Walaloo Mana Barumsaa Koo Here

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:

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

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. Then I remembered my mother, a cleaner who

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. Even Barsiisaa Girma wiped his glasses

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: