My advice to every one expecting to go into business is to hit

Host: The factory smelled of iron, sweat, and coffee left too long on the burner. The clock on the far wall glowed orange under the fluorescent light, its hands creeping past midnight. The machines had fallen silent, but their memory still hummed in the air, a lingering pulse of effort.

Jack sat on a wooden crate, jacket thrown over one shoulder, a faint smudge of grease across his cheek. His grey eyes watched the empty floor, where hours earlier men had shouted, metal had clanged, and sparks had flown like tiny stars. Jeeny stood near the window, her arms crossed, her hair glinting beneath a strip of moonlight cutting through the glass.

Host: The night was thick, almost tangible. Rain tapped on the roof in irregular beats, as though echoing some forgotten rhythm of labor.

Jeeny: “Madam C. J. Walker once said, ‘My advice to everyone expecting to go into business is to hit often and hit hard; in other words, strike with all your might.’”

Jack: (smirking) “Yeah, sounds like something they’d print on a motivational poster — right next to a picture of a lion or a guy climbing a mountain.”

Host: His voice carried that familiar edge — half sarcasm, half fatigue — the kind that comes from years of fighting, not to win, but to simply not lose.

Jeeny: “You mock it, but it’s truth. Walker wasn’t just talking about business. She was talking about life — about not waiting for permission to exist.”

Jack: “Or about burning yourself out before the game even starts. ‘Hit hard,’ huh? You keep throwing punches long enough, you end up hitting walls too.”

Host: A distant thunder rolled, low and grinding, shaking the windowpane slightly. Jeeny didn’t move.

Jeeny: “She built an empire, Jack. Out of nothing. A Black woman in America, born to enslaved parents, in a time when both her race and her gender were supposed to keep her invisible. And still she said: hit hard. You don’t build something that lasts by being cautious.”

Jack: “You don’t survive by being reckless either. Every boxer who thinks he can take on the world ends up flat on his back sooner or later. Strategy wins, not just strength.”

Jeeny: “But without strength, there’s no strike. Without strike, no impact. She didn’t mean blind aggression — she meant conviction. That when you move, you move with everything you are.”

Host: Jeeny’s fist tightened as she spoke, her voice rising, each word a spark against the dimness. Jack watched her, the corners of his mouth twitching — admiration and resistance wrestling beneath his expression.

Jack: “Conviction’s easy when you win. When you lose, it just looks like foolishness dressed up as courage. You think all those dreamers who ‘hit hard’ in life made it? Most of them hit and broke themselves in the process.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But look at Madam Walker again. She didn’t strike because she knew she’d win. She struck because she had to. Because silence was death. Because waiting was worse than failure.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the metal door, a sound that felt almost like applause from the storm outside.

Jack: (quietly) “You ever think maybe people like her are exceptions — not examples?”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what people said about her back then too. And that’s why so few tried. But someone has to start swinging before the world learns it can be moved.”

Host: She stepped closer, her shadow falling across his face. The light flickered once, then stabilized, throwing both of them into sharp contrast — her determination like fire, his doubt like smoke.

Jack: “And what if you swing and miss? What if all that effort, all that faith — what if it doesn’t change anything?”

Jeeny: “Then you swing again.”

Host: The silence that followed was electric, alive with unsaid things — the kind of silence only fighters share before the next round.

Jack: “You talk like the world’s still fair enough to care how hard you try. But I’ve seen good people swing with all their might — lose everything — while some smug bastard with a silver spoon barely lifts a finger and wins. That’s not justice. That’s luck.”

Jeeny: “Then hit harder. That’s exactly what she meant. Don’t let their ease make you soft. Every punch counts when the system’s built to push you down. You don’t hit to win easily; you hit to be remembered.”

Host: Jack’s eyes lifted — for the first time, really meeting hers. There was something in his gaze now — not belief, not yet, but the ache of recognition.

Jack: “You ever get tired of fighting, Jeeny? Doesn’t it ever feel like you’re just shadowboxing — swinging at ghosts?”

Jeeny: “Of course. But Madam Walker wasn’t selling hair products, Jack. She was selling dignity. She gave thousands of women jobs when no one else would. Every time she struck, she carved space for others to stand. You call that just business?”

Jack: “No. That’s war.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And war doesn’t ask if you’re tired.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, pounding the roof like a drumbeat, as if the world itself were echoing her conviction.

Jack: (leaning forward) “So you really think success is just about hitting harder?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s about hitting true. You can’t throw punches at everything — you pick your battle and you hit it until the wall cracks. You don’t stop because it hurts. You stop when it moves.”

Host: For a long moment, neither spoke. The light flickered again, briefly plunging them into darkness before returning — softer now, almost gentle.

Jack: “You know, my old man used to say something similar. ‘Don’t start a fight unless you’re ready to finish it.’ He never finished his, though. Lost his shop, his health — everything. Maybe he hit too hard and forgot to breathe.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he forgot that even warriors need rest. That’s not what Walker meant either — she didn’t say hit endlessly. She said hit often. That means persistence. Rhythmic, disciplined, powerful persistence.”

Host: Her tone softened, the fury fading into something more tender, like the echo of rain after thunder.

Jack: “So… it’s not about violence. It’s about intensity.”

Jeeny: “It’s about life. About putting your whole soul into every strike. Because half-hearted hits don’t leave marks.”

Host: A small smile crept across Jack’s face, faint but genuine. The storm was breaking now, the sound of rain lightening, becoming a whisper.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “Everything that matters is poetic. Even survival.”

Host: The wind pushed against the window, scattering a few papers across the floor. Jack bent down, picked one up — an invoice, wrinkled and torn. He stared at it for a moment, then crumpled it slowly in his hand.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve been thinking too much like an accountant and not enough like a fighter.”

Jeeny: “Then you know what to do.”

Jack: “Hit often. Hit hard.”

Jeeny: “And strike with all your might.”

Host: The clock above them ticked past one in the morning. The rain had stopped completely. Somewhere in the distance, a train whistled, long and low, as if calling the world forward.

Jack stood, his figure casting a tall shadow on the wall. He looked down at Jeeny — not with defiance this time, but with something closer to resolve.

Jack: “You ever think maybe striking hard isn’t just for business? Maybe it’s for love, too. For believing again.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Maybe that’s the hardest strike of all.”

Host: They both laughed softly, the kind of laughter that heals, not mocks. The air felt lighter, cleaner, as if the storm had washed away something deeper than dust.

Host: The camera would pull back now — the factory floor, the rain-soaked streets, the faint moonlight on rusted metal — two people standing in the stillness after battle, not victorious, but alive.

Host: And perhaps that’s what Madam C. J. Walker meant all along — not just to strike for profit, but to strike for presence, for purpose. To live not timidly, but fiercely, to hit often, hit hard, and strike with all your might, even when the world dares you not to.