But on the wall of my old classroom, someone had scribbled new words in Oromo:
“ 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.’) walaloo mana barumsaa koo
Mana barumsaa keenya akka ija keenyaatti jaallachuu, eeggachuu fi barumsa keenya irratti jabaachuu qabna. Beekumsi hiyyummaas ta'ee wallaalummaa mo'uuf meeshaa guddaadha. But on the wall of my old classroom,
The struggle might be walking ten kilometers barefoot. It might be studying by a kerosene lamp ( lampa quraanamaa ) when the electricity was cut. It might be the shame of a torn uniform on picture day. It might be the shame of a torn uniform on picture day
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.
But oh, the walaloo — the poetry — that lived in those walls.
No walaloo is complete without Qinna (struggle). The poem about my school is not a naive celebration. It is a lament and a victory song combined.