When Silence Speaks

Where Obedience Becomes Defiance

It’s a cold Friday morning. You’re sitting in a boardroom with your team, coffee in hand, trying to shake off the slow mood of the week. Everyone is a little tired, a little distracted, but slowly, the ideas start flowing. People are thinking out loud, sharing thoughts, and trying to solve problems together. Then the manager, let’s call him Paul, leans forward, clears his throat, and says: “Guys, let’s stick to our job descriptions. We’re getting a bit too scattered.

That weekend, no one talked about it out loud. But inside? Everyone had a quiet meeting with themselves. People thought twice about their role. They remembered where the lines were drawn. They started to wonder if maybe they were doing too much… or caring too much.

And when Monday came, everyone was sticking to what was in their JDs. No one offered to help with the client pitch deck that was due Thursday, as it was not in their department. No one chimed in during brainstorming. No one stayed past 5:00 PM. In fact, you could hear chairs scraping the floor at 4:59 PM.

The office was operating like a machine. Everyone was following the rules exactly. At first glance, the colleagues were just being compliant. But beneath the surface, something deeper was playing out. This wasn’t laziness. It was what I’ve come to call the “Cold Strike”, A quiet form of protest where people follow instructions so literally, so extremely, that the message is no longer about the work.

Paul had unknowingly triggered it. His comment, probably meant to bring focus, landed as a criticism. The team felt unappreciated for going the extra mile. So they stopped walking it altogether.

I bet we have Seen This Before.

The Dress Code.

It reminded me of the time my friend, in one of those moments, told his girlfriend, “Maybe you could dress a bit more decent.” You know, one of those throwaway comments he probably thought would just float off into the air, never to return. He wasn’t trying to be cruel, just... thoughtless.

She didn’t say much at the time. She just raised an eyebrow and nodded. The next weekend, they had plans to go out for brunch with some mutual friends. He waited for her by the door, scrolling through his phone. And then she walked in.

She was dressed head to toe in exactly what he wore on most days: loose slacks in a muted colour, a plain button-down tucked just enough to look tidy, a jacket that could’ve passed for his if not for the slightly better fit. Hair pulled back in a way that erased all the usual softness he had taken for granted. “You said ‘decent,’ right?” she asked, standing there like a mirror someone had wiped clean just a little too well.

And let me tell you, Maina, the silence that followed was deafening. He tried to laugh, but it came out like a cough. There was no recovering. Not from the irony. Not from the truth of it. She hadn’t raised her voice. She’d just shown him exactly what he asked for, and in doing so, made it crystal clear how ridiculous his request had been.

Or there was this guy I knew, who works in a mid-sized tech firm, one of those start-up-turned-serious kind of places. I recall our first internship together and how our headshots were amusing. It looked like we were trying to have the before going into the barber shop pictures. Shaggy but clean hair. He was the type who strolled into the office in a crisp polo or button-up, loafers with no socks. It was business casual, well within the dress code, just with his own flavour. But apparently, that “flavour” didn’t sit well with someone from an older generation.

One day, during a feedback session, her manager leaned across the desk, looked him square in the eye, and said, “You might want to be a bit more… official in your appearance.

Now, most people might take that as a nudge to wear socks, maybe throw on a blazer once in a while, and tone down the relaxed vibe. He took it literally and personally. The following Monday, he showed up to work in a full tuxedo. Not just a black suit. A full-on tuxedo with satin lapels, cufflinks and polished dress shoes that looked like they belonged on a red carpet.

At first, people thought he had an interview. Or maybe a wedding after work. But when he showed up again the next day, same getup but different tux, they realised he was making a point. He wasn’t just being petty. He was being precisely petty. “Morning,” he’d say with a cheerful nod, holding his coffee like he was on his way to a charity gala. “Just trying to look official,” he’d add, in case anyone forgot.

The Listener

Another instance is when a friend of mine was told by his girlfriend, “You don’t listen.” A critique she’d probably been holding in for a while, waiting for the right, or maybe the wrong, moment to drop it. He’d been caught off guard, of course. That one sentence stuck with him like lint he couldn’t shake off.

So the next time they were in a conversation, he came in with a notebook and a pen. Sat down across from her at the table, nodded solemnly, and said, “Okay, I’m ready.” She laughed at first, thinking it was a joke. But he didn’t laugh back. Just opened the notebook, clicked the pen, and stared at her like a court stenographer on a mission.

