Lately, however, a different set of headlines has begun to appear.

Starbucks removed its standalone Chief Sustainability Officer position as part of a wider organisational change, integrating sustainability responsibilities into its social impact team. HSBC reorganised its sustainability leadership, while Unilever merged sustainability with corporate affairs under a single executive. Meanwhile, other organisations have quietly downsized their sustainability teams, integrated ESG tasks into finance, legal, or operations departments, or distanced themselves from industry climate alliances that once appeared as key commitments.

It would be easy to conclude that sustainability is simply falling out of fashion.

Except that explanation quickly begins to unravel. Around the same time organisations have been restructuring sustainability leadership, Deloitte’s global CxO Sustainability Report found that more than four out of every five executives had increased investment in sustainability initiatives during the previous year.

The evidence refuses to tell a simple story.

That ambiguity is what caught my attention, not because I’m particularly interested in whether Starbucks made the right organisational decision. None of us, sitting outside the executive team, possess enough information to make that judgement with any confidence. The more interesting question lies elsewhere entirely: What determines whether a strategic priority becomes part of how an organisation actually operates?

Every decade produces its defining organisational priority. Lean manufacturing, digital transformation, customer-centricity, diversity and inclusion, artificial intelligence, sustainability. Each has occupied executive agendas, generated new appointments, dedicated business units and ambitious targets. Yet they haven’t all followed the same trajectory. Some became embedded in how organisations actually operate. Others faded once leadership changed or budgets tightened. Still others continue to exist, but as specialist functions running alongside the organisation rather than changing how it behaves. Perhaps organisations don’t struggle because they can’t recognise what matters. Most have never had better access to information, expertise or strategic advice. They know, often with remarkable clarity, what the future demands. And yet knowing what matters has never guaranteed an organisation becomes capable of responding to it.

We speak of transformation as though it begins with vision, leaders decide, strategy is written, resources are allocated, and the organisation moves toward its intended future. It’s a reassuring story because it places change within managerial control. Reality is messier. Every organisation develops routines, incentives, reporting relationships and informal norms that make certain actions easy and others unexpectedly difficult. Over time, those patterns stop feeling like choices. They simply become “the way we do things here.” Which raises the real question: When organisations introduce something genuinely new, are they really changing the organisation, or are they simply asking the new priority to survive within a system designed for something else?

Before sustainability, organisations appointed Chief Digital Officers to drive digital transformation, and before that, Chief Innovation Officers to build cultures of innovation. Today, many are creating Chief AI Officers. Every era produces its defining priority, and a new executive role to champion it. There’s nothing wrong with that; dedicated leadership is often exactly what a new capability requires. The question is whether these appointments represent organisational change, or organisational intent. They tell us an organisation recognises something is important. They tell us remarkably little about whether the organisation has become capable of behaving differently.

An organisation can become exceptionally good at re-organising itself without ever changing the underlying logic that governs decision-making. That’s why transformation so often feels frustrating. Knowing what needs to change has become the easiest part. What’s harder is creating the conditions that let those priorities survive once they encounter the organisation itself, the approval layers, the metrics that quietly reward the old behaviour, the unwritten rules about who’s allowed to change what.

Some priorities survive that encounter. Others slowly change shape until they fit the organisation, instead of the organisation changing to accommodate them. That, perhaps, is what separates organisations that continually adapt from those trapped in endless cycles of restructuring.

Seen through that lens, the current reshuffling of sustainability leadership becomes less interesting as a story about sustainability, and far more interesting as a story about organisations. We’ll likely ask exactly the same question about artificial intelligence within a few years, not who appointed the first Chief AI Officer, but which organisations quietly redesigned themselves, so AI became part of how they think and decide, long after the headlines disappeared.

The challenge is rarely knowing what to do. The challenge is understanding what prevents it from happening.

