• Theme: Taking on employees who were “sent” to you, navigating inherited performance issues, and the emotional weight of managing someone you didn’t choose.
• Core Story: The Musa (not real name) experience — expectations, conflict, misunderstanding, and the later revelation about his mental health.
• Leadership Lens: Compassion vs. accountability; the limits of what a leader can know; the burden of decisions made in the dark.

When our company merged with another global competitor, the transition brought with it a wave of unexpected outcomes. For many of the contract staff of the competitor, who had lived for years in the limbo between employment and uncertainty, the merger was a blessing. They were absorbed into full‑time roles, without going through the established recruitment processes thus overriding the control instituted to recruit top performers.

Among those who benefitted was a quiet, almost invisible figure named Musa. Many people had crossed paths with him at one point or another. He was what others had termed “a recruitment error”, not one of the names that a well-meaning supervisor would put forward as reliable. He wasn’t only disliked but also unwanted. And in the department, he had become a problem no one wanted to own.

His performance had been inconsistent for years. His output was unpredictable, his relationships strained, and his presence somehow created discomfort. The department had reached its limit. They needed to move him, and they needed to do it quietly.

That “quiet” solution turned out to be my project.

Some bright mind must have reasoned that distance from the department would give them breathing room, and perhaps — given my reputation for turning things around — I might be able to “fix” him. I still remember the call I made to the comptroller, intimating of the open position on my project. I asked for his best person. He offered Musa.

I hesitated.
“I don’t know his abilities,” I said.
“He’s solid,” I was told. “He knows invoices, he knows Treasury, he can run WIP and accruals. He’ll be fine.”

I wanted to believe him. Cautiously, I did.

When Musa arrived on foreign assignment, I welcomed him warmly — even invited him to my home for dinner. I’ve always believed that hospitality sets the tone for collaboration. If someone feels welcomed, they are more likely to give their best. But within a month, the cracks began to show. He was loud, unruly, dismissive of instructions, and utterly lacking in office decorum. He always looked busy — intensely busy — yet his output was painfully thin.

Prior to his arrival, I had managed the workload alone. I could have continued, but accounting requires segregation of duties. I needed someone to raise batches while I approved them. Unfortunately, Musa was not that someone.

Returning him to sender wasn’t an option. So I swallowed the bitter pill.

He arrived without a performance improvement plan, despite having been rated “Needs Improvement.” That responsibility fell to me. And after months of struggle, he earned another rating of “Needs Improvement,” supported not just by me but by other members of the project leadership who had witnessed his strained relationships and erratic behavior.

When the project relocated to Lagos to progress Construction and Installation, I increased the pressure. Targets had to be met. Commitments had to be honored. If you can’t stand the heat, you step out of the kitchen.

Musa’s response stunned me:
He reported me for harassment.

I was baffled. Since when did holding someone accountable become harassment?

Company policy required a full investigation. For the first time in over a decade, I discovered that the small portacabin I had walked past countless times was actually a police station on our campus. I was summoned there to respond to Musa’s claims.

Thankfully, the company believed in hearing more than one side of a story. My supervisor and project manager were interviewed. The conclusion was clear: no harassment. But it was equally clear that Musa and I could no longer work together. He was returned to his original department, and a replacement was assigned. Life became easier.

Years later, while out on another assignment, I learned that Musa had died.

For a moment, I didn’t know how to feel. Relief? Sadness? Confusion?
Then I learned something that changed everything: Musa had a long‑standing mental health condition, one that medical services had been managing quietly. For confidentiality reasons, I had never been told and, most likely, many others were unaware.

Suddenly, the past looked different.

Had I known, I would have handled his outbursts differently. I would have been more patient, more understanding. Instead of feeling vindicated, I felt empathy — and regret. He had been fighting a battle none of us could see, and I had been pushing him to perform in a world that already overwhelmed him.

To this day, I still wrestle with the dilemma:
Should mental health conditions be disclosed to supervisors so they can support employees better?
Or should confidentiality remain absolute to protect employees from stigma?

Leadership rarely offers easy answers. Looking back now, I realize that leadership is rarely about the grand decisions that make it into presentations or performance reviews. It is shaped in the quiet, uncomfortable moments — the misunderstandings, the misjudgments, the people who challenge our patience, and the ones who surprise us with their brilliance.

Working across continents, cultures, and personalities has taught me that technical excellence may build a project, but human complexity shapes the journey. Every employee — whether difficult, gifted, misunderstood, or quietly exceptional — leaves an imprint on the leader they encounter. And in the end, it is these imprints — often painful, often unexpected — that stay with us long after the project is delivered.

This is the first part in the Multi‑Part Reflection Series: “Journeys of a Global Project Leader.” Please be on the lookout for the continuation parts