Talk de talk, you mocking pretender. The mother of all carnivals has come and gone in the Sahara dust, blowing East to West and North to South. I, the Midnight Robber, hear the silence of big music trucks as I walk through cities, towns, and villages, wandering like the ghost of de Hammer. I am the greatest descendant of Usris, lord of the underworld, judge of the dead, and seeker of Mancrab—the spoiler who separated the children of de Mas and killed the beautiful Washerwoman. So, I say to Mancrab, in the words of 3canal—the great revolutionaries for peace, I coming to “burn a spiritual fire.” Santimanitay.
I am the Midnight Robber and was once a pirate who stormed Columbus’ ships to defend the natives. I had fought wars centuries before steelbands clashed with knives, razors, cutlasses, bottles and stones. Today, I come with a contract on Mancrab, who splashed toxic paint on Washerwoman’s children and polluted de mas.
I am a fire, burnin’ in de mas, a mas jumbie. De mas lives in me. It lives in the glorious steelpan, in the evolution of Moko Jumbies to magnificent kings and queens, towering over lesser morals. Yes, de mas lives in splendid king sailors chipping to infectious tunes in All Stars, Invaders, Exodus, Starlift, and their cohorts. De mas lives in Washerwoman’s children, who embrace their bodies as sacred temples of their souls. And it lives even in feathered, kakalaying masqueraders, kinda dressed in dan dan thongs and areola patches morphing into nakedness in another dimension of paradise—lost. I hear the jingling of coins, filling a golden calabash in de Socadrome.
I smiled upon de school children of pan. Their faces lit brighter than the burning sun, and they played out tunes masterfully, the future of pan. They’re the pure river flowing through the twin islands, infusing them with promise. Pan is in the children’s DNA; de mas lives in pan and soca music—offspring of sweet kaiso, the people’s poetry.
Hear me talk de talk! The children cast the ashes of fate aside and communed with the message of sweet pan. Carefree, they sacrificed crime and political foolery upon the invisible altar of J’Ouvert. They emerged from the dark with mud-covered faces, unmasking life’s charade—angels with offerings to gods of calypso and soca on big music trucks. With unfettered joy, thousands came to play themselves, children of another sun, giving praise, dancing the dance, and mocking mind-benders who messed with their heads.
Mancrab, lord of greed, technological madness, exploitation, gangsters, and warmongers, want to suck the blood of de mas. But that will only happen when cock geh teet and the chalice of love in panyards empties into a river of unimagination.
I will blow my whistle in the ears of the powerful who’re dead to the abundant richness of pan and the authentic mas. After masqueraders consign shoes and costumes to a heap, Pan lives year-round—real potential economic energy—although waiting since its 1930s birth for recognition of its enriching value in children’s lives. Hear me, you high and mighty hypocrites! I am the Midnight Robber; de mas is my god. I’ll wreak vengeance on you rulers on high unless you raise pan to the summit of El Cerro Del Aripo as the national symbol of the native genius.
I, Midnight Robber, will face Mancrab. At my whistle, the children will gather, dressed in incandescent gowns, with head ties decorated with pearls. Anansi, Mama Dglo, La Diablesse, Papa Bois, Douens, Gumbo Glisse, Lagahoo and all the forest characters will meet in de big yard. Pan players everywhere will play Rudder’s, High Mas. Then the river of Washerwoman’s children will overflow, flooding cities, towns and villages, de big yard, de Socadrome. Let the winds of infinity blow away the doubters and Mancrab’s greed to spur creative renewal.
I, Midnight Robber, lover of de mas—of pierrot grenades, jab molassie, dragons, fancy Indians, jamettes, minstrels, dames lorraines, blue devils, bellmen, king imps, bats, sailors, and warriors—will be in de Yard. An iridescent hummingbird will hover, and I, Midnight Robber, will battle Mancrab to revenge pollution of de mas. I will blow my whistle, releasing the technological deadman switch.
Then, all will listen to pan’s sweet music, 3canal’s revolutionary songs of love and peace, and kaisos of Sparrow, Kitchener, Shadow, and the greats. Blue devils will sashay up. Bats will spread maco wings, dragons spit fire, jab jabs lash the wind, and firemen dance de dance. The spirit of de mas will not die.