That, I suspect, is the real work of transformation, not identifying the next strategic priority, but understanding the architecture an idea must move through before it becomes behaviour. Organisations do not change when they discover a better idea. They change when the conditions that once prevented that idea from taking root are deliberately redesigned.

This essay is the first in an ongoing exploration of why organisations behave the way they do the same question behind Built to Behave*, the podcast launching soon. *

What makes this particularly difficult to dismiss is that these are not organisations that are inactive or unaware. They are investing, experimenting, restructuring, and in many cases actively trying to change. Digital programmes are being implemented, sustainability initiatives are being explored, and operational improvements are continuously being pursued across different parts of the organisation. The issue is not that nothing is happening, but that what is happening does not always accumulate in a way that produces meaningful, sustained transformation. What began to emerge, both through my research and through conversations with people working across different parts of organisations, is that many of these efforts are not inherently flawed. Digital initiatives often work within the environments in which they are introduced, sustainability programmes are frequently well considered, and operational improvements do deliver results within specific areas of the business. The difficulty is that these efforts tend to evolve alongside one another rather than in connection with one another, creating a form of progress that is real but fragmented, visible but difficult to scale.

A digital capability may be introduced and perform well within a particular function, yet remain only loosely connected to the organisation’s broader strategic direction. A circular initiative may be piloted successfully yet struggle to embed itself within the core business model. Operational improvements may deliver efficiencies in one part of the system while leaving the underlying decision-making logic largely unchanged. Each of these efforts reflects intention, capability, and in many cases genuine progress, but together they do not necessarily produce the kind of transformation organisations are seeking. This becomes even more striking when viewed through the lens of circularity. Despite growing global attention to sustainability and resource efficiency, the Circularity Gap Report (2023) shows that only 7.2% of materials are cycled back into the global economy, indicating that the dominant model of extraction, production, and disposal remains largely unchanged. What this begins to reveal is not a lack of awareness or intent, but a disconnect between what organisations are trying to do and what their underlying structures can support.

At this point, the nature of the problem begins to shift, away from questions of effort and toward questions of design. Organisations are not simply collections of initiatives, but systems shaped by the relationships between strategy, operations, incentives, and decision-making structures. These elements form an underlying architecture that determines how workflows and priorities are set, and how different parts of the organisation interact over time. When new initiatives are introduced, they do not enter a neutral space but rather the existing architecture, which either enables them to connect and scale or constrains them to operate in isolation. If these initiatives align with the organisation’s structure, they can reinforce existing dynamics and build toward something that extends beyond their point of origin. If they do not, they remain contained, functioning effectively within a limited context but struggling to influence the organisation more broadly. This is not necessarily a failure of the initiative itself, but a reflection of the system into which it has been introduced and of the extent to which that system can support the kind of change being pursued.

What becomes particularly interesting, and at times uncomfortable, is the realisation that many organisations are not behaving irrationally when progress stalls. On the contrary, they often behave in ways entirely consistent with how they have been designed. An organisation built around efficiency and scale will continue to prioritise those outcomes, even when asked to incorporate circular practices that require a different logic of value creation. A digital capability introduced into a fragmented operating model may improve local processes without fundamentally altering how the organisation functions. A sustainability strategy developed at a strategic level may remain disconnected from operational realities if the mechanisms required to embed it are absent from the system. Seen in this way, organisations are not necessarily failing to change but are producing outcomes that are consistent with their design, even when those outcomes differ from what was intended. This shifts the conversation away from whether enough is being done and toward whether what is being done can reinforce itself within a system that supports it. It moves the focus from activity to alignment, from isolated initiatives to the relationships between them, and from effort to architecture.

