A memo arrived mid-morning, hand-delivered in a brown envelope with AGL company seal. Twelve clauses, typed in crisp font, titled Standing Order No.1. Yawa-Attah read it slowly, twice. Clause 2 caught her breath:
Four suites shall be reserved daily for use by designated company personnel.
She folded the memo and placed it beside the management contract—signed three months earlier with hope and ceremony. The contract had spoken of stewardship, of excellence, of shared vision. She opened it again, tracing the clauses in the contract with her finger:
- Hospitality Associates shall be responsible for the efficient management… consistent with the highest possible standards.
- …shall select and employ qualified personnel…
- …shall train such personnel…
- …shall, in consultation with AGL, establish all operating systems and services… including bookings and guest house availability to the general public.
She paused, and quickly went to read the clauses under Obligations of AGL. Among them were:
- They shall promptly secure, maintain and renew when required all necessary governmental authorizations, permits and approvals for building and for operating the guesthouse at its designated location and undertakes to assure, thereby the peaceful and quiet operation and management of the guesthouse by Hospitality Associates.
- AGL will not interfere with or give instructions directly to personnel employed by Hospitality Associates at the guesthouse except upon prior consultation with Hospitality Associates.
The words were clear. It was obvious to her the memo had introduced a new rhythm—one of entitlement, restriction, and quiet override.
What should she make of these? Yawa-Attah closed the contract and walked the property.
That evening, she sat at her desk, the contract on one side, the memo on the other. Her pen hovered over a blank page. She didn’t respond to the memo. First, she needed to understand the tension—not just in policy, but in spirit.
She wrote in her journal:
We were invited to lead. Now we are asked to follow silently. But silence is not stewardship. Stewardship asks questions. Stewardship listens. Stewardship adapts.
She didn’t call a meeting. She wasn’t ready to draft a response. She began a quiet log: blocked rooms, missed bookings, patterns of use. She would gather, observe, and wait for the right moment to speak—not in protest, but in partnership.
Two days later, she met with Mr. Aanani and the legal consultant assigned to Hospitality Associates. It was not a confrontation—just a quiet review.
They sat in the small conference room behind the reception desk. The contract and memo lay side by side on the table. No one rushed to speak.
Mr. Aanani broke the silence. “It’s not the clause itself. It’s the tone. It shifts the rhythm.”
The legal consultant nodded. “Clause 4 of your mandate is clear—systems and bookings are to be established in consultation. This memo bypasses that.”
He flipped to the obligations of AGL. “There’s also the matter of interference. If instructions are being given directly to staff, even informally, it’s a breach.”
Yawa-Attah leaned forward.
“And the blocked rooms—how do we reconcile that with our duty to make the guesthouse available to the public?”
They listed the concerns quietly, one by one:
- Operational autonomy and consultation
- Booking system integrity
- Revenue forecasting
- Legal exposure
- Brand reputation
- Tone and trust
No one proposed a solution yet. But the concerns were named. And naming them was the first act of stewardship.
That evening, she returned to her desk. The contract remained open. The memo, folded. Her journal, waiting. Her eyes run through what she had written: We were invited to lead. Now we are asked to follow silently. But silence is not stewardship. Stewardship asks questions. Stewardship listens. Stewardship adapts.
As she closed her journal, she looked out at the almond tree swaying in the dusk. The rooms were blocked. But her spirit remained open to wisdom and timing. To continue next week.
Disclaimer
This story is a work of fiction inspired by the operational experiences and sectoral engagements of Hospitality Associates and its collaborators. While the narrative draws upon real industry contexts, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real-life events is purely coincidental. Characters, locations, and scenarios have been fictionalized or amalgamated to serve educational and storytelling purposes. The intent is not to critique individuals or institutions, but to distill operational insight through dramatic narrative.