I. Untwisting Oromia, they drew your name in crooked ink, on maps that did not know your rivers, in textbooks that never heard your drums. They called you backward, while walking on the roads your fathers carved with thought, they called you uncivilised while drinking from the very Nile your mothers named Ar and Aur— Booruu, turbid with the silt of beginnings, dark with the memory of first seeds. Today we take that word history, twisted like rope around your neck, and we uncoil it, strand by str