When History Repeats Itself

The Chase List

** Dominic- Ricky Whittle**

The intern assigned to give me the walking tour kept calling me Miss Effah, like I was a headmistress or someone's aunty at a church fundraiser. He couldn't have been more than three years younger than me, but apparently, my fitted blazer screamed authority—or old age. Or both.

He recited the management structure of Chase Men like a student cramming for finals—robotic but oddly endearing. "CEO, COO, CFO, and CMO are all housed on the top floor," he began, rattling off titles as if I were about to be tested. "General Counsel and Human Resources on the 1st. Creative on the 3rd."

The 1st floor was our first stop. The staff break room, dimly lit with just enough warmth to make instant coffee feel romantic, buzzed quietly. A few early birds hovered near the pastries and mugs like they were nursing hangovers or heartbreaks. Apparently, a rotation of sandwich ladies, salad ladies, and one ambitious caterer handled lunch. I made a mental note—food always mattered.

The executives, naturally, had separate break rooms—reserved sanctuaries on the 1st, 3rd, and 5th floors. Orders were delivered straight to them.

Then we descended into the basement: Storage. Calling it that was almost insulting. It was a vault, a shrine. Racks lined with archival pieces from photo shoots. Some looked like they belonged on runways in Milan; others like they'd been designed for royalty in a future century.

Apparently, Chase Men rewarded high-performing female staff with a monthly dip into this wonderland—two pieces, free. Male staff got their perks from the adjacent retail store. I mentally made a note: wardrobe upgrade pending, performance permitting.

Back upstairs, the Legal and Human Resources departments shared the 1st floor.

The lawyers looked like they'd been plucked from a legal drama— tailored suits in navy and charcoal, gold-rimmed glasses, statement watches, every detail crisp but never loud. Their energy was tense, precise. You got the sense that even their sighs were billable.

HR, in contrast, was soothing—warm lights, soft-toned voices, and leafy plants that defied the usual office wilt. Someone had framed a quote about empathy above the printer. The HR team had the calm, even energy of people who'd seen it all—tears in the bathroom, last-minute resignations, awkward workplace crushes. This was the floor where breakdowns were managed, exit letters were typed, and hugs were offered in whispers.

The second floor belonged to Operations - it thrummed with quiet urgency. Tables overflowed with spreadsheets and half-unpacked boxes. Laptops sat open beside packing slips, half-eaten packs of plantain chips, and bottles of energy drinks. If the designers dreamed, Branding sold, and Legal protected—this team made sure things actually got done. This was the beating heart of Chase Men.

We took the elevator up to the Design Department on the 3rd floor. It was the loudest quiet I'd ever experienced. Fabric rustled. Pencils scratched against sketchpads. A designer in tortoiseshell glasses barked at an assistant about pleats. The rooms were glass-enclosed but felt like one open, pulsating organ. The Creative Director had an office here, along with the heads of design.

Next: the 4th floor—Branding and Merchandising. Smart positioning, sandwiched between creativity and corporate oversight.

The Branding Department looked like a Pinterest board exploded: Mood board covered the walls—cutouts from magazines, scraps of fabric, scribbled phrases no one had erased in days. It didn't feel like an office. It felt like the inside of someone's imagination, buzzing with colour, sound, and half-finished ideas.

Next door, the Merchandising team run on data and instinct. Monitors glowed with charts and lists, whiteboards were crammed with notes and numbers and racks of sample clothes hung neatly on racks, waiting for judgment. Unlike the branding team, who seemed to dream out loud, this team was all about the maths behind the magic—figuring out what would sell, where, and how fast.