One day, he pointed at me. My face burned. I stood slowly.
“ Mana barumsaa, mana ifaa, Bakka hubanni biqilaa… ” (School, house of light, Where understanding sprouts…)
I froze. The other kids giggled. But Barsiisaa Girma nodded gently. “Continue,” he whispered.
I stood there a long time. Then I took a piece of chalk from my pocket — I always carry one — and beneath those words, I wrote: 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:
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.
“ Mana barumsaa koo, Si hin irraanfatani. Walaloon kee nannanaa jira. ” (My school, You are not forgotten. Your song still echoes.) One day, he pointed at me
But oh, the walaloo — the poetry — that lived in those walls.
I remember the morning I first walked through its creaking iron gate. I was seven, clutching my mother’s hand, my qalbi (heart) thumping like a nagara drum. The smell of old chalk, rain-soaked earth, and the faint sweetness of buna from the teachers’ lounge filled the air. Above the door, faded letters spelled:
Inside, our classroom had no ceiling — just wooden beams where sparrows nested. When it rained, we’d scoot our wooden benches away from the drips, and our teacher, Barsiisaa Girma , would shout over the thunder, “ Kun walaloo nyaataa miti! ” (This is not a song for eating!) — meaning, focus . “ Mana barumsaa, mana ifaa, Bakka hubanni biqilaa…
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
One memory haunts me sweetly: The last day of 8th grade. We had no graduation party, no cake. Instead, we gathered under the odaa tree, and Barsiisaa Girma — now old, using a stick — asked us each to sing our own walaloo about the school.