The Joy In Mania

Table of Contents

 Being an introvert in a group of extroverts rarely sounded appealing, but Kojo had long since learned how to make the most of it. His friends knew him as “the quiet one”—the guy who could be counted on to laugh along but never hog the spotlight. For years, he had politely declined invitations to the Chale Wote Street Art Festival, claiming he was too busy or not feeling the crowd thing. This year, however, his friends had been relentless.

“Come on, Kojo, you need some color in your life,”

Mensah had teased.

“You can’t spend your whole year behind a desk.”

“I’m fine with my desk,”

Kojo had replied, smiling faintly. But after weeks of persuasion, they finally struck a deal: Kojo would join them for the festival, but, and he made this part crystal clear, he would head home before 7 p.m. No late night chaos, no getting lost in the party crowd.

The Chale Wote Festival, held every year in the heart of Accra, was already in full swing by the time they arrived that morning. Even from blocks away, Kojo could hear the music—drums pounding, trumpets blaring, the rhythmic pulse of Afrobeats mixing with shouts of laughter and the hum of vendors calling out their wares. The streets were alive with color: murals exploding with vibrant paint, performers in elaborate costumes, and the shimmer of handmade jewelry catching the sunlight.

They started with the acrobatics. Men flipping effortlessly through the air, twisting and landing on narrow platforms with applause erupting after each stunt. Then came the cyclists, weaving between the crowd, performing wheelies, hops, and dizzying spins. Kojo couldn’t help but be impressed. After the performances, they wandered into the maze of thrift stalls and pop-up shops. Vendors sold everything from kente scarves to handmade leather sandals, carved wooden masks to painted calabash bowls. Kojo trailed behind his friends, scanning the tables more out of curiosity than any real intention to buy.

Then he saw it. It was sitting on a small wooden stool at the corner of a vendor’s stand: a worn-out hat, patched and frayed at the edges, its faded fabric once brightly patterned. Dangling from it on short strings were an odd assortment of objects: a spoon, a chipped enamel cup, a small rusted coin, a piece of seashell, and what looked like a dried herb bundle. They swayed gently in the breeze, making a faint clinking sound. Kojo couldn’t explain why it caught his attention, but he found himself staring at it for longer than he meant to.

“What’s that?”

One of his friends, Kwame, asked, following his gaze. Before Kojo could answer, Kwame grinned.

“You like it? I’ll get it for you.”

“No, no, I don’t—”

Kojo began, but Kwame was already pulling out a few cedis and handing them to the vendor. The vendor, a wiry man with a faint smile, took the money without a word. He didn’t say anything about the hat—no story, no sales pitch—just handed it over. Kwame dropped it onto Kojo’s head.

“Perfect! You need some festival spirit.”

Kojo hesitated. It did feel a little ridiculous, but the sun was getting stronger, and the thought of some shade was welcome. Fine, he said, adjusting it on his head.

For the first hour, nothing seemed unusual. They continued exploring, chatting, sampling street food—spicy kebabs, roasted plantain with groundnuts. But then, slowly, Kojo began to feel… different. At first, it was just a restless energy in his limbs. Then it swelled, flooding his chest, his head, his whole body with an inexplicable excitement. He wanted to move, to join the performers, to laugh with strangers, to do something. The shyness, the careful restraint he’d always carried, felt like it had been peeled away.

“Kojo?”

Mensah asked when he suddenly jumped into the middle of a drumming circle. Kojo laughed and started moving to the rhythm—not just moving, but dancing, throwing his arms wide, stomping his feet, spinning into the crowd.

From Kojo’s perspective, it was exhilarating. Everyone was smiling, clapping along, loving the energy. But that wasn’t what his friends or anyone else saw. He was shoving people aside, knocking into dancers, sending drinks flying from people’s hands. He bumped hard into a pop-up stall, toppling a display of jewelry onto the street. When the vendor yelled, Kojo yelled back, his voice loud and strange.

The longer it went on, the more aggressive he became. A woman trying to pass him got her arm grabbed and shaken. A child near the edge of the crowd stumbled and cried when Kojo’s wild spinning knocked him over. Mensah, Kwame, and a few other bystanders tried to calm him, but he didn’t seem to hear them. And through it all, the hat sat on his head perfectly still—no matter how violently he moved, it didn’t slide, tilt, or so much as twitch.

“Get the hat!”

Someone shouted. It took several people to hold him down. Kojo struggled with a strength none of them had ever seen in him, twisting and thrashing like a man possessed. Two men pinned his arms while another grabbed for the hat. When they finally yanked it off, the change was instant. Kojo went limp, his breathing ragged. His eyes darted around at the circle of shocked faces.

“What—what’s going on? Why are you holding me?”

He asked, bewildered.

“You went mad!”

Kwame said, still panting from the effort.

“You were destroying things, yelling—”

Kojo shook his head.

“No, I was just dancing with everyone. They were all enjoying it.”

But looking at the damage, the overturned stalls, the frightened faces, Kojo realized his version of events didn’t match theirs at all. Determined to get answers, they rushed back to the stall where Kwame had bought the hat, dragging along a few other people who had witnessed the outburst.

But when they arrived, the spot was empty. The small stool, the scattered trinkets, the wiry vendor—gone. Another merchant nearby said he had packed up and left only minutes after the purchase.

“Where did he go?”

Kwame demanded. The man shrugged.

“Don’t know. Didn’t see him leave. One moment he was here, the next—nothing.”

Kojo stared at the empty space, the hat still clutched tightly in Kwame’s hand. The dangling spoon, cup, and coin swayed slightly, though there was no breeze. That night, Kojo lay awake, his body still humming faintly with that strange energy, even though the hat was long gone. When he closed his eyes, he could almost hear the clinking of those dangling objects, in time with a rhythm that didn’t quite sound like drums.