Mabo and the Wrinkled Plate of Braids

"Perhaps I'm not cut out for cannibalism," mused Mabo, stroking a ratty goatee not yet equal to the blossoming braided beard of his brother. He stirred the plate of stew again with his stirring finger, wrinkling his brow as he tried his hardest not to identify the contents.

"What's wrong Mabo?" his brother teased while fumbling with some new tool he had found. "Not hungry for your fellow man anymore?" If only there was a less distasteful rite of manhood! Perhaps dunking a monkey in one of the jungle's shimmering lakes until water went up his nose, or simultaneously braiding the tail of a hippo and an elephant to compare reactions. But this was the only way, so with a sigh of resignation, Mabo tilted the plate towards his mouth—and threw it to the floor.

“I won’t do it!” he shouted, and ran out the hut. There was silence for a moment, silence that was broken by the chief yelling for Mabo to stop. Mabo turned, hoping to hear that refusing the cursed plate of food would itself count toward manhood.

“Mabo,” the wrinkled chief said quietly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Although we cannot regard you as a grown man, the tribe thanks you. Your brother uploaded a video of your antics on YouTube, and we already have half a million hits!”