As a community manager who usually hosts virtual community-of-practice meetings, in 2025, I found myself increasingly immersed in physical community and network convenings. One such moment came after returning from Kano, where we had worked on contextualising the World Health Organisation’s (WHO) Digital Adaptation Kits (DAKs) for Nigeria’s immunisation programme.
Shortly after, we hosted back-to-back engagements: one virtual session on lessons learned from implementing SMART Guidelines in Nigeria, followed by a physical validation meeting on the country’s draft immunisation implementation guides.
I went full manager mode: mapping immunisation tools across Africa, who created them, which organisations were using them, what data they collected, and whether they tracked aggregate figures, facilities, or programs. I then moved into execution: creating registration forms, inviting participants, sending cold emails and posting repeatedly on my LinkedIn.
For the first three days, only 13 people registered. I was nervous. But I kept following up, more emails, more messages, more reminders. A few days later, we had over 350 registrants, with more than 150 people attending live on Zoom.
When it came time for the in-person validation meeting, we had to screen over 200 interested participants down to just 30, carefully selected from government agencies, international partners, software developers, and NGO implementing partners. The meeting was to be held in our modest boardroom, and every seat mattered.
During the planning phase, a certain Mr D reached out to me. He had been nominated to represent his organisation but was unable to access the registration form. I asked him to try again. The following day, he called to say it still wasn’t working. Already juggling so many moving parts, I told him not to worry, I would send the meeting details via WhatsApp and add his name to the guest list at the gate.
In the middle of the hustling and bustling, I forgot to add Mr D’s name to the list. Because attendance was tightly controlled, I had given strict instructions to security: anyone not on the list was not to be allowed in.
That morning, Mr D arrived early, and he was the second person at the gate. Security came into the office looking for me, but I was upstairs helping move things around. When they came upstairs moments later, I was outside by the food truck sorting other logistics. Somewhere in between all of this, I had misplaced my phone.
Eventually, I found it near the large photocopier. I had used it to print extra copies of the agenda and left it there on vibration mode. When I picked it up, I had missed seven calls from the chief security, Mr Stephen, and four from Mr D.
That was when I realised I had forgotten to add his name to the list. He had been waiting at the security post for 37 minutes. I immediately took off my high stiletto heels, slipped into my flats, and ran to the gate as fast as I could.
Mr D. was gone.
Security told me I had missed him by just a few minutes; he had already boarded a ride. I ran outside the gate, spotted the cab reversing, and started waving frantically. When he rolled down the window, I apologised repeatedly, almost kneeling as I spoke. “Sir, I’m so sorry,” I said, my voice rushing with panic. He explained that he had waited for nearly an hour and had cancelled his entire day just to attend the validation meeting. After much persuasion, he agreed to return. I tipped the Bolt driver ₦1,000 out of sheer relief.
During the validation workshop, he contributed so much and so excitedly, too. He was meant to be at this meeting. Since then, we have kept in touch professionally. He has attended every community of practice meeting, consistently registering for events, joining volunteer technical working groups, sharing our organisation’s posts and thought leadership on social media, and always asking, “How can I contribute better to the vision here? I am committed to your work on interoperability and what you are doing.”
Looking back, forgetting to add his name to the guest list feels like one of my biggest career mistakes and yet also one of my greatest lessons. It changed the way I approach my work or any work at all, helping me understand that what seems like a small oversight can carry enormous weight. In community management and people-centred leadership, the roles we label as “small” like managing access, communication, follow-through, or coordination, are often the ones that determine whether a system works or gradually falls apart.
Not long after, this realisation found language for me in one of my MSc courses, Enterprise Architecture (EA). I came across a concept in EA called a “foundation for execution.” The principle is simple but profound: organisations don’t fail because they lack strategy, talent or ambition; they fail when the routine, unglamorous processes that hold everything together are fragile or taken for granted.
Weak foundations force organisations to rely on heroics, miracles or anything that goes. Things continue to work until they don’t. Top management’s energy is then spent on firefighting rather than leading, and trust quietly erodes long before failure becomes visible. Suddenly, leaders are juggling complaints, reconciling oversights and resolving frustration, energy that could have been spent on strategy, guidance or innovation. Strong foundations, by contrast, make execution predictable, reduce dependence on individuals, and free attention for growth, learning and innovation.
People-centred work operates the same way. Communities, like systems, depend on invisible foundations- access, coordination, follow-through, respect, recognition. When these are weak, even the best intentions fall apart. When they are strong, people feel respected, included, and willing to stay. In both technology and community, foundations determine whether strategy remains theoretical or becomes a lived reality.
Despite this, many of us focus on visible roles, such as the CEO, CTO, or other prestigious titles. We chase recognition while overlooking the significance of our current positions. Often, we engage half-heartedly: signing in, ticking boxes, and simply going through the motions. However, it is the seemingly small tasks—like managing access, ensuring coordination, and following through on commitments—that truly hold everything together.
