Maboya, a Kalinago or Carib Warrior and Later War Chief, Tells About Why He Had to Fight Other Tribe

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My name is Maboya. I was born before the winds changed, before strange sails appeared on the edge of the sea. I came from a long line of warriors, born on the island you now call Dominica, but we called Waitukubuli—“Tall is her body.” It was a place of thick green forests, rivers that roared after rain, and cliffs that stood strong against the sea. We Kalinago were carved from that same stone. Not just warriors, but survivors. Not just raiders, but protectors.

From the time I was old enough to walk, I was taught how to move through the forest without making a sound. How to listen—not just to the people around me, but to the wind, to the birds, to the sea itself. These were not just lessons in hunting or war. They were lessons in being Kalinago. Our people lived across the islands. Some had settled near the coast, some deeper inland. We traveled in long canoes, guided by stars and currents, sometimes for trade, sometimes for war. We could go from one island to another faster than most can climb a mountain.

I became a warrior in my youth, but I did not do it for glory. I did it because my people needed it. Our neighbors—some of them Taino, some even Kalinago from other islands—would sometimes challenge us. And as our villages grew and the world became more crowded, we had to fight to protect our hunting grounds, our gardens, our honor. We were not cruel. But we did not bend. We painted our bodies before battle, not to frighten others, but to remind ourselves of the spirits who walked with us. My body bore the red lines of the jaguar and the spirit of the wind.

I earned my place as a war chief after many years of leading raids and returning my warriors safely home. That is what a true leader does—not just lead into danger, but lead back from it. Under my watch, we strengthened ties between islands. We traded salt, fish, cotton, beads, even songs. Not all conflict was settled with weapons. Many times, peace was made through marriage or council. I sat in such councils with Taino chiefs, sharing food, stories, and warnings. I did not trust easily, but I respected those who earned it.

As I grew older, I began to sense a change. Not just in the tides or the winds, but in the spirit of the islands. Villages were growing larger, chiefs were becoming kings, and some forgot the old ways of balance and respect. I feared what this would mean—not just for the Kalinago, but for all the peoples of the islands. We were becoming something new. Stronger, maybe. But also more divided. And on the farthest horizon, even stranger things were stirring.

Now, I speak to you not as a warrior, but as a voice from a time before maps were drawn and borders carved. Remember that we lived. We built. We loved. We bled. We were not just shadows in someone else’s story. We were—and are—people of strength, wisdom, and spirit. I was Maboya, war chief of the Kalinago, and my story is one of many waiting to be remembered.

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