Here, a man with a briefcase teaches us more by hiding than by speaking. His lesson? That sometimes the system’s authority walks around in shiny shoes, terrified of being seen for what it really is: hollow, rehearsed, and very allergic to accountability.

Read this like a memo that wasn’t supposed to be leaked.
Read it like a laugh you didn’t plan but needed.

A few months had passed since that so-called “training for trainers of trainers.” The title promised something epic—like an international summit of pedagogical sages—but the reality was a series of soul-draining sessions where endless PowerPoints battled for attention with self-help jargon. The only memorable things were the guy with the briefcase—and, of course—the WhatsApp group we inherited.

The group was supposed to be for sharing job opportunities. In practice, it became a parade of absurdities: someone asking for Excel templates “to look more organized,” another one asking if anyone could explain the word empathy. But the true gem came when a girl shared a humanitarian message about a natural disaster that had turned Valencia into a post-apocalyptic zone. The response was swift and brutal:
—“This group isn’t for that kind of stuff. Only job offers, please.”

Job offers? Valencia looked like a scene out of a disaster movie, and all they cared about was networking. My blood boiled. I wrote:
—“Unbelievable. Valencia looks like the aftermath of a firecracker apocalypse, and all you can say is ‘give me a job, give me a job’? Is this a group of professionals or an audition for the emotionally tone-deaf?”

The message dropped like a bomb. Nobody replied—but I know they all read it. That particular kind of silence where everyone sees it… and no one dares to respond.

Months later, in the city center, the unexpected happened. There he was: the man with the briefcase. During the course, he had this pristine image—immaculate gray suit, perfectly adjusted glasses, and his shiny black briefcase like some kind of armor. His voice was slow and grave, supposedly full of wisdom. But his words? Pure filler. “The key to leadership is… to lead,” he once said, with a dramatic pause that tried to mask the emptiness.

I recognized him instantly. He saw me too. And in a split second, his expression shifted like he’d spotted a long-time nemesis. Our eyes met. I thought about approaching him—maybe a polite comment, a quick chat—but I didn’t get the chance. His eyes widened like saucers, and with the grace of a startled dancer, he spun on his heel.

What came next was pure comedy. The briefcase master darted across the street like he was dodging paparazzi. When he reached a shiny red car, he crouched behind it—as if that briefcase could shield him from my gaze. He must’ve forgotten the car was so polished it mirrored his whole figure.

It was surreal. The great orator, the self-proclaimed leadership guru, crouching behind a car like he was smuggling top-secret documents on empathy.

And that’s when it hit me. I’d been trying to extract something useful from that course for months, and there it was—clear as day.
Because life is full of tension and uncomfortable moments. But the one lesson that actually matters?
If you ever choose to hide… make sure your briefcase doesn’t shine brighter than your fear.