Monday mornings and I have beef. Real, long-standing, generational beef.

That particular Monday, my alarm rang like it had a personal vendetta. 5:30am. I opened one eye, checked the time, and hissed. Who invented this suffering abeg?

I snoozed it.

Five minutes later, it rang again. This time louder, more aggressive like, “Get up, your village people are waiting.” I sat up, already tired, already irritated. How can the week just start and I’m already exhausted?

As I dragged myself out of bed, my body was in the room but my spirit was still lying down, wrapped in blanket, refusing to cooperate.

Bathroom mirror didn’t help matters. My face looked like I had just fought in a war I didn’t win. I brushed my teeth with zero joy, bathed like someone being punished, and stood in front of my wardrobe like it personally offended me.

“Must I really go?” I asked nobody.

But bills don’t care about your feelings.

I stepped outside, and of course, Monday traffic was already forming a union. Cars bumper to bumper, okada men speeding like they had nine lives, and conductors shouting like it was a competition.

Inside the bus, everyone had the same face—tight, serious, slightly annoyed. No smiles. No “good morning.” Just silent agreement: we are all suffering together.

One woman beside me sighed deeply and said, “God, why is Monday always like this?”

I turned to her immediately. “You too?”

She nodded. “I don’t understand it. Sunday is too short, Monday is too long.”

We both laughed, that tired kind of laugh that comes from shared struggle.

At work, it didn’t get better. Emails piled up like they multiplied overnight. My boss was already calling meetings like it was urgent national duty.

“Let’s start the week strong,” he said.

Sir, my week hasn’t even started. I’m still buffering.

By 11am, I had already checked the time like 15 times. How is it still morning? Who is controlling this clock?

At some point, I just leaned back in my chair and whispered to myself,

“Am I the only one that dislikes Mondays this much?”

From across the office, someone replied, “You’re not alone. At all.”

We all burst out laughing.

And in that moment, I realized something—maybe Mondays aren’t the problem. Maybe it’s just the sudden shock from soft, sweet weekend freedom to hard, reality-packed responsibility.

Still… that doesn’t mean I’ll start liking it anytime soon.

Because next Monday, when that alarm rings again, I already know what I’ll say:

“Please, just five more minutes.”

Tell me honestly, are you a Monday lover or part of our suffering gang? 😄