Barumsaa Koo - Walaloo Mana

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.

“ Mana barumsaa, mana ifaa, Bakka hubanni biqilaa… ” (School, house of light, Where understanding sprouts…)

We cried. Even Barsiisaa Girma wiped his glasses. Today, I am a teacher in a city school — clean windows, projectors, a library full of books. But sometimes, in the middle of a lesson, I close my eyes and I’m back there: the smell of rain on hot cement, the scratch of chalk, the laughter under the odaa tree. walaloo mana barumsaa koo

But on the wall of my old classroom, someone had scribbled new words in Oromo:

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

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:

Silence. Then the whole class clapped. Even Chaltu, the girl who always sat at the back and never smiled, looked at me with something like respect. That day, I learned: walaloo isn’t just poetry. It’s the truth your tongue finds when your heart is too full. “ Mana barumsaa, mana ifaa, Bakka hubanni biqilaa…

“ Bakka hawwiin coomaa dhabe, Bakka rakkoon darbe… ” (Where hunger loses its fat, Where suffering passes by…)