My dad died last week—two days before his 80th birthday party.
He was an engineer and liked to plan things meticulously, so I sometimes wonder whether he simply didn’t want to turn 80… or whether he really didn’t want the party. We’ll never know. If I had to guess, it was probably the party.
He was born in 1944, just before the end of World War II—squarely in the baby boomer generation. The same generation as Donald Trump, who some would argue represents the best of the boomers, and many more would argue represents the worst.
My dad was the third of four children and the only boy. And, of course, being the only boy, he was considered—by his parents and by society—to be the most intelligent. He was groomed to succeed.
His sisters had a different destiny: find a well-groomed, well-bred, successful husband. In the time between finishing school and marriage, they were sent to “grooming school”—otherwise known as secretarial college. Predictably, they were all married and pregnant before graduation day.
All except the youngest sister, who struggled to fall pregnant and therefore had to work for a large part of her adult life—at least until she finally conceived at 36. Her husband would have preferred her to stay at home, because that’s what women did. But she didn’t like cooking, hated cleaning, and—quite frankly—was very intelligent.
In 1952, at the age of eight, my dad was sent off to boarding school to “learn how to become a man.” He went through initiations designed to toughen him up, to make him strong and dominant. He was taught that success meant playing rugby and being good at maths and science—and certainly not pursuing anything creative, because that would make life hard.
Luckily for him, he was good at maths, science, and rugby. In 1962 he was shipped off to university to study civil engineering.
In 1967, he met my mom—an innocent farmer’s daughter from the Eastern Cape. She was exceptionally pretty, an accomplished tennis player, head prefect, and, most importantly, perfectly well bred to find an accomplished husband. Driven and ambitious, she married before she was legally allowed to, requiring her father to sign her marriage certificate—which he did very proudly.
She had her first child at 22, her second (me) at 24. My parents bought their first house when she was 25 and moved into their forever home before she turned 30.
My mom had four siblings. Her eldest brother—born from my gran’s first marriage—couldn’t inherit the farm that came with her second marriage, because that’s how the rules worked. So he was sent to the US to study journalism.
My mom was the second eldest. Her younger sister was considered the rebel: she went to university, studied teaching, then medicine, then completed a master’s degree in anaesthetics. She became a world-renowned anaesthetist at Red Cross Children’s Hospital and later a professor at the University of Cape Town. She married at 43 and never had children of her own, though she was an extraordinary stepmother to three boys.
My mom’s younger brother inherited the family farm—because rules. Her youngest sister found a good man and settled down before finishing her nursing qualification.
This was the world I was born into.
I grew up during the height of apartheid in South Africa. As a child, I didn’t know what apartheid was—until my journalist uncle became editor of The Star. He was considered a left-wing liberal, and as a result, the security police often followed him.
I remember asking my dad why black cars were always parked outside our house when my uncle visited. He told me it was so the government could keep tabs on him because he knew too many people who were considered enemies of the state.
When I asked what apartheid was, my dad asked me a question in return.
He asked whether I thought Lettie—the Black woman who raised and nurtured me, a strong-willed, intelligent, fiery, protective saint whom I adored—should be equal to me.
I was taken aback. I hadn’t realised she wasn’t considered equal. I told him I’d be the luckiest person alive if I could ever be anything close to as magnificent as she was.
He simply said, “Never forget that, my boy.”
Thanks to Lettie and my mom, I learned the strength and humility of women at a very young age.
In the late eighties, when my brother and I were in high school, my mom announced one day that she was bored of being a part-time secretary.
Her dad said “hallelujah” and bought her a red briefcase for her new, undefined business venture—ironically telling her she had always been destined for more and that he was proud of her.
And my dad—a man born into a man’s world, where women were expected to serve their husbands and raise families—supported her all the way. He was never threatened by her success. He encouraged her beyond the start line and remained her biggest champion.
That’s probably why they were together for 57 years.
In those days, men didn’t want their wives to work. The man of the house had the final say. His word was gospel.
But not my dad.
He adapted. Not because he was perfect, but because he was intelligent—and because he loved my mom and didn’t want to lose her.
Many of his generation didn’t adapt. And some still haven’t.
They cling desperately to power, convinced they are the rightful patriarchs of society, promising to restore the world to what it once was. Think “Make America Great Again.” Think men well past their prime still convinced they alone should lead.
The world has changed.
Yes, the present is hard—but when it comes to freedom, equality, and diversity, we are better off than we have ever been.
And yet, let’s be honest.
It’s still a man’s world.
And to succeed in a man’s world, you’re expected to behave like a man.
Or are you?
Masculine leadership traits—assertiveness, decisiveness, competitiveness, dominance, strength, power, and control—got us to where we are today.
But they will not take us where we need to go tomorrow.
They delivered innovation, economic growth, rising living standards, and extraordinary progress. But every debit has a credit.
And the credit side looks like this:
- materialism
- over-consumption
- environmental destruction
- climate change
- widening inequality
- anxiety, depression, and despair
Masculinity defines success as “reaching the top.” But the top doesn’t exist. Every level creates a new competition, new consumption, and deeper dissatisfaction.
Enough is never enough.
Our planet is telling us this very clearly.
And now, artificial intelligence is forcing the question even further. We are creating systems more intelligent than ourselves—but without the wisdom to guide them.
We are intelligent enough to create, but not wise enough to understand the consequences of what we create.
And to be specific: hyper-masculine intelligence and leadership are failing us.
Not because men are the problem—but because imbalance is.
Research shows men consistently overestimate their intelligence while women underestimate theirs. It’s called the male hubris and female humility effect.
The only advantage men consistently demonstrate is confidence.
And that confidence gap starts early—at home, in schools, in expectations.
When girls doubt their intelligence, they choose safer paths. When women doubt themselves, they opt out of leadership.
And the world loses.
So what if we changed the rules?
What if we valued feminine leadership—not as a gendered opposite, but as a set of life-giving qualities we desperately need?
Feminine leadership prioritises:
- long-term thinking
- intuition and creativity
- collaboration over competition
- empathy and listening
- nurturing future leaders—human and machine
- adaptability and resilience
- wellbeing over ego
This isn’t about men versus women.
It’s about balance.
And after centuries of imbalance, it’s time.
I dare you to lead like a woman.
To the women: don’t become men to win in a man’s world. Be fully, unapologetically yourself.
To the men: stop being afraid of what you’re losing. Think about what you—and the world—can gain.
The rules of the game need to change.
And change starts with courage.
I dare you to be brave enough to lead like a woman.