Is there really only the rising and setting of the sun that separates day from night? No, my friend. In our country now, day and night mean two entirely different lives. Different people. Different agendas.
By day, we wear ties and head to the office. But as night falls, we grab placards and hit the streets in protest. Off comes the tie, on goes the t-shirt and cap, revolutionary ID card around the neck, and a pocket full of fresh ideals.
In the office, the boss asks, “Have you submitted the file?” At night, a comrade pings: “Come to such-and-such place.”
At 8pm, out of nowhere, I see a post on Facebook: “We’ll shed blood today, but never compromise with injustice!” Location tag: some sculpture.
What injustice? Who did it? Why now? I don’t know, and I don’t care to know. Because showing up matters more than knowing.
In the comments, the fire is real: “On the way bro.” The leader likes and replies: “Now they’ll see what’s coming!”
The same guy who queued up at the bank to pay his utility bill in the afternoon, is now, at 10pm, seen with a mask on his face, banner in hand, eyes lit with zeal, and a cup of tea in hand.
By day, I’m plain. Just a common man. I run the computer at the office, hunt for signatures in files, and catch my breath at the tea stall.
By night, I’m a revolutionary. At night, I roar: “This oppression must end! This repression won’t be tolerated!”
The police look. I look. With awe. With doubt. With resolve. Together.
We’ve got this one friend who tutors kids by day and posts statuses by night: “We will no longer remain silent.”
Another guy just comes for photos. He rotates his phone, goes live, and captions it: “Midnight for Justice.”
The funniest part? Today’s youth have decided that day is not for politics, the real political time is night. Even if nothing comes of it, at the tea stall you can always say, with some flair: “I was there last night, bro. A lot went down.”
Juggling this dual life of day and night, sleep suffers the most.
I return home at 3am, only to head to the office in the morning. My wife says, “What kind of life is this?” I reply, “I’ve become a day-and-night revolutionary… That’s how the world changes!”
I don’t know if we’re changing the world, but we’ve surely changed our bodies, our faces, our alarm clocks, and even the neighbour’s dog’s trust. Night protests mean noise. Now, even the dog doesn’t sleep.
These days, “night” has become prime time for protests. Those who are stuck in traffic jams by day, want to fly with slogans at night.
Welcome to our urban day-and-night revolution, where each person is one kind by day, and another by night.
Disclaimer: This is a work of satire. Presented solely for humor.