This perspective becomes even more important in contexts such as South Africa, where infrastructure constraints, regulatory realities, and broader socio-economic dynamics shape what is possible in practice. These conditions do not sit outside the organisation, but interact with its internal design, influencing how strategies are implemented and how progress unfolds over time. As a result, the gap between effort and outcome cannot be understood purely as an internal organisational issue but must be seen as part of a broader system in which organisations are embedded. What this ultimately suggests is that progress is not simply a function of effort, investment, or intention, but of how these elements are positioned within a system that is capable of turning them into something that can connect, accumulate, and sustain over time. It requires a shift in how we think about change, from focusing on individual initiatives to understanding the architecture that holds them together, and from assuming that more effort will produce better outcomes to recognising that effort is only effective when aligned with the organisation’s structure. Organisations do not simply operate or produce outcomes at random; they generate results that reflect how they have been designed, whether that design is explicit or not, intentional or evolved over time. And once that becomes clear, the question is no longer whether enough is being done, but whether the organisation, as a system, is capable of producing something different.

The flight was cancelled.

What made that moment stand out wasn’t just the inconvenience but how quickly it became clear that this was not an isolated problem. In recent weeks, escalating conflict in the Middle East has led to the closure and restrictions on major airspace corridors, severely affecting key aviation hubs such as Doha, Dubai, and Abu Dhabi. Reuters reports that thousands of flights have been cancelled or rerouted through these hubs, leaving passengers stranded and airlines constantly adapting to rapidly changing conditions that the system struggles to handle.

At first glance, this appears to be an aviation story involving cancelled flights, detoured routes, and rising costs. However, this explanation is incomplete as it also reveals the fragile nature of airline schedules and the underlying infrastructure. The conflict affecting airspace also disrupts a vital component of the global energy system: the Strait of Hormuz. This crucial passage, which transports about 20% of the world’s oil, has seen notable disruptions due to tankers rerouting or halting transit. This is especially important because aviation fuel is closely tied to these disruptions, illustrating how deeply interconnected these systems are. Approximately 20% of global oil consumption passes through the Strait of Hormuz, making it one of the most critical chokepoints in the worldwide energy network.

In Africa, these effects are especially pronounced. Reuters analysis indicates that about 70% of jet fuel and kerosene imports into the continent pass through this corridor. When supply declines, fuel becomes scarce, and prices spike rapidly. In South Africa, where refining capacity has shrunk, and reliance on imported fuel has increased, the impact is felt even more quickly. Airlines are already feeling this pressure, with companies like FlySafair reporting sharp weekly increases in jet fuel prices at coastal airports and introducing temporary surcharges.

Fuel is a fundamental part of aviation, not just a marginal cost. Industry data cited by Reuters show that African airlines spend between 30% and 40% of their operating costs on fuel, well above the global average. Fluctuations in fuel prices affect more than airline finances; they influence ticket costs, route decisions, and capacity planning. It’s also crucial to remember that aviation is part of a broader supply chain. Aircraft transport both passengers and valuable, time-sensitive goods essential to global trade. IATA reports that although air freight accounts for a small share of trade volume, it accounts for nearly one-third of its value. Instability in this sector can have far-reaching impacts beyond passenger travel.

Recent Reuters reports indicate that air cargo capacity has dropped significantly as airlines avoid conflict zones and modify schedules. Some routes have seen declines of over 20%. Meanwhile, freight rates have surged, up to 70% in some cases, as companies compete for limited capacity to move essential goods. This isn’t just a switch between transportation modes. Strained sea routes and the different costs and timelines of road networks contribute to this shift. Eventually, these changes are reshaping logistics, affecting the transportation of goods, prioritisation, and route prices.

What begins as a travel disruption eventually influences trade patterns. It’s difficult to see this as solely an aviation issue. The cancelled flight is simply the most visible sign of a complex web of dependencies behind movement. My trip to Finland may seem minor in the grand scheme, but it reflects a larger picture. This moment exposes not just disruption but also system concentration. A heavily imported fuel-dependent system with limited redundancy will perform well in stable conditions. The real question is what happens when stability erodes. For South Africa and the broader region, it’s not a matter of whether shocks will recur, but of how vulnerable we choose to remain when they do.

