world full of uncertainties, the beekeeping lessons I learnt from Mwekera offers a timeless truth: crisis can be a catalyst for renewal, and leadership can come from anywhere.

 

Crossing Roads at the Crossroads

The first bomb fell at dusk on a humid night in 1977, a scream of fire that split the Senanga sky and drove four boys – strangers then – into the shadowed belly of a sishete, maize granary. Akeende, the reckless dreamer, had tripped over the sishete’s low wall in his panic. Inambao, quiet and watchful, pulled him inside. Nawa, wiry and suspicious even at ten, hissed at them to hush. And Muyambango, bold and grinning despite the chaos, shoved the door shut just as the earth shuddered. Outside, apartheid South African Air Force rained hell on the Zambian district, hunting the South West African People's Organization (SWAPO), a black independence movement from Namibia, which had established a base there. This was the context of what occasionally turned their village into a battlefield.

In those fleeting childhood days, their laughter rang sharp and defiant through the acacia trees, drowning out the distant rumble of the US made Bell P-69 Kingcobra warplanes. The world seemed vast, ripe for adventure even when the raids burned their homes and scattered their families. The brotherhood was formed through a thread of innocence in a tapestry of war.

20 years later, on a somber day in 1997, the air in Mazabuka hung heavy with the choking smell of molasses and the sting of unshed tears. Akeende clutched a worn photograph as Muyambango’s coffin sank into the red earth, the preacher’s words lost to the hum of flies. Inambao stood rigid, eyes tracing the crowd, while Nawa kicked at the dirt, muttering something about wasted years. The four had once been inseparable, leaving Senanga’s ashes to chase dreams at the Nakambala Sugar Plantation as sugarcane cutters – a brutal job but steady ticket to something better. Muyambango had had been the de facto leader in the group, his charm and calm lighting the way.

But now he was gone in some unclear circumstances. As the coffin vanished beneath the soil, a swarm of bees flew overhead, an omen that was difficulty to ignore. The funeral ended in silence. At Muyambango’s shack, the three rummaged through his meager belongings: a machete, a cracked radio, and, tucked in a sock, his entire savings. “We need to take these things back to the villages,” Inambao murmured, guilt shadowing his voice. Nawa snorted. “Is there any other choice?” Akeende said nothing, his own personal problems gnawing at him.

They parted ways under a bruised sky, each carrying a piece of their lost brother. A grim reminder of the fragility of life, the importance of dreams, and the enduring bond of friendship. Would they continue on their current paths, or would life, in its unpredictable way, throw them another curveball? They knew that, despite their best intentions, the road ahead was uncertain, and only time would reveal what lay in store for them. Fortunes and misfortunes are two side of the same coin, conjoined by both fate and design. Man’s entire existence is determined by the side of the coin showing at every flip that is made usually by ourselves or circumstances.

Of Muyambango

Muyambango was known for his relentless spirit and boundless heart. Raised among the green fields and under the vast Zambian sky, he learned the rhythms of the earth from his family's farm. His youth was marked by a fierce determination to transcend the limitations that rural life has determined on those it superintend over. After failing to finish secondary school, he married and started securing a better future for his young family. In 1992, he left behind his wife, Pemba, and their two children to seek employment at the Nakambala Sugar Plantation in Mazabuka, a place renowned for its opportunity but also its harshness. His goal was simple yet ambitious: save enough to start a business back in Senanga, perhaps a small shop or trading post to serve the community and set up his family's future.

Life in Mazabuka was a stark contrast to Senanga. He first shared a modest room at the now married Nawa’s place before moving to his house in Apollo. Their evenings were filled with laughter and dreams, each man sharing his vision of what could be. Muyambango, ever the dreamer, spoke of the day his children would attend school in new cloths, not just the shared ones passed down older family members. He worked from dawn till dusk, saving every kwacha with meticulous care. Whenever the men would gather to discuss strategies for their futures, his plan was the most concrete.

After working and saving for 5 years, the day approached when he was supposed to return home. He was one of high spirits. His savings, kept hidden and safe, were to fund his dream. He had planned a small celebration with his friends before his departure, a toast to new beginnings. But as the night fell, and the sounds of celebration faded into the quiet, Muyambango stepped out to go and rest since he had a long journey in the early hours of the following day.

When the friends came back from the drinking hole, they didn’t find Muyamabgo and concluded that he had decided to spend whatever had remained of the night in the bus as he couldn’t wait to go back home.   

