Koo - Walaloo Mana Barumsaa

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

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

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.

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

“ 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.’)

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

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. Of course

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

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.

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 . We had no graduation party, no cake

One day, he pointed at me. My face burned. I stood slowly.

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:

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

“ Barsiisaa Girma’s class. 1999–2007. Walaloo hin du'u. ” (Teacher Girma’s class. 1999–2007. The song does not die.)

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: