A single word slapped onto our foreheads. Even before we entered the auditorium. Just a sticky label and the quiet hum of confusion. In a room full of caffeine-fueled students, eyes bleary and minds scrambled and everyone silently wondering what in the world was happening.  The faint smell of double-sided tape filled the air. It added to the strangeness, that odd familiarity, like being kicked back to middle school where you’d find tape stuck at the bottom of a notebook or a forgotten corner of your desk.

And then, the icebreaker game began. How to accidentally reveal your soul while still pretending to have your life together? The instructions were simple: ask yes or no questions, figure out your word, and don’t let anyone tell you what it says. “Am I a living being?” “Am I a feeling?” “Am I… edible?”  The real question lurking beneath the jumble in our minds, half formed thoughts, fleeting guesses. Players orbited each other, half strangers trading clues like philosophers trading theories. By the end, alliances were formed. Teams assembled like gladiators. Cooking Mamas. Go Piss Girls. Shoes without S. What were we even doing? But it set the tone: playful, a little unhinged, and very, very Gen Z.

Game 1: Group Art Project

The games began not with a bang, but with five people tangled in string, trying to draw a flower, a smiley face, peppa pig, the word MUSA, and a star. All using a single marker tied to a mess of yarn, each thread pulled by a different emotionally unstable hand. The group art project was less art, more mid-air existential crisis, and each wobbly line was a silent scream into the void. Our peppa pig looked mildly haunted. It felt like a séance where the spirit of coordination played peek-a-boo but hey, trauma bonding is still bonding.

Game 2: Avoid the Paparazzi

One person, blindfolded and armed with a camera, spun around like a confused Roomba on caffeine. The rest of us ducked, ran, fled like medieval peasants avoiding plague. I personally drop, stopped-and-rolled straight into a bruise. Worth it though.

Game 3: Let’s Catch Some Chicks

A human centipede of panic, hands clamped on shoulders. At the helm, a netball demigod in disguise, Keerat, our hen. The eagle circled, a predator fueled with pleasure from our misfortune, and Keerat, pivoted like a war general, arms spread wide, shielding us chicks with the reflexes of someone who’d clearly dodged life’s problems than dodgeballs. Me? I clung to the chaos, knees screaming, and my dignity evaporating.

Game 4: Bang Bryan

There was Bryan…  or rather, his face, immortalized on a piece of paper, his forehead a gleaming target. The host’s instructions crumbled like a poorly translated French manifesto. “Spin five times”, they said, but we only spun twice while the host proceeded to count to five. “The player should ask questions that the team can only answer with yes or no”, they continued, but somehow, we got the strict version of the rules, while the other team enjoyed gentler spins and kinder guidance. Were we the clowns here?

Credit to Nicholas for keeping us going through the chaos, and to Bryan’s cutout for enduring the assault with the patience of a saint. Funny thing, Bryan’s not just any face, he’s MUSA’s vice president, but you wouldn’t know it from the way the game went.

Game 5: Don’t Drop My Balls

We were all linked up, elbows locked, facing opposite directions, with spoons in our mouths and ping-pong balls balance on them. The goal? Get twenty balls from point A to point B in under a time limit. And of course, I ended up on the side where I had to drop the balls. But to make things even worse, I had to face the opposite direction while getting back to point A. My team? No mercy. They dragged me through it like I was some malfunctioning shopping cart, zero considerations for my dignity, which had already evaporated into thin air by this moment. If Intimacy had a moment, it would definitely be this awkward non-eye contact, just pure verbal rage, and Jason (Our MONGA GD) repeatedly stepping on Keerat’s shoes.

Final Act: Wigged Out and Wired

As the day wore on, the open field turned into a deranged wig fest. Two to three members from each team were chosen to participate. Cooking Mamas were slaying in afros, Go Piss Girls in bob wigs looking snatched, Cereal Killers rocking clown curls. The length of your wig depended on your team’s performance earlier in the games, the longer your hair, the higher your multiplier. And well, failure meant Forbidden Juice.

Wigs flew like startled birds. I’m pretty sure Bryan’s cutout was still there, watching stoically, with his paper forehead untouched as a silent judge. The Sigma Boys lunged. Nicholas zigzagged like a man possessed, dodging swipes and snatching wigs, racking up the points. But things took a turn when Keerat, our very own hen turned wig samurai, got her wig snatched almost immediately.

And let’s not forget, we were all part of Shoes Without S, so chaos? Yeah, we kind of owned that.

After the madness, food was distributed, pictures were snapped, and everyone tried to catch their breath. The winners were announced, and while the competition was fierce, MUSA Wars 2025 ended with us all still standing barely. While some of us might have walked away with bruises (both physical and emotional), it was chaotic, hilarious, and one for the books.

Written by Jananee Jagadeesan 

Photos by Crystal Chee and Iliana Young