In the morning, there was a great commotion. Like any inquisitive person, the 3 separately decided to rush and check what was causing the dust to rise. Then they reached where a crowd had gathered. There he was. The lifeless body of Muyambango. His ever present waist bag, gone.

The news of Muyambango's death traveled fast, hitting Senanga like a storm. Pemba received the devastating news in the morning light, her world collapsing into grief. The community rallied around her, but the void left was palpable. His friends in Mazabuka were consumed with guilt and anger, wondering if they could have prevented this tragedy had they been more vigilant. As the investigation into the theft and murder began, a tense atmosphere enveloped both communities. Each day brought new rumors, new fears; was it someone from within the plantation? An outsider with knowledge of Muyambango's savings? The suspense built as the community awaited justice, their faith in safety shaken.

Of Akeende

Akeende was a beacon of hope for his family. Alongside his friends, he harbored grand aspirations, dreaming of a life beyond the sandy roads and simple homesteads. Their shared vision was to escape the confines of rural poverty for the promise of the Nakambala Sugar Plantation in Mazabuka, where they could earn enough to transform their lives. With his sharp mind and strong arms, he envisioned building a small trading post, a place where he could be his own master, bringing prosperity to his family. He stepped into Mazabuka with eyes wide with ambition, his savings pouch as empty as his heart was full of big dreams.

The initial years at the plantation were marked by Akeende's discipline; he saved every kwacha, shared stories of his future business with his friends, and worked with relentless energy.

But Mazabuka had its own temptations which led him to adopt a personal motto of ha ufumile hahulu likomu unoca kwateni (When you are rich in cattle, eat some).

He was socially stigmatized and had a damaged reputation due to the fact that he never settled on single woman. The local bars, with their music and laughter, pulled at him like a siren song. He found himself drawn into a world of indulgence, his nights spent in the company of new friends and lovers, his savings trickling away like water through his fingers. His friends noticed the change, their warnings falling on deaf ears as he reveled in his newfound lifestyle.

The turning point came when he missed too many workdays, especially whenever he got paid as he would disappear until the money ends. The plantation manager was unforgiving and fired him. The news hit him like a physical blow, the reality of his situation clear as daylight. His savings were none existent as he spent every Kwacha on fleeting pleasures, and with his job, his last anchor to a stable life was severed. Now jobless and penniless, he moved from one cheap lodging to another, his life a series of temporary shelters. The friends who had once shared dreams now watched in sorrow as his life unraveled, his charm the only thing left from his former self.

As years turned like pages of a book, the suspense built around what would become of him had he been disciplined. Would he find redemption, or would his life end in obscurity? His friends kept in touch, their visits to him becoming less frequent as they built their lives, but each time they left, they left with a piece of their heart, hoping for a change. His life became a cautionary tale whispered in the community and among the workers at the plantation. Every now and then, stories would surface of his charm still winning over new friends in Ghana area, only for them to leave once the novelty wore off.

Of Nawa

Since childhood, Nawa’s heart sought adventure, his mind alive with the vastness of life’s possibilities beyond Senanga. What did it all mean, this restless pull? When the chance came to work at the Nakambala Sugar Plantation in Mazabuka, he embraced it, not just as a job but as a journey into life’s unfolding riddle. Mazabuka thrummed with new voices, languages, and rhythms – a tapestry of human striving. Nawa wove himself in, his laughter ringing out, his eyes tracing patterns in the chaos. Were friendships the soul’s mirror, he wondered, or fleeting echoes of shared time?

He turned to Tonga, learning from coworkers until he sang it like his native Lozi. Language, he mused, was it a bridge to others’ truths or a shadow of one’s own? His ease with it rooted him in Mazabuka more than a sugarcane cutter, he became a seeker among seekers. Then came Mutinta, her spirit a quiet fire like his. Their love bloomed swiftly, tied by tribal threads he saw as both chance and design. She was not only his wife but also his tribal cousin, now a people who are not strictly blood-related but are close family within a broader kinship system. In Njomona area, they built a life which was punctuated by seasonal farming.

When a drought struck in 1991/2 farming season, his farm faded under a merciless sun. Where others cursed fate, Nawa philosophized – did hardship reveal life’s essence or merely its indifference? Mutinta stood firm; he met her resolve with quiet questions, tracing cycles of growth and loss.

