Scarcity, Silence and the Politics of Reputation: A Lesson in Communication Strategy

At dawn in Lilongwe the mist hung low over the maize fields as a minibus radio crackled with political commentary. A woman buying tomatoes at Area 25 market murmured to her neighbour, “Did you hear what he said?” Such small moments — a snippet of news here, a social media post there — are where reputations rise and fall. In Malawi’s recent political cycle those murmurs became a tidal wave and they reveal a truth that Roger Haywood captures in Corporate Reputation, the Brand & the Bottom Line: “Reputation is an emotional construct, built up over time but lost in moments of poor behaviour.”

For four years the incumbent government enjoyed a reservoir of goodwill. It had come to power promising a break from the past, pledging clean governance and economic stability. But when the shocks came with fertiliser shortages, fuel queues, forex scarcity and rising food prices, its behaviour betrayed its words. The state did not just delay action; it delayed empathy. Instead of standing in front of the public with facts, timelines and contrition, it blamed suppliers, past governments or “technical issues.” Public relations theory calls this the attribution trap, when audiences perceive you as evasive their trust collapses even faster. Behavioural psychology reinforces it. Daniel Kahneman’s “peak end rule” shows people don’t store every detail, they store emotional peaks and the ending. The peak of the fuel crisis, the peak of food price spikes and the image of a government appearing aloof became the emotional memories voters kept.

While the government saturated the airwaves defending itself, the opposition leader stayed mostly silent. Commentators scoffed, “He is finished. He can’t even campaign.” But as economists know scarcity breeds value. In a country exhausted by constant government explanations, his silence became an asset. His restraint created curiosity and anticipation. When he finally appeared he didn’t offer a torrent of policy promises. He asked three simple questions at his rallies, “You missed me? You felt the pain? Will you repeat this mistake?” In that moment he practised what Robert Cialdini calls emotional priming, activating voters’ feelings before their reasoning. In economic terms the incumbent had oversupplied its brand at the wrong time, flooding the market with defensive messaging. The challenger undersupplied his brand, preserving its scarcity and therefore its value. As a result people forgot many of his previous failings. They remembered instead how the current government had made them feel in their hardest moments.

This is not only a political phenomenon. Consider Johnson and Johnson during the 1982 Tylenol poisoning crisis when seven people died after capsules were tampered with. Instead of blaming rogue actors or waiting for the facts, J&J immediately pulled 31 million bottles from shelves at a cost of $100 million. It communicated constantly and empathetically. It later rebounded to dominate the market because, as Haywood would say, its behaviour matched its stated values. Contrast that with the BP Deepwater Horizon oil spill in 2010 where the company’s CEO gave tone deaf remarks, delaying contrition and fuelling anger. BP spent years and billions rebuilding trust. Both cases show what Malawi’s government just learned: in crises, your behaviour writes the headline more than your press release does.

Diplomats have long understood the power of timing. During the 1994 South African transition Nelson Mandela limited his public comments during sensitive negotiations letting surrogates absorb the heat. When he did speak it was deliberate and reconciliatory. Scarcity and timing gave his words weight. In contrast the Rwandan government’s delayed acknowledgement of the 1994 genocide in international forums damaged its credibility for years. In diplomacy, as in politics, silence can be abdication or it can be strategy. The difference lies in credibility and timing.

The Malawi story holds universal lessons for public relations officers, psychologists and diplomatic advisers. Behaviour is the message. If your conduct contradicts your words, the public will believe the conduct. Haywood notes that behaviour is the single largest component of reputation. Crisis communication isn’t only about facts; it’s about feelings. Psychologist Jonathan Haidt reminds us that the emotional tail wags the rational dog. Overexposure erodes value; strategic restraint can amplify it. But restraint without action is dangerous. Reputation equity is like a savings account. In crises you draw on it. If you haven’t been depositing trust through consistent behaviour, you’ll default.

When Malawians went to the polls many hadn’t forgiven the former president’s past mistakes. But the incumbent government’s behaviour had so dominated their emotional memory that they felt only the pain of the present. The challenger’s scarcity and simplicity allowed him to become the vessel for their frustration. This is not about party politics. It is a universal principle. In the age of social media, where millions of untrained “journalists” can shape narratives instantly, leaders cannot rely on slogans like “no publicity is bad publicity.” The opposite is true. Bad behaviour amplified by instant communication can destroy trust faster than ever.

For those of us in communications the Malawi case should be pinned on the wall: your leader’s brand is a living organism, not a tagline. People may forget what you did, but they will never forget how you made them feel especially in their hardest moments. As Haywood puts it, “Reputation is the sum of impressions earned over time.” If you manage those impressions through good behaviour, empathy and timing, you can withstand crises. If you squander them, no amount of publicity can save you.