Ayesha had dreamed of this moment her whole life. Carnival in Port of Spain – the mecca of mas, the heartbeat of the Caribbean. The day she would finally step onto the road, skin kissed by the sun, wrapped in the explosion of feathers, rhinestones, and colour that made masqueraders look like goddesses. Yet as she stood in her hotel room, staring at her costume laid out on the bed, doubt gnawed at the edges of her excitement.

The mirror reflected a body that didn’t quite fit the fantasy she had envisioned. She wasn’t thick like the video vixens, with their effortless jiggle and confidence, nor was she sculpted like the gym-toned queens who dominated Instagram. Her skin, a warm shade of brown, carried the echoes of her mixed heritage – an Indo-Trinidadian father and an Afro-Trinidadian mother, a blend that often left her feeling like she didn’t fully belong to either world.

The nerves were real. She tried to think of the friends waiting for her in the lobby to erase the thoughts from her mind. This was not the time for doubt. This was the time to play, to free herself in the music, in the rhythm of the road. She fastened the bejeweled bra, adjusted the feathered backpack, and stepped into her Monday wear.

Outside, Port of Spain pulsed with anticipation. From the moment she crossed the stage, the music possessed her. It was like stepping into another dimension where time, worry, and self-consciousness ceased to exist. Soca music thundered from colossal speakers, the vibrations rattling her bones and setting her soul on fire. She moved with the crowd, her body no longer hers alone – it belonged to the rhythm, to the ancestors, to the thousands who had chipped and wined on this very road before her.

Yet, in between the euphoria, there were moments that made her feel the weight of being an outsider.

Men walked past her to hail the curvier girls, the skinnier girls, and the ones with the international influencer look. She noticed how some people sized her up, their eyes flickering over her, as if trying to categorize her.

“Yuh mix?” one guy asked, a grin on his face.

Ayesha forced a smile. “Yeah.”

He nodded approvingly, as if that answer alone made her more worthy of attention. It was a familiar feeling, being exoticized and being labeled as neither here nor there.

But she refused to let it consume her. Instead, she focused on the good such as the strangers who hyped her up as she danced, the feeling of complete unity with people who had no idea who she was, yet moved with her like they had known her forever. The sweat, the joy, the unspoken promise that on this day, on this road, everybody was somebody.

The sun was beginning to dip when she felt it – an unwanted hand at her waist, a man pressing too close, too insistent.

She spun around, shoving him off. “Ease up!”

He smirked. “Doh stick, nah.”

Her stomach clenched, but she held her ground. Another masquerader, a woman built like a warrior queen, stepped in between them. “She say no, move yuh ass.”

The man muttered something under his breath but disappeared into the sea of bodies.

Ayesha’s heart pounded. For all its magic, Carnival had its dark corners. There were moments when women had to fight to keep their joy untarnished. She had heard the stories, but feeling it firsthand was something else. She looked at the woman who had defended her and whispered, “Thank you.” The woman winked. “We look out for we own.”

By the time she crossed the Savannah stage for the second and final time, her fears had melted away. She no longer compared her body to anyone else’s. She no longer cared who looked at her and who didn’t. She was drenched in sweat, her voice hoarse from screaming lyrics, and her feet aching from hours of non-stop movement. But she was happy. She had played mas, and not just with her body, but with her spirit.

As she stood in the glow of golden sunset, surrounded by people who, for these two days, were family, she felt something she hadn’t expected – freedom.

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