When friends drifted after Muyambango’s death 5 years later, and he wondered if bonds were eternal or bound to time’s wheel. He blended Senanga’s wisdom with local ways, guiding the community through dust and doubt. Clouds gathered; he led prayers and dances, seeing in them not just hope but a dance with the unknown. Rain fell, faint but real. His farm held, a fragile harmony, and Nawa stood apart, reflecting: Was this victory a gift of purpose, or a fleeting note in life’s endless song?

Of Inambao

Inambao was a name synonymous with ambition. From a young age, he stood out with his disciplined approach to life, always mapping out his future with the precision of a cartographer. His dream was simple yet profound: to lift his family out of the cycle of subsistence farming by creating a sustainable business. When the opportunity to work at the Nakambala Sugar Plantation in Mazabuka presented itself, Inambao saw it as the first step towards his dream. In Mazabuka, Inambao wasn't just another worker; he was a force, driven by his vision. His days were long, but his spirit was unyielded, earning him respect among peers and superiors alike. Every kwacha saved was another brick in his dream house in Senanga, a plot he had bought with his first significant savings.

Years rolled by, with Inambao's savings growing like the businesses he planned to start back home as he remembered the saying, komu hai imelwi ki manaka ayona (a person cannot fail to take care of his own). His plans were meticulous; every penny was accounted for, each detail of his future farm considered. The day arrived when he had saved enough to return to Senanga. His return was no longer just about starting a business; it was about survival. The suspense was palpable as he made his way back, his mind racing with plans, wondering if his savings would be enough to start anew under these dire circumstances.

The Duplicitous Whispers Of The Patriarchy

I interpret the age old adage that ‘behind every successful man is a woman’ as reinforcing regressive gender stereotypes, positing a woman’s role as ancillary to male achievement rather than the pursuit of autonomous aspirations. Throughout generations, the adage has been systematically eroded by patriarchal subterfuge, surreptitiously appending the corrosive codicil: provided she remains perpetually in his shadow. What originated as a well-intentioned acknowledgement of women’s contributory roles has degenerated into a pernicious social doctrine, conditioning men to equate personal worth with the suppression of female ascendancy. Should a woman surpass male counterparts in fiscal achievement, intellectual rigour, or domains historically monopolised by masculine prerogative, the prevailing response seldom embodies enlightened approbation. Rather, it frequently engenders a visceral insecurity wherein patriarchal conditioning conflates parity with impotence, thereby calcifying regressive dynamics that suffocate mutual progression and erode relational equanimity.

Distressingly, these patriarchal distortions have permeated female psyches with commensurate detriment. Certain women, themselves products of systemic indoctrination, may erroneously construe constructive critique or divergent perspectives as existential challenges to authority or covert assertions of dominance. Such misinterpretations often precipitate disproportionate reactions, inadvertently reinforcing the hierarchical structures they purportedly oppose. Herein lies patriarchy’s Janus-faced deception: it ensnares men in the fallacy that virility is contingent upon unassailable supremacy, whilst inculcating women with the toxic axiom that their luminosity must never eclipse male counterparts. This corrosive ideology, rooted in zero-sum hierarchies rather than collaborative symbiosis, reduces human connections to transactional contests where affection is quantified through crude metrics of income, volume, or physical stature.

Yet we must confront the existential query: what becomes of societies enthralled by this delusion of dominance? The consequences manifest with sobering clarity – atrophied potential, ruptured kinship, and collective existence perpetually half-realised. Authentic fortitude resides not in trepidation of feminine excellence but in its wholehearted embrace – not as adversarial challenge, but as revelatory prism through which our shared humanity gains sharper focus. No woman should endure the existential vandalism of clipped wings, stifled ambitions, or success diminished through reductive gendered lenses. Societal evolution demands we dismantle the pernicious myth of finite triumph – that one individual’s ascension mandates another’s decline. Let achievement be reimagined as communal vista rather than gendered conflict; behind every flourishing soul should resonate a symphony of voices, unshackled by spatial hierarchies, whether standing adjacent, ahead, or wherever illumination beckons.

All has been said and here is the crystallization of my paradigm: whilst enlightened men celebrate feminine potency as complementary rather than competitive, those shackled by fragile self-concept inevitably perceive assured women as existential threats. Crucially, such disquiet seldom reflects upon the woman herself, but rather unveils the tremulous foundations of a masculinity constructed upon archaic delusions of inherent superiority.