In a not-so-distant world, education had evolved into two great temples of wisdom. One taught how to govern people, manage emotions, balance ideologies and survive elections. The other taught how to govern markets, manage numbers, balance sheets and survive quarterly results. For generations, the two coexisted peacefully, occasionally borrowing vocabulary from each other but never their souls. Until the day their graduates began to swap thrones.
The newly elected leader had once been a celebrated business school prodigy. He looked at maps the way others looked at market segments. Neighbouring countries were “emerging opportunities.” Alliances were “strategic partnerships.” And war—well, war was merely an “aggressive expansion strategy.”
Cabinet meetings resembled boardroom reviews.
“Can we absorb this nation or should we spin it off?”
“Is regime change organic growth or a hostile takeover?”
“Collateral damage… can we reclassify it under operational costs?”
Embassies were rebranded as regional offices. Diplomats became relationship managers. Peace treaties were memoranda of understanding, signed with fine print no one fully read.
Across the ocean, a career politician had just taken charge as CEO of a global corporation. He brought with him the full machinery of governance. Decisions were delayed for consultations. Losses were blamed on previous management. Restructuring required consensus. And every quarter, instead of earnings calls, he delivered inspirational speeches about vision, values and the soul of the organisation.
Employees received slogans.
Shareholders received assurances.
Committees were formed to study why profits were falling, and subcommittees to study why committees were not working.
Between these two giants emerged a new species of professional—the In-Betweens.
MBAs drafted peace proposals in spreadsheets. Generals discussed return on investment. Economists spoke of moral capital. Diplomats presented slide decks titled “War: Cost-Benefit Analysis.”
No one was certain anymore whether success meant growth, stability, popularity or domination. The language of conquest wore the suit of strategy. The language of service wore the mask of leadership. Power confused itself with performance and performance with purpose. The world did not collapse in a single dramatic moment. It simply became… confused.
Countries chased market share.
Corporations chased legitimacy.
Leaders chased optics.
And people, reduced to data points, tried to understand whether they were citizens, consumers or both.
It was not an age of evil.
It was an age of mixed metaphors.
And in a world that could no longer tell the difference between a boardroom and a battlefield, chaos was not an anomaly—it was the natural outcome.