Walaloo Mana Barumsaa Koo -

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:

“ Mana barumsaa koo, Si hin irraanfatani. Walaloon kee nannanaa jira. ” (My school, You are not forgotten. Your song still echoes.) 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. I stood there a long time

But on the wall of my old classroom, someone had scribbled new words in Oromo: ” (My school, You are not forgotten

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:

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 .