By Emmanuel Adonis Turay
There are places one passes through in the course of life, gathering qualifications and fleeting associations, and there are places that take hold of a young boy and shape him so completely that their influence endures long after he has left their grounds. Bo School belongs unmistakably to the latter. Its lessons extend beyond the classroom. They settle into character, into conduct, and into the quiet strength with which a man faces the world.
This Easter, as I returned for OBBA, it became clear that I was revisiting more than a former school. I was returning to a part of myself that had never truly left. The moment I stepped onto the campus, familiarity took over. The air, the faces, the laughter all carried a sense of continuity that time had failed to disrupt. Years had passed, yet the essence remained intact.
I arrived with 7601(B), for whom this was a first encounter with OBBA, and as the day unfolded, she observed with striking accuracy that what she was witnessing felt like a national carnival. It was a fitting description. The campus was alive with colour and movement. Old boys greeted one another with the ease of long-standing brotherhood. Laughter travelled across the field with confidence. Conversations rose and overlapped without confusion. It was an atmosphere that could only be lived.
At Bo School, recognition is immediate and enduring. Once identified as a student or an old boy, one belongs. Age, profession, and status lose their importance. Seniors, contemporaries, and much younger boys stand on common ground, bound by a shared identity that requires no formal introduction. A glance, a name, or even a manner of speech is often sufficient to establish connection.
When I sat with my classmates from the class of 1993, our exchange moved swiftly beyond courtesy into substance. We spoke openly. Progress was acknowledged with sincerity. Difficulties were expressed without hesitation. Some sought opportunities. Others required assistance with school fees for themselves or for their children. There was no embarrassment in such requests. OBBA, in its truest sense, extends beyond remembrance. It creates a space where support flows naturally and is received with dignity.
The foundation of this enduring bond was laid in our formative years within a boarding system that treated every boy equally. At Bo School, background carried no privilege. Each day began with the same dining hall bell, the same routines, and the same expectations. Loaves and Kondor were shared evenly in theory, though those with power often squandered more for themselves and sometimes offered a portion to their boys. Discipline was applied without favour. Still, under balming and escapy free remained essential tactics in the art of survival. Every boy experienced the same demands.
At the time, it was demanding. In later years, its value became undeniable. That environment instilled discipline, patience, and endurance. It taught us to function within discomfort, to respect authority, and to respect one another. Above all, it created a sense of brotherhood that has neither weakened nor faded.
We stopped at the Suckia Tree, a place of quiet significance. It was there that boys without means would sit during lunchtime, relying on the generosity of others. We called it overlapping. It was a simple act of sharing, yet it carried a lasting lesson. Even in scarcity, we learned to give, and we learned to receive without losing dignity. From there, we moved towards down school.
As I walked across the campus with 7601(B), memory returned with clarity. I showed her the dormitories where we lived, spaces that witnessed our laughter, our struggles, and our growth. I spoke of night cleaning under trees that never ceased shedding leaves, where patience was tested without relief. I recalled punishments that felt severe at the time, yet contributed to a resilience that has proved invaluable in later life.
I lived in Liverpool Block C, back when it was still called Moscow City. Our dormitory pulsed with energy, from Nyandaemor’s bonker to Bangalie’s bambakayaka, and the usual Form Three-downwards corners where we laid ourselves down at night. We slept on double-decker beds, known at Bo School as Behtay, stacked like small towers of ambition and mischief. Every night, every corner, every bed held its own story, and we maintained our levels with the kind of precision and pride that only Bo School could demand. When a boy dared to defy the rules, he would find himself beneath a senior’s bed, drenched by a bucket of water, shaking the bed with every movement until the senior finally fell asleep, a trial we called comfort. It was a life of order and chaos in equal measure, where survival required cunning, courage, and the quiet knowledge that these walls were shaping men.
The cultural dimension of OBBA found expression in the Durbar of Paramount Chiefs, a display of colour, authority, and tradition that commanded attention. It served as a reminder that Bo School extends beyond academic instruction. It preserves and honours the cultural heritage of Sierra Leone, ensuring that tradition remains present and relevant.
At one point, 7601(B) heard my school nickname. Her reaction was immediate and unrestrained. The name was Proconsul. I explained its origin. I was a young boy in class, eager to answer a question. My voice faltered slightly, and my classmates seized upon it. The name remained. At the time, it embarrassed me. Now, it amuses me. It has become part of my history, a reminder that even small moments can leave lasting impressions.
We continued our walk. The dining hall, the school bell, and the open field all carried their own memories. Bo School operated with a clear structure. Leadership was organised and visible. Prefects, officers, blockheads, bell ringers, and students each had defined roles. Responsibility was introduced early and enforced consistently. It became clear that leadership grows through service and accountability, and that status alone cannot create it.
There were also the stories that shaped our imagination. The story of the Calendar Tree. Accounts of figures seen at night. The tale of a white horse with a horn, bearing a silent rider. Encounters demanded courage, fear carried consequences, and endurance brought wisdom. We heard of Ronsho and night dwarfs moving quietly beneath the trees. We also learned of a ritual from the early days of the school, when seven virgins and seven pregnant women were said to have been buried alive around the school field, a ceremony performed to purify and empower any boy who walked its grounds. Truth or myth mattered little. We believed them. They gave the school a gravity that transcended ordinary learning, a web of mystery and reverence that made every step significant.
Today, my son, who carries my name, has spent two years at Bo School. Watching him walk those same paths from Form 103, where I once sat, to Form 201, where he is now beginning to set his own mark, brings a deep sense of completion. The decision is already made that my sons will follow the same course, guided by conviction in what the school imparts. He is far more intelligent than I was at his age.
At home, my daughters have come to know Bo School through stories. Each Easter, they ask when they will attend OBBA. I have assured them that their time will come. Some experiences are best encountered at the right moment.
Bo School has given me more than an education. It has given me resilience, lifelong brotherhood, and values that continue to guide my decisions.
That is why we return each year. We return to reconnect, to support one another, and to reaffirm the bond that began in our youth.
The truth remains simple and constant.
You may leave Bo School. Bo School does not leave you.
And once you are a Bo School boy, you remain one for life.
