My Tropical Childhood Life

Bongolistically speaking, my tropical childhood was rooted in a quiet but vibrant village where nature, culture, and youthful energy danced hand in hand. One of the greatest characters in this story was my close friend the mighty Matorpoi River. Just this morning, I paid a courtesy visit to this old companion, and it stirred up a current of rich memories.

It was along Matorpoi’s powerful, high-frequency flow that I rose to fame as the Chief boat paddler, the fastest among my peers. But my journey didn’t begin there. It all started at Lake Njagoi, where I learned the craft the rigorous, skillful art of boat paddling. Lake Njagoi was my training ground, where I mastered every twist, turn, and maneuver. From there, I graduated with pride, ready to take on Matorpoi’s turbulent tides.

Throughout the year, the Matorpoi River rumbled with waves and heavy tides. Only during the dry season did it show mercy, calming just enough by a small margin of 0.10% to allow elders and villagers to launch their community fishing missions. Those seasons felt like a village-wide festival of unity, patience, and purpose.

Life in our little village was defined by the rhythm of the land. Farming, mining, agriculture, and honey harvesting were not just livelihoods they were the heartbeat of our community. These activities sustained us, fed us, and brought economic resilience to every household. It was a life of humble abundance.

But it wasn’t all work and no play. Our village knew how to celebrate. During every festive season, young people from near and far gathered for our legendary disco jams. We'd seek the blessing of our beloved Chief, the late Morray Kpaka, whose presence still echoes in our memories. Those gatherings pulled in vibrant crowds of youth boys and girls from neighboring towns, united by rhythm and tradition.

And when the stage was set, the spotlights would often fall on me. As the Bo School icon, I was always called up to deliver an acapella performance that set the tone for the night. The DJ would shout my name from the booth, and that was my cue. I’d lace up my Kitto dancing sandals, throw on my black homeboy coat over black jeans and a crisp white tee fashioned to perfection. With my K-man headband crowning the look, I’d climb the stage bongolistically, ready to set it ablaze.

My performances were a blend of Lokato dancing and Michael Jackson style break moves the kind that left the crowd roaring and the young ladies offering romantic, unforgettable smiles as I exited the stage. That feeling of admiration was pure magic.

After every performance, I’d head home to change into my prized Bo School badge and cap. That signature style earned me the respect of the village elders and added an extra spark as I strolled around the Barry, scouting for a like-minded “partner in crime” among the crowd.

Wearing my Bo School identity became a symbol of pride, giving me a sense of prestige that reached far beyond my village and into the surrounding neighborhoods. It gave weight to my name and lifted my spirit with every step I took.

Looking back, the great River Matorpoi was more than water. It was a companion, a stage, a teacher, and a witness to the beautiful chaos of my tropical youth.

By: David Tucker Jr.