Reducing vulnerability requires system-wide solutions, not just airline adjustments. It involves decisions on capacity, fuel storage, securing supply, developing local alternative fuels, and building flexibility into transport networks. It also shapes how businesses think about movement, as reliance on always-available, predictable fast transport becomes less feasible. Strategies around inventory, sourcing, and transport modes must adapt to a world where disruptions are expected, not rare.

This moment clarifies not how to prevent disruptions, but where the system is most fragile and where resilience must be intentionally built rather than merely hoped for. The biggest risk isn’t flight cancellations but designing systems that only work perfectly when everything goes as planned.

The uncomfortable reality is that modern supply chains are still organised around a small number of geographic chokepoints. The Strait of Hormuz for energy, the Suez Canal for container trade, and the Panama Canal linking Atlantic and Pacific shipping routes. Each of these corridors exists for a rational reason; they reduce distance, minimise cost and allow goods to move quickly through global networks. But the same efficiency that makes them attractive also concentrates risk. The pandemic briefly forced companies to confront this reality. Ports closed, factories shut down, and transport networks stalled. Suddenly, the language of resilience was everywhere, yet once the immediate disruption passed, most supply chains drifted back toward the same equilibrium. Cost regained priority, efficiency returned as the dominant organising principle. This is not necessarily a failure of imagination. It reflects the incentives that shape how businesses operate. Resilient systems are often more expensive, redundancy requires capital, alternative routes and suppliers introduce complexity. Efficiency, by contrast, rewards optimisation.

When tensions threaten a corridor like the Strait of Hormuz, the ripple effects move quickly through the economy. Energy prices react almost immediately because roughly one-fifth of global oil flows through that narrow passage. Higher fuel costs raise shipping expenses, airline operating costs and manufacturing input prices. Those increases eventually appear in places far removed from the original geopolitical event: higher food transport costs, more expensive consumer goods and rising inflation pressures. For most people, these dynamics are invisible until they appear in everyday prices. A conflict thousands of kilometres away can influence the cost of fuel, transport and groceries in cities that have no direct connection to the event itself. This is what makes supply chains so fascinating and so unsettling at the same time; they link distant places in ways that are rarely obvious until something breaks.

The lesson from events like this is not that supply chains are failing; it is that they are doing exactly what they were designed to do, which is to prioritise efficiency. But if the last few years have taught us anything, it is that efficiency and stability are not the same thing. Pandemics, droughts affecting canals, geopolitical tensions around shipping corridors, each shock briefly reminds us how concentrated global trade routes really are. Then the crisis passes, and the system settles back into its familiar rhythm. Perhaps the real question is not whether supply chains can become perfectly resilient, that may be unrealistic in a world as interconnected as ours. The more useful question might be this: How many narrow passages should the global economy depend on?

At the same time, the broader fashion system has long been shaped by what we casually call fast fashion. Its model emphasises rapid style turnover, low unit cost and limited durability. The global fashion industry generates revenue in the trillions annually, and fast fashion remains a major and fast-growing segment within that ecosystem. This is the context in which Zara operates. Zara is the flagship brand of Inditex, one of the largest fashion groups in the world. In 2024, Inditex reported nearly 39 billion euros in revenue and close to six billion euros in net profit, with Zara accounting for the majority of sales. At that scale, Zara is not simply a fast-fashion retailer. It is an industrial actor with global influence over design, sourcing and distribution decisions.

Zara Pre-Owned allows customers in selected markets to repair, resell or donate Zara garments within the brand’s own infrastructure. That detail matters. Historically, most resale value has been captured by third-party platforms such as Depop, Vinted or eBay, with brands having little visibility into secondary transactions. By bringing resale inside its ecosystem, Zara not only extends garment life but also retains resale margin and gains access to lifecycle data. It can observe which items hold value, how they age and how secondary pricing behaves. This is where the quality question becomes unavoidable. Fast fashion has traditionally competed on speed and price rather than durability. Many garments are not designed for long-term wear or easy repair. If resale becomes commercially meaningful, durability shifts from being optional to being economically relevant. A garment that cannot survive a second ownership cycle has little secondary value.