She started talking. About her week, her job, her mom, the coworker who always left food in the shared microwave. And there he was, nodding robotically, scribbling down notes like she was giving a TED Talk. No interruptions. No “mhmms”s, no “what?”s, not even a well-timed chuckle. Just complete, eerie silence and pen scratches.

Eventually, she stopped mid-sentence and asked if he was okay. He looked up, blinked twice, and replied with total sincerity: “I’m actively listening.” She just stared at him, somewhere between bewildered and amused. “This isn’t what I meant,” she finally said, breaking into laughter. “You’re not a therapist. You can talk, you know.”

But that was his version of overcorrection. He’d heard her criticism, internalised it like gospel, and decided to really listen, so hard, he forgot to be human in the process.

The Hidden Cost of Cold Strike

When people enter the cold strike mode, they don’t revolt. They don’t raise their voices or walk out in protest. No, it’s subtler than that, almost invisible if you’re not paying attention. They don’t break rules. In fact, they follow them to the latter. And that’s precisely the problem.

Because on the surface, everything looks fine. Tasks get done and deadlines are met. Everyone shows up on time, logs their hours, and responds to emails with polite, dry efficiency. It all looks productive, but look a little closer, and you’ll see the cracks.

No one offers new ideas. No one questions flawed processes. No one steps out of line, even when it’s clear the line is headed nowhere. There’s no laughter in the meetings. No spontaneous collaboration or healthy friction. Just silent compliance masquerading as discipline.

Cold strike is what happens when people stop caring enough to challenge, to build, to fix. They’re not disengaged enough to leave, just enough to stop giving anything more than the minimum. And the worst part? They’re doing exactly what was asked of them. No more, no less.

It stifles creativity and kills initiative. It buries passion under layers of quiet resentment. But to the untrained eye, it looks like order. Managers sometimes mistake it for efficiency. Executives may even applaud the calm. But this is not peace, this is silence born from disappointment and compliance born from burnout.

Because when people feel unheard, unvalued, or afraid to take risks, they don’t always speak up. Sometimes they just shut down. Innovation dries up, and morale withers. The best minds in the room start coasting, or worse, quietly planning their exit. And by the time leadership realises something’s wrong, the damage is already done.

You can’t measure that kind of disengagement in performance reviews. It doesn’t show up in quarterly reports. But you feel it; in the energy of the room, in the hesitation before someone speaks, in the absence of enthusiasm. The team still functions, but the spark is gone. And what do we call a team without a spark? A machine.

So What Do We Do About It?

We talk. We Listen.

That’s where it starts, not with performance metrics or motivational slogans, but with honest, human conversation. We create spaces where people can breathe a little easier, where questions aren’t seen as challenges, and where doubt isn’t mistaken for disloyalty.

We create spaces where someone can pause mid-meeting and ask: “What did you really mean by that?” Not with suspicion, but with curiosity. Because clarity matters more than convenience, and trust is built not on perfect words, but on the willingness to clarify them.

We create moments where someone feels safe enough to say: “Is there something I’m missing?” Because real collaboration isn’t about pretending to understand everything. It’s about the courage to admit when you don’t, and the culture that allows it.

We allow conversations to reach deeper, where someone can quietly ask: “Can we talk about what’s really going on?” Because often, the issue isn’t the email, or the project plan, or the quarterly goal. It’s the tone and tension. The unspoken stuff beneath the surface that nobody has had the language or the permission to address.

Because at the end of the day, most people don’t want chaos or crave conflict. They want to be seen as humans, not just employees. Sometimes, we get so focused on KPIs and productivity dashboards that we forget to listen to the undercurrent. We forget that silence isn’t always serenity. That people can be “fine” in all the ways that don’t mean fine at all.

So here’s a silent whisper: Leaders, the next time your team suddenly starts following all the rules a little too well, don’t celebrate too quickly.

That might not be alignment but withdrawal. That might be your team entering the cold strike mode, where they stop questioning, stop challenging, and stop bringing their full selves to work. Disengagement dressed up as professionalism. Invite the messy, human, vulnerable conversations. Ask better questions and, more importantly, listen.

Obedience wears a polished face, 
but silence holds a colder grace. 
Not every nod is full consent,
some voices vanish, quietly spent.

So build the trust where truth can land,
not ruled by fear, but open hand. 
For culture grows where hearts are known,
in spaces safe to speak, and own.

In the end, the health of any team isn’t measured just by how well they follow the rules, but by how safe they feel to speak, to question, to be.