“ Mana barumsaa koo, Ati qabda ija koo fi abjuu koo. Yeroo addunyaan natti dadhabde, Ati natti jette: ‘Bareeduma.’ ” (My school, You hold my eye and my dream. When the world tired of me, You said: ‘You are beautiful.’)
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. walaloo mana barumsaa koo
But on the wall of my old classroom, someone had scribbled new words in Oromo: “ Mana barumsaa koo, Ati qabda ija koo fi abjuu koo
Years passed. I grew taller, the benches grew shorter. Barsiisaa Girma retired. The odaa tree lost a branch in a storm. But the school remained — stubborn, poor, but alive . We’d sit in a circle under the giant
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:
And I smiled, because mana barumsaa is never just a building. It’s the first place someone told you that your voice matters.
Of course! Here’s an interesting, heartfelt story about Walaloo Mana Barumsaa Koo (a nostalgic, poetic reflection on my school). The Echoes of Walaloo Mana Barumsaa Koo