Part One: Observations from a Men’s Group debate session on the making of a man and what it means to think for oneself
They came from everywhere. And I mean that literally — not in the poetic
way we reach for when we're trying to make something sound significant. From
different estates. Different schedules. Different lives that did not easily
make room for a Saturday morning gathering of men.
One had traveled the night before. You could see it in his eyes — not
exhaustion, exactly, but that quiet heaviness of a man who chose something over
sleep. Another walked in still mentally tethered to a project he had just
delegated. You know that look: body present, mind running silent calculations
in the background, just in case things fell apart without him. A third came on
crutches. The pain was visible. His eyes were not.
They were here. That alone told me something.
Men don't gather like this for nothing — not anymore, not in a world
where time is constantly negotiated, and attention is the first thing spent. So
when they walked through the door, I expected presence. Instead, they hesitated.
They entered in pairs and small clusters. A handshake here. A nod there.
A quick scan of the room for familiar — or at least safe — faces. And then
something began to unfold: men sitting, not engaging. You could
nearly hear the internal dialogue.
"Should I start a
conversation?"
"Do I wait?"
"Do I just look
busy?"
They moved through introductions the way you move through customs — efficiently, perfunctorily, without retaining much. Names evaporated faster than they were spoken, not from disinterest, but because nothing had landed yet. There was no shared friction. No emotional hook to anchor memory. Just a polite exchange: civil, respectful, and completely forgettable.
I stood at the back, watching it unfold, half-amused, half-reflective.
The irony was too obvious to ignore.
These men had fought to be there and adjusted their schedules. Sacrificed
comfort. Chosen this room over a hundred easier options on a Saturday morning.
And yet they had not arrived — not fully. They were physically present but
emotionally parked. Socially cautious. Intellectually waiting.
Getting men into a room is not easy.
Getting men to show up in that room is something else entirely.
Waiting for what? For permission. For a signal. For something to break
the surface.
Men today are trained for many things. We're trained to perform, to
provide, and to present a version of ourselves that works in the world. But we
are rarely trained to arrive openly, to engage without a script, or to connect
honestly without the safety of structure. What I was watching wasn't
awkwardness — it was conditioning. Men waiting for a format to tell them how to
be.
If we hadn't disrupted that pattern early, we'd have spent the entire day
having conversations that felt meaningful but went nowhere.
From
Good Meetings to Something Missing
Let me be fair about what we had already built. In hindsight, it's easy
to critique something that was genuinely working.
In 2025, we built a structure that — on paper and in practice — held up.
Men's group meetings. Twice a month. Consistent. Intentional. We borrowed
heavily from the Toastmasters model because there's a quiet humility in
recognizing that if something has worked globally for decades, you learn from
it before trying to improve it.
We had rhythm. Men arrived around 9:30 AM — some early, some fashionably
late, some insisting traffic was to blame. Icebreakers first. Then came
prepared remarks, with men sharing insights, stories, and occasionally
struggles. Then an open floor that drifted between structured and freeform,
usually ending up closer to a baraza than a meeting.
We always said we'd wrap up by 2 PM, but we never did. By 5 PM, men were
still talking — not about football scores or fuel prices, but about identity,
responsibility, and what kind of men they were becoming. When men begin to
touch those layers, they don't rush to leave.
Yes — it was working. The room had energy. The conversations carried weight. The brotherhood was real. But something was missing. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Quietly missing — the kind you notice only when you start paying close attention.
Men were speaking, but their ideas weren't being tested. A statement
would land in the room, and instead of being interrogated or stretched, it
would be met with: "That's powerful." "I agree."
"That's deep." Those responses aren't wrong — they're respectful,
affirming, and safe. But they're also limiting, because agreement that comes
too quickly can be the enemy of growth.
We had created a space where men felt
comfortable expressing ideas. Not necessarily a space where those ideas were
sharpened.
Expression feels good. Sharpening feels uncomfortable. Expression builds
confidence. Sharpening builds clarity. The difference matters more than most
spaces acknowledge.
Very rarely did anyone lean forward and say, "Hold on — let's
examine that." Very rarely did a man have to defend his beliefs under any
real pressure.
We were building good conversations. Not strong thinkers.
Don't misread that. Those meetings were necessary. In a world where men
often have nowhere to speak openly, that space mattered. It still does. But if
all we do is create a safe space for expression without also demanding depth of
thought, we're only doing half the work. And half the work can be the most
dangerous kind — because it produces the illusion of growth.
You leave the room feeling full. Inspired. Affirmed. Yet nothing
fundamental has shifted—no belief challenged. No assumption cracked. No mental
muscle stretched.
The question that refused to go away: Are we raising men who feel better
— or men who think better? The two are not always the same.
The
Transition — And Our Very Human Delay
The idea didn't arrive with fanfare. It came quietly, in the middle of
observation, in the moment of noticing that something was working but not fully
delivering.
What if we turned this into a debate?
Simple to say. Which is precisely why it immediately invited delay. Not
laziness — just that familiar, subtle negotiation we all have with ourselves.
"Let's think
about it more."
"Let's refine
it."
"Let's make sure
it's done properly."
