Something felt off. The festival was thinner than it should have been, the kind of sparse that made you wonder if you’d showed up on the wrong day. I moved through the street, past the booths, past the people who were more stall-keepers than visitors. There had to be more to it.
I spotted a flyer. Yeah, this was it. A map. Somewhere in this neighborhood, there was a Tangu festival, and it wasn’t here.
Or at least, not yet. The weather was perfect. My body was not. I’d run hard the day before and the sleep debt was catching up.
But I couldn’t stop now. There was an event at two. Bean throwing. Setsubun.
I checked the time. It was already 2:20. Somewhere down the street, a group of comedians were yelling in front of a tiny theater. This was the Daehangno of Tokyo, full of students and small stages.
But I wasn’t here for theater. I needed to find the start point. Another flyer, another clue. The start was here.
The crowd was already moving. I ran. The streets were packed, way more people than the beginning of the festival had suggested. Somewhere ahead, I heard it.
A drum. A shout. A wave of sound that had to be the event. “This way?
”
I pushed through, following the noise. People were lining the sidewalks, cell phones out, kids on shoulders. And then I saw them. Men in massive red oni masks, towering above the crowd.
They moved slowly, heavily, like they were carrying the weight of winter itself. Behind them, families were throwing something. Soybeans. This was it.
The tradition clicked into place. You throw beans at the demon to drive him away. You shout, “Oni wa soto, fuku wa uchi. ” Demons out, fortune in.
Kids do it at home and at festivals. But this wasn’t a backyard ritual. This was a full procession through the streets. I reached the edge of the crowd just as the bean throwers passed.
One of the smaller oni costumes—still huge—lumbered by. I could hear the breath inside the mask, heavy and deep. “Someone give me beans! ” I yelled.
A handful landed near me. I grabbed one. Just in time. The crowd surged.
The oni moved faster than I expected. I shoved through the spectators, ducking under arms and weaving past strollers. I wasn’t supposed to be here. No ticket, no official spot.
But nobody stopped me. Ahead, the big one—the real leader of the oni—was visible. His mask was enormous. The legs moved in unison, a slow drumbeat of footsteps.
I followed, keeping my distance. “Am I allowed to do this? ” I said to no one. Nobody answered.
Nobody cared. The whole street was one moving wave of laughter, shouting, and flying beans. I finally understood. This was the real festival.
Not the thin booths at the entrance. This. The chase, the chaos, the silly joy of throwing beans at a giant red demon. Another handful of beans went flying.
I caught one mid-air. “Over here! ”
The crowd roared. The oni stopped, turned, and shook his head like a disappointed parent.
Then he kept walking. I followed as far as the street would let me. The procession curved, and the crowd began to break apart, families peeling off, kids exhausted and happy. My shirt was damp.
My legs hurt from running. But I was holding a single soybean in my palm like it was a trophy. “This is more fun than I thought,” I said. Someone handed me another handful.
I threw it. Just because. The oni was gone now. Over and done.
But the bean in my hand—that was mine.