Walaloo Mana Barumsaa Koo (2026)

It wasn’t a grand school. No marble floors, no smartboards, no green field for football. Mana Barumsaa koo — my school — was a tired, weather-beaten building with chipped blue paint and windows that never fully closed. But to me, it was a universe.

But oh, the walaloo — the poetry — that lived in those walls. walaloo mana barumsaa koo

And I smiled, because mana barumsaa is never just a building. It’s the first place someone told you that your voice matters. It wasn’t a grand school

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 to me, it was a universe

But then Chaltu — the silent girl — stood. Her voice cracked like dry earth meeting rain:

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 .