January was the plan. Clean. Symbolic. New year, new format. Very
motivational. January came, and we said, "Let's align the structure
first." February came, and we said, "Let's observe the group dynamics
a bit more." March came: we need the right debaters. April came: let's not
rush this. It has to land well.
Step back and look at that sequence honestly. It sounds like progress. It
feels like maturity. It resembles diligence. But beneath it all was something
simpler: we weren't sure. Not sure the format would work. Not sure men would
engage. Not sure it would land or fall flat, leaving us standing there with a
brilliant idea and a very quiet room.
Uncertainty doesn't always stop us, but it slows us down — because men
like to move with a certain level of confidence. We like to know the ground
will hold before we step forward. And debate, as a format, removes that comfort
entirely. It introduces exposure. It's no longer about sharing ideas — it's
about defending them, being challenged on them and potentially being wrong
publicly. That's not a small shift. That's a psychological leap.
Then May arrived. And there comes a point when all the thinking in the
world stops adding value and becomes a shield — a shield against uncertainty,
discomfort, and the possibility of failure.
We looked at ourselves honestly then and saw something slightly
uncomfortable and very real: if we didn't start now, we would become experts at
discussing something we'd never actually done. A refined concept. A structured
outline. A strong theoretical understanding. And zero lived experience. That
combination creates the illusion of competence.
The decision was made. Not with full confidence. Not with guaranteed
success. But with something more useful — commitment. Not eventually. Now.
Action has a way of clarifying what thinking cannot. Once you accept that
it might not work perfectly, you relieve the pressure to be perfect. What
replaces it is presence, attention, and adaptability. Ironically, those are the
qualities that make something work.
We didn't start in January. We started in May. If I'm honest, that delay
was a mirror. It showed us exactly how easy it is to think instead of act, to
plan instead of start, and to prepare indefinitely instead of stepping forward.
Maybe that was necessary. When we finally began, we weren't just
launching a new format. We were stepping out of our hesitation. And that, in
itself, was the first real win.
Gibson:
Where Men Dropped the Mask
Before any debate could happen — before logic, before frameworks, before
anyone confidently used words like "self-concept" and hoped no one
asked a follow-up — something far more basic had to happen. Men had to arrive.
Not physically. Emotionally. Relationally. Honestly.
Here's the truth most men won't say out loud: we don't walk into rooms as
ourselves. We walk in as versions — slightly filtered, slightly guarded,
slightly rehearsed. Half the energy in any room goes into maintaining that
version. Before we could build anything real, it had to be gently dismantled.
Enter Gibson Koronge. Gibson has a dangerous gift: he doesn't announce
what he's about to do. He starts. Before you realize it, you're already
participating in something you didn't mentally prepare for, which is exactly
why it works.
He didn't say, "Let's do icebreakers." He introduced what I can
only describe as social disruptions disguised as games. You could see the
initial resistance — men standing there thinking: "Ah, this is the part
where we act energetic." "Let me just cooperate politely."
Then, slowly, the script began to fail. Gibson doesn't let you hide
behind the usual entry points. He doesn't ask what you do. He knows that
question is a shield. Instead, he puts you in situations where your default
thinking patterns surface. You're forced to respond before you can rehearse. To
speak without editing. To engage without performing.
The room loosened. Laughter came — not the polite kind, but the kind that
surprises you, the kind that escapes. Men began interrupting each other, not
out of disrespect, but because they were genuinely engaged. "Wait — why
did you say that?" "No, that doesn't make sense — explain it
again."
And just like that, we had moved from polite interaction to genuine
engagement. You could see it physically — shoulders dropping, postures
relaxing, voices growing fuller. Men who had arrived quietly were speaking with
energy. Men who had positioned themselves at the edges were stepping into the
center.
Connections were forming — not around what men do, but around how they
think. You could almost read the clustering: This one thinks like me. This one
challenges me. This one — I disagree with, yet I want more.
Most environments allow men to present.
Very few allow men to be revealed.
Gibson, without making a single speech about it, had done exactly that.
He stripped away titles, roles, and rehearsed identities — and replaced them
with presence. Not a perfect presence. Not a polished presence. Real presence.
He didn't just open the room. He disrupted the internal filters men carry
into every interaction. The filters that say: Don't say too much. Don't look
foolish. Stay composed. Control the impression.
When those filters are disrupted — even temporarily — something else
surfaces. Curiosity. Playfulness. Honesty. And most importantly, capacity. A
man who's relaxed enough to be himself is ready to think. Not defensively. Not
performatively. Openly. That was the real genius of what Gibson did. He didn't
prepare men for conversation. He prepared men to think in public.
Thinking in public requires vulnerability, flexibility, and a willingness
to be wrong in front of others. Without that foundation, debate becomes
performance. With it, debate becomes transformation.
By the time Gibson stepped back, the room was no longer a gathering. It
was an ecosystem. Alive. Responsive. Unpredictable. Ready.
We hadn't just broken the ice. We'd removed the entire surface. Now —
finally — the men were more than just present.
They had shown up.
— Go to Part One —
— Go to Part Two —
— Go to Part Three —
— Go to Part Four —
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