That morning coffee still tastes like a question. The cafeteria was half‑lit, steam rising from my cup as if to blur the edges of the day. She sat down across from me and said, quietly, “I need to talk to you.” I expected a routine complaint, a request for clarity, a small correction. Instead she told me she was leaving, not because of pay or hours, but because the slow rot of corporate politics had hollowed out the place where honest conversation could live. I tried to reframe, to reassure, to offer fixes; she had already decided. The silence that followed her departure was louder than any meeting I had chaired. How many departures, how many ruptures, begin with a conversation we never had?
There is a shape to avoided talk: a postponed question, a polite deflection, a meeting that ends without the thing that needed saying. Over time the shape hardens into habit. In offices it becomes gossip and attrition; in families it becomes estrangement; in nations it becomes grievance and, sometimes, violence.
Ethiopia’s modern story offers many mirrors for this pattern. When leaders invite rivals to the table but do not protect the conversation itself, the table becomes a stage, and the words become theater. When voices are excluded, or when the rules of engagement privilege posture over interest, pressure builds until history speaks in harsher tones.
I do not tell this as a lament about civility. I tell it as a lesson in craft. Conversation is a practice with tools: how we open, who moderates, what rules protect the weaker voice, and whether the aim is understanding rather than victory. Negotiators teach us to separate people from problems and to focus on interests rather than positions; students of difficult conversations remind us that the work is not only about what is said but about how people feel heard. These are not abstract lessons. They are practical levers that prevent small fractures from becoming fissures.
That morning in the cafeteria taught me a leadership truth the hard way: creating the conditions for conversation is more important than having the right answers. My instinct was to explain, to fix, to persuade. Her instinct was to leave. Between our words, a decision had already been made. I had not asked the question that mattered: what would make you stay? Instead, I offered reasons why she should. The difference is not merely rhetorical. One invites collaboration, the other closes a door.
Since then, I have tried to treat conversations as rehearsals for trust. I have learned to slow the urge to defend, to name the stakes plainly, and to ask questions that reveal interests rather than positions. In practice this looks like small rituals: a private check‑in before a difficult meeting, a neutral facilitator when power imbalances are sharp, and a shared summary at the end of a talk so everyone leaves with the same record of what was heard. These modest acts change the chemistry of a room.
The same dynamics play out at national scale. When a society treats dialogue as a one‑off event rather than an ongoing practice, invitations to talk can become symbolic rather than substantive. Bringing people to the table is necessary but not sufficient; sustaining honest exchange requires institutions and norms that protect the conversation itself. Without those protections, grievances calcify into identity, and identity hardens into conflict. Moments in our history remind us that silence and avoidance do not erase problems; they store them, like tinder, until a spark finds it.
If there is a phrase I return to, it is this: national interest over positions. That is not a call for bland compromise but for a disciplined habit. It asks leaders to prioritize shared futures over short‑term advantage, to design conversations that surface interests rather than entrench postures, and to measure success by whether people leave the room feeling heard, not merely outmaneuvered. When leaders choose national interest over positions, they choose dialogue as the architecture of progress.
The business case for talking is plain. Predictable behavior wins in markets, investors want openness, and communities expect to be included. If employees feel ignored, they quit. If communities feel shut out, investment dries up. If investors suspect secrecy, money goes elsewhere.
Having regular, well-run conversations fixes this. Simple steps—set agendas, use neutral facilitators, and agree on shared metrics—create predictable spaces where people can assess risk and work together. When companies and regulators use conversation as a governance tool instead of just PR, they become stronger. The cost of not doing this is high: lost talent, stalled deals, and damaged reputations.
Crucial conversations are not reserved for boardrooms and parliaments. They happen in kitchens, on porches, and at kitchen tables. The habit of blaming a generation, the youth for being restless, the elders for being conservative, is a cheap way to avoid the harder work of listening. Families that teach children how to speak and how to listen create citizens who can hold public conversation without turning it into combat. We must expand the civic imagination to include these small practices. Teach listening as a civic skill in schools. Reward leaders who open hard conversations rather than those who silence them. Normalize the idea that disagreement is not a failure of community but a resource for it.
Let us build systems that make dialogue part of national life. Let us create institutions and processes that turn talk into action, with neutral facilitators, clear agendas and reliable follow up mechanisms. Let us set rules that lower tensions by banning personal attacks and insisting on evidence rather than accusations. Let us track simple listening metrics, who spoke, whose views were recorded and what next steps were agreed, so conversations are accountable. Let us ensure marginalized voices are included so grievances do not harden into identity politics. And let us use long standing rituals of reconciliation such as shimglina, awuchachign and other shared stories and symbolic acts to rebuild trust when it frays.
I do not offer this as a blueprint for utopia. I offer it as a modest, urgent plea: learn to talk before history forces you to shout.
The morning, I lost a colleague taught me that leadership is less about having the right answers and more about creating the conditions where the right questions can be asked. If we can make conversation a habit, in companies, in communities, in families, and in the halls of power, we will reduce the number of moments when silence becomes a prelude to rupture. We will build institutions that can hold disagreement without breaking. We will teach a new generation that courage is not only the willingness to speak but the willingness to listen.
There is a small, stubborn hope in the act of sitting down. A table, a cup of coffee, two people willing to be honest, these are the humble instruments of repair. We need to talk. Not as a slogan, but as a practice. Not as a last resort, but as the first line of defense. If we learn that practice, we will have done more than avoid catastrophe; we will have learned how to live together.
Behailu Ayele is a thought leader specializing in strategic communication, public affairs, and sustainability, with over 14 years of experience. He can be reached at behailuayele@gmail.com.
