A traditional

mas Christmas

Dara E Healy

'I am the Pierrot

With word skills fuh so

I am an orator from long ago

And bonjay, I could fight too!

Me and my band of pierrot

Claim we space

We defy colonial masters

And take over the place

With we bois and speech

We safeguard we culture

Something forgotten

By this midnight robber

Well, is Christmas time

And he in difficulty

Let we see if he go remember

Who he really supposed to be

The protector of we community.'

MIDNIGHT ROBBER stood in the alley blowing his whistle, making halting steps. It was 3 am and the pale yellow of the street lights cast eerie shadows.

'Boy, hush with that noise, nah!'

A gallery light flicked on.

The neighbours were used to his behaviour when he couldn't sleep. Normally, his sessions would only last until he worked out whatever was troubling him. was troubling him.

But this time was different. Michael the Midnight Robber had lost his ability to dance.

It happened some months ago. He was liming with friends, some he knew from schooldays. They moved in a pack, holding up people, sometimes demanding money from shoppers or breaking into houses.

It started as a joke, but then Tony, or Gold Teet, as everybody called him, started to escalate. He and J, his on-and-off girlfriend, challenged the others to steal cars, rob groceries; they even beat up an elderly man and stole his pension.

After they left the elderly man for dead, they ran laughing to one of their spots, an old abandoned building in a rundown part of the community. Although J was still in school, Michael discovered she was part of a network of criminals with access to drugs, guns and more.

As they were counting the money, J took out a gun, a 9mm pistol. The others oohed and ahhed when they saw it, passing it around, brandishing it. 'This real sick, J,' said Maljoe. J passed the gun seductively over her body. 'Robber, hold it, nah. Hold a real gun.'

Soon after, Michael got a job to entertain children for a Christmas party. He blew his whistle and gave a speech he had written about being honest and kind.

But when it was time to turn and twirl, his body refused to respond. Soon, his inability to dance started to affect his writing and, finally, his sleep.

The sun started to come up. Michael felt defeated. He walked to the little creek at the edge of the community. He sighed heavily, took off his hat and lay down on his back. He closed his eyes and, for the first time in months, he slept.

Then he heard a noise. Standing in front of him was Tiny, his mother's cousin, who stood over six feet. Uncle Tiny was one of a long line of midnight robbers in the family. Seeing photos of him in costume had inspired Michael.

'What you doing, boy? You trying to disgrace me or what?"

Michael tried to speak, but Uncle Tiny cut him off.

'That hat you wearing, you don't even know it come from royalty in Yorubaland.

"Allyuh traditional masqueraders don't like to read about the ting. A