Last week, we journeyed back to the late 1990s and introduced you to the Hibiscus Hotel, showcasing Accra’s promise of luxury in the hotel industry. Built by a retired accountant, Mr. Mensah, the hotel shone on the surface but hid operational flaws beneath its glossy exterior. A staff accident during a routine delivery hinted at deeper issues: poor layout, safety oversights, and mounting guest complaints shimmering promise of luxury in the hospitality industry.
Now, we follow the arrival of a sharp, outspoken consultant, Yawa-Attah, called in to investigate. What she uncovered behind the scenes was troubling: food areas near overflowing waste bins, rodent sightings, chaotic storage, and flawed infrastructure. As guests sipped cocktails under the spell of soft jazz, daily dysfunction simmered just out of sight.
Her findings raised a larger question: would the hotel improve, or would her blunt honesty backfire?
It was mid-morning in Osu. The meeting was scheduled at the architect’s office building. The conference room had concrete floors, modern lighting, and a humming air conditioner. Across the table, Yawa-Attah sat opposite a team of overseas consultants—well-meaning, well-dressed, and largely unfamiliar with the back-of-house operations of a Ghanaian hotel.
Hospitality Associates, represented by Yawa-Attah, had been brought in to advise on operational redesign. This time, she wasn’t just observing—she was shaping the blueprint. The architect flipped through sleek 3D models: clean lines, narrow halls, “adequate buffer zones,” and a “modern waste unit.”
Yawa-Attah leaned forward and asked. “Where does the delivery truck wait during offload?”
Silence.
Breaking the silence and in frustration, she asked more pointedly, “No service bay? No shaded awning? No separate drop-off for chilled items?
Finally, a voice from across the table: “The idea is that deliveries come early and are handled quickly.”
She gave a thin smile. “That’s not how it works here. Deliveries slow down when there are functions or big events, and trucks end up reversing between staff carrying hot food.”
“We’re dealing with some leftover issues from the original design,” one architect began.
Yawa-Attah tapped her folder and stood up. “With respect,” she said calmly, “these issues weren’t inherited—they were designed into the system.”
Mr. Mensah looked up, his voice tight. “You think I didn’t know what I was doing?”
“I think what you hoped would work clashes with what staff face every day,” Yawa replied.
One of the planners muttered, “Maybe we just fix the parts that don’t work.”
She turned, her voice firm. “You mean redesigning things that were planned without staff input? Putting a trash room next to cold prep isn’t a minor flaw—it’s fundamental poor planning.”
Mr. Mensah’s jaw tightened further. “Watch your tone.”
“I will,” Yawa-Attah said, “but not so careful that I ignore the staff stumbling over deliveries at dawn—because design priorities clearly came before functional needs.”
Mr. Mensah stood; his voice rising. “You know how many times I was told this hotel would fail? That no Ghanaian could build something world-class? I built this as a legacy.”
Her voice softened. “And you did. It’s beautiful. But now the cracks are showing.”
Did she hear the phrase “legacy constraints” she murmured as Mr. Mensah spoke?
Silence fell. A generator rumbled to life outside. Papers rustled in the air conditioning.
One consultant scribbled something onto a pad, eyebrows furrowed. Another, previously stiff, tilted his head, intrigued.
The youngest intern finally broke the quiet. “Maybe we sketch how staff move during deliveries? Just to see what happens?”
Mr. Mensah looked up, the suggestion hanging in the air like incense. He spoke slowly. “My mother ran a chop bar with charcoal and instinct. No diagrams. But we kept it clean and functioning. This hotel… it’s like her compound turned inside out. Bigger, glossier—but still built on the same rhythms.”
A logistics advisor nodded faintly, as if beginning to see. The architect who had once defended the 3D renderings rubbed his chin, murmuring, “Design from movement, not measurement.”
Mr. Mensah sighed. “Alright. Let’s redraw the dock. This time, we start with where the crates land—not where the marble ends.”
Yawa-Attah realized that to move him, she had to invoke what rooted him.
“Did I hear you say this place is your mother’s legacy? You’ve turned your mother’s warmth and discipline into marble and chandeliers. But that warmth began in the back, didn’t it? Where the food arrived, where it was scrubbed, sorted, and stored.”
She placed the revised operational blueprint by Hospitality Associates on the table. “Let’s design this like her compound. Let’s protect what actually worked.”
The planner who had earlier shrugged now leaned forward. “We’ll need timelines and kitchen movement data.”
Mr. Mensah nodded, his expression resolute. “Start with where the crates land. Not where the marble ends.”
That night, alone in her living room, Yawa-Attah sipped tea—not feeling victorious, just grateful. She had learned to speak not only with expertise but also with empathy, to fold pride gently into progress.
She reached for her notebook and wrote: “Lead with insight. Land with empathy. You can’t fix function with friction.”
Next week, Yawa-Attah takes on a new challenge.
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.