“ 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 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 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.

“ 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.’)

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

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

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:

Mana Barumsaa Koo: Walaloo

“ 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 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: walaloo mana barumsaa koo

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. “ Barsiisaa Girma’s class

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

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