Fiction: A Jab at the Society

You are in your third year in the University. At 21, you are only getting to accepting being enlightened and questioning the demands and expectations of culture. You have only begun challenging the norms, stereotypes among others.

Today is one of the days allotted for the cultural celebration in your village. It is expected that every woman, especially unmarried ones steer clear of the masquerade to which this day is dedicated to. The consequences varies from merely admonition, or downright thrashing of deviants.

"This restriction is not for me," you think. "This is the opportunity for me to expose all of these unprogressive cultural practices. I have to do this, for the future generation not to be caught up with these"

In addition to the above is that you are aware that those behind the masks were mere men, mundane mortals whose level of intellectual comprehension is at same level with plebians. You swear that you will not keep silent in the face of oppression.

On the third day of the celebration, you decide that since you are about to stare down at these people, you might as well go all in. You put on a traditional shirt, with a fitted jeans trousers. You are wearing the trousers to rebel more, since supposedly, trousers are not part of the culture. This makes no sense to you, as even skirts and gowns are not part of the culture.

You are ready to challenge them head on. You are waiting by the roadside, a site you decided to cast the troubles. Afterall, people could be moving and it will attract massive attention from the villagers.

The first sign of their presence was the sound of gongs beatings, sound which you will describe as a music better suited for the ghosts and should be played in their realm. You have begun second-guessing your decision to challenge them. It does not help that the by-passers are giving you the stink eye. With your dressing, make-up and acrylic nails, you are rather suited for a fashion event than challenging a masquerade.

"You should desist from this now you have time. You cannot do this," your cynic mind opines. The more determined part of your kind keeps up with encouragement, "Every revolution or protest that was undertaken in history was done by people: some of which were women- Rosa Parks, Funmilayo Ramsone Kuti, Magaret Ekpo. They weren't afraid to challenge the system."

You shrug off the negatives. You'd rather believe them to be nerves, and they are good. With the contemplations on your mind and the subsequent advice, you see them. Only one masquerade, but with a bunch of followers. "These jokesters", as you'd always refer to them. Bunch of clowns and weaklings. You will either do this or die, that was the essence of the make-up. At least you will be looking good in the afterlife with my outlook"

The people are running helter-skelter, the crowd dispersing to make room for passage. By people, you actually mean the women. The men are circling them, no one was concentrating at you. Those who could see you must be wondering if you are out of your mind.

It's now or never. You keep prancing towards the masquerade. The insignificant guys behind it are saying that you move away, the only warning that you would ever get. You are not listening, still moving menacingly towards the image. You seem as though you are not hearing anything apart from your footsteps.

You are now a few steps away from the creature. It raised its whip to swipe at you, you duck but it's too late. Some part of it had glided over your body. You are furious, the plan was just to try and talk to it. You slide your leg over its costume, pulling it down. 

You maneuver and take a hold of the can and hit it repeatedly with it. Before you were hauled from him, you pull the apparel covering his hair, and lo and behold, it is the guy you had rejected his advances. You smile with satisfaction, and surrender to the men latching on to you. You will deal with the consequences later, but you'd revel in this moment now.