Brands that internalise resale have to confront this reality. Even incremental improvements in fabric quality, stitching standards or repairability can influence resale performance and, by extension, future revenue. This does not mean fast fashion disappears. Global forecasts still project strong growth in the segment, with one industry estimate suggesting expansion from roughly 162 billion US dollars in 2025 to nearly 389 billion by 2034. But when resale revenue is captured internally, design incentives begin to evolve. Resale growth is also driven by consumer behaviour. Younger generations, particularly Gen Z and millennials, are both price conscious and increasingly comfortable purchasing second-hand. When resale sits inside the brand, firms gain insight into customer behaviour that was previously external. They can analyse what retains value and adjust strategy accordingly.

This does not mean every fast-fashion garment will suddenly become heirloom quality. The appeal of low price and rapid trend cycles remains powerful, and players such as Shein continue to scale on that model. What Zara’s approach suggests, however, is a different way of organising value across a garment’s life cycle. Instead of allowing resale profit and insight to sit elsewhere, the brand keeps both.

When I say Zara entered my closet twice, I mean that quite literally. First when I bought the piece. Then when the same platform positioned itself to participate in its second life. That subtle shift in control over margin and data is what makes this worth paying attention to.

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There’s a word I grew up with: makoporosh. You know it. It’s the messy scribble a child draws before they can write properly, wild lines, broken shapes, colours spilling in the wrong direction. No one would frame it, but everyone understands it. It’s the beginning of expression. The moment before form. The chaos before language. That’s where this all starts.

Makoporosh is not a brand, not really, at least not yet, It’s still becoming, still scribbling its way into the world. But the intention is there. The signal is clear. It was born from the frustration of working in systems that don’t make space for thinking. Systems that move quickly but learn nothing. Systems that reward delivery over depth, repetition over relevance, and performance over process. Whether in lecture halls, meeting rooms, or board packs, I’ve watched thinking shrink to fit the template and I’ve watched people slowly shrink with it.

Then came AI, and it didn’t just disrupt the way we work, it exposed the fact that we weren’t doing much thinking to begin with. We were reciting. Presenting. Submitting. Managing. We had learned to look smart without taking the time to be curious. And once a machine offered to do it faster, many didn’t resist. They exhaled. Because we’d already been taught that reflection is slow, friction is inconvenient, and questioning is not always welcomed.

The statistics are not new, but they remain urgent. In South Africa, the most recent PIRLS study revealed that 45% of Grade 4 learners cannot read for meaning. The OECD reports that over half of South African adults fall below the minimum threshold for critical thinking when applying knowledge in real-life situations. These are not just indicators of educational failure. They are signs of what happens when systems fail to prioritise thinking, when comprehension becomes optional, and judgment is left untrained.

We cannot outsource the very thing we’ve neglected to develop. We cannot build strategy, innovation, education or leadership on top of copy-paste cognition. And we certainly can’t blame the algorithm for doing what we designed ourselves not to do.

Makoporosh is not here to panic about AI. It’s here to remind us that thinking, human, layered, and often inconvenient, must be protected and practised. And if our systems can’t make space for that, then we build something new. Or we break the parts that no longer serve. Or we scribble on the edges until it starts to make sense again.

This is for the institutions and organisations that still want to matter. For the businesses trying to say something meaningful in a world that has learned to skim. For the teams that know culture cannot be built with templates. For the people inside the system who still believe in real intelligence, not just what sounds clever in a deck, but what shifts things.

Makoporosh is still forming, but the direction is clear. We help institutions and individuals make thinking central again. We write, we strategise, we create content that has weight and movement and context. We don’t do this for reach, resonance or relevance but for people too smart to wait.

If that’s you, welcome. Let’s think again.

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