In high school, our patron would storm our dormitory every morning to wake us up, a bell in one hand. Then shout repeatedly, “Wake up, work for your woman.”
Our somnolent bodies would be slow and grumpy getting out of bed. But this was a constant reminder and reality check that as men, the future of our families depended entirely on us.
Where and what ‘our women’ were doing at that particular moment didn’t matter. Whether or not we’d end up marrying was out of the question. Heck, no one even paused to question their sexuality. All we knew is that we were responsible for their future.
Decades later, whenever I struggle to get out of bed, in an attempt to summon my inner strength, I quietly chant the mantra, “Wake up, work for your woman.”
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