One boy sang of the broken bell that rang late. A girl sang of the well where we washed our feet before class. I sang of the window near my desk, where a lizard always watched me solve math.
And I smiled, because mana barumsaa is never just a building. It’s the first place someone told you that your voice matters.
Years passed. I grew taller, the benches grew shorter. Barsiisaa Girma retired. The odaa tree lost a branch in a storm. But the school remained — stubborn, poor, but alive . 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.)
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. One boy sang of the broken bell that rang late
“ 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. And I smiled, because mana barumsaa is never just a building
I froze. The other kids giggled. But Barsiisaa Girma nodded gently. “Continue,” he whispered.
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:
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: