Encouter with A Nigerian Masquerade

I grew up in a Nigerian community that the festive season was cherished and longed for by the kids because it was usually identified with the emergence of the cultural and traditional masquerades as they came out of their 'magic holes'. The tradition, as it was, had the children running after the masquerades, singing, shouting, taunting and chanting folklore songs or being pursued by the masquerades which being caught meant what I didn't fully comprehend by then. Before this time, the best views I had of the masquerades existed only when I sat in the balcony and viewed them from my 'restricted zone'.
Mother made sure against all odds that I never participated in such diabolical and devilish practices as she termed it. She held it that it wasn't even in her vaguest biblical imagination to run after such 'beings'. Though, to me the reason wasn’t strong enough to keep someone from such adventure, so deep inside, I nursed the urge to partake in this adventure.
It was on the second week of December, 17 years ago, on that fateful day, when my parents left for a 3 days church camping trip. Coincidentally, on the second day of my parents' trip, as I sat inside with my cousins I heard bell jingles amidst shouts of children. I raced down the stairs to the streets although my cousins were asking me to beat a retreat. I paid deaf ears to them.
Excitement was the least of my feelings as I joined the culturally throng trailing behind the masquerades, baiting them and asking for a run.
There were two masquerades, covered with dried brown hay for a regalia with black animalistic and demonic moulds as faces, with machetes and sticks in hand as they danced around with their bells jingling to announce their coming.
I was hitting my legs on the ground, prepping my legs for a run when one of the masquerades turned back. With a full force, he launched an attack on us. I turned back and ran in simultaneously chaos that followed but I ran on a goat path; alone. I was looking back, making sure I widened the gap between me and new found foe. Before I could say Jack Robinson, I slipped over an obstacle then I fell headlong to the ground. It was a stone. Before I could gather myself and run again, I had lashes of machetes and sticks on my back, neck and head. This masquerade was joined by his ‘brother-in-wickedness'. I was lying there, wailing and shouting for help but none was coming any sooner. The kids were there laughing and still chanting a folklore song and the adults were absentminded; they were just walking by as if nothing was happening. When they had a fill of their lashes on me, they deserted me: wounded, frustrated, crying and angry. It then dawned on me the other reason why mother never wanted me to participate in it, it wasn’t just about religion, it was about what will happen if as a child I get caught.
It had been barely 17 years ago and it is still fresh in my memory like it was yesterday. Nevertheless, I waited till the next day to get my mom side of the lashes because I knew definitely, she will show me her own version of reprimanding when I was being stubborn- beatings.