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:
One day, he pointed at me. My face burned. I stood slowly. walaloo mana barumsaa koo
“ Barsiisaa Girma’s class. 1999–2007. Walaloo hin du'u. ” (Teacher Girma’s class. 1999–2007. The song does not die.) Then I remembered my mother, a cleaner who
“ Mana barumsaa koo, Si hin irraanfatani. Walaloon kee nannanaa jira. ” (My school, You are not forgotten. Your song still echoes.) My face burned
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.
“ 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.’)