Walaloo Mana Barumsaa Koo -
Then I remembered my mother, a cleaner who never finished school, who’d wake at 4 a.m. to walk me here so I could “eat letters” ( qubee nyaadhu ). The words poured out:
But oh, the walaloo — the poetry — that lived in those walls. walaloo mana barumsaa koo
Last month, I drove six hours to visit Arabsa Primary School. The blue paint had faded to grey. The well was dry. The odaa tree had fallen completely. Then I remembered my mother, a cleaner who
Every Thursday, we had Yeroo Walaloo (Poetry Hour). We’d sit in a circle under the giant odaa tree whose roots had cracked the school’s back courtyard. Barsiisaa Girma, with his patched jacket and eyes like embers, would begin: “ Mana barumsaa, mana ifaa — School, house of light.” Then he’d point to a student. You had to finish the verse. Last month, I drove six hours to visit Arabsa Primary School
But on the wall of my old classroom, someone had scribbled new words in Oromo:
“ Bakka hawwiin coomaa dhabe, Bakka rakkoon darbe… ” (Where hunger loses its fat, Where suffering passes by…)