international-african-school

Which Swahili Is the “Best”? A Question Worth Rethinking

Mon, 30 Mar 2026 10:49:10 GMT

“Which Swahili is the best?”

“Which Swahili is the best?”

I hear this question from students all the time. Most expect a clear answer, like “Tanzanian Swahili” or “Kenyan Swahili.” Instead of giving a direct answer, I usually reply with another question:

Which English is the best?

Is it British, American, Australian, or Canadian? Even within these countries, there are differences in articulation across their various regions.

Or, if you’re familiar with the Netherlands:

Which Dutch is the best?

Is it the Dutch spoken in the East, the West, the North, or the South?

When you look at it like this, the answer starts to make more sense.

There Is No “Best” Language Variety

Languages aren’t fixed or uniform. They grow and change with the people who use them. Just as English sounds different in different countries and regions, Swahili also comes in many forms.

Swahili, also known as Kiswahili, originated as a Bantu language spoken by coastal communities in East Africa. Over time, it spread far from its origins and became a common language for people with different native languages.

As it spread, it adapted.

Most people who learned Swahili already spoke other languages, which influenced how they used it. Words, pronunciation, expressions, and even grammar changed a bit depending on the region and community.

A Closer Look at Regional Swahili

Today, we often hear about three main varieties:

Tanzanian Swahili

Many people see this as the “standard” form because Tanzania encouraged a unified version for schools, media, and national identity. But even in Tanzania, the more inland you go, the more variations you hear.

Kenyan Swahili

In Kenya, Swahili is spoken everywhere. At the coast, people speak what we call “the standard Swahili,” but as you go further into the country, most people mix English with local languages. In Nairobi, this mix has given rise to Sheng, a lively and ever-changing way of speaking.

Congolese Swahili

In the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Swahili has grown under the influence of local Bantu languages and French. Because of this, its vocabulary and pronunciation can differ significantly from those of East African Swahili.

So, Which One Should You Learn?

Instead of asking which Swahili is “best,” a better question is:

Which Swahili fits your needs?

If you want to learn Swahili for school or to talk with people from different countries, starting with the standard Swahili is a good idea.
If you’re moving to or working in a certain area, learning the local Swahili will help you connect with people more easily.
If you want to better understand the culture, exploring different types of Swahili can be very rewarding.

Language Is Always Changing

It’s important to remember that languages never stay the same. New words come up, meanings change, and how people speak shifts with every generation.

This isn’t a problem; it’s what keeps language alive.

Final Thoughts

So, which Swahili is the best?

None of them, and all of them.

Each type of Swahili shows the history, identity, and creativity of its speakers. Like with English or Dutch, the differences in Swahili aren’t for ranking—they’re for appreciating.

When you look at it this way, the question itself starts to change, and so does how you think about language.

#Swahili

#Kiswahili

#Lingua franca

#DRC

#Kenya

#Tanzania

#Kwanzaa

The Journey of One Drink and Two Names

Sat, 28 Feb 2026 21:55:03 GMT

The journey of tea into the language

If you’re a Swahili speaker living in the Netherlands, you may have experienced this small but striking moment. You’re in a café. Someone orders a “chai tea latte.” And for a second, you pause. Because in Swahili, chai already means tea. So what exactly is “chai tea”? Tea tea? To understand why some countries say 'chai' and others say 'tea', we need to look at how this simple drink travelled around the world.

One Drink, Two Routes

Tea originated in ancient China. But when it began travelling across the world, something interesting happened. It did not move along a single path. It travelled along two major routes. And each route carried a slightly different pronunciation of the same word.

The Sea Route (the one Europeans usually know).

European traders, especially the Dutch, obtained tea mainly through maritime trade from Chinese port regions, where the pronunciation was closer to te. As a result, European languages adopted versions like:

• Tea in English

• Thee in Dutch

• Thé in French

• Tee in German.

For many Europeans, this is the familiar story: tea arrived by ship, and the word became tea.

The Land Route . (The one many people don't know).

At the same time, tea was travelling overland, including along routes such as the Silk Road. Traders there encountered the Chinese word pronounced closer to cha . As tea moved westward through Central Asia and the Middle East, that pronunciation adapted to local languages:

• chai in Hindi and Urdu

• çay in Turkish

• chai or shay in Arabic dialects

• chai in Swahili, influenced by the Indian Ocean trade and South Asian contact.

In regions connected by these land and Indian Ocean networks, the word remained close to cha. That is why large parts of Asia, the Middle East, and East Africa say chai . So the difference is not random. When tea spread mainly through land-based networks, the word sounded like 'chai'. When it spread mainly through sea trade, the word sounded like tea. Which means when someone says “chai tea,” they are unknowingly blending two historical routes into one phrase.

Chai as Culture: More Than Just a Drink

But tea did not only travel. It changed.

In Kenya, welcoming a guest often begins with a steaming cup of chai. It is not just a beverage. It is hospitality. Chai is served when family visits, when friends gather, when business is discussed, and when the day needs a pause. Along the Swahili coast, chai developed its own character. It is spiced with cardamom, ginger, cinnamon, and cloves. It arrives with mandazi or crispy viazi karai. It invites conversation before anything else begins. So while the word travelled, each culture reshaped the drink in its own way.

When Tea Becomes Language

Over time, tea moved beyond the cup and into everyday speech. In English, it became a metaphor:

• “Storm in a teacup” — making a big issue out of something small

•“Not my cup of tea” — something that isn’t your preference

• “Spill the tea” — to share gossip or reveal a secret.

Tea began to represent preference, drama, and personality. And this is where the story becomes more interesting.

When words travel, they do not just change sound. They collect meaning. Sometimes a word stays literal. Sometimes it becomes a metaphor. And sometimes, depending on the situation, it can mean something completely different. And once a word carries multiple meanings, one thing becomes very important. Context.

When Context Changes Everything

In Kenya, the word chai also has layers. It can mean:

• the drink itself

• tea leaves, known as majani chai

• the tea plant, called mchai

But in some situations, “chai” can also be used as a polite word for a bribe. That is why context matters so much. If you miss the context, you can completely misunderstand the meaning.

An elderly woman once heard that to win her court case, she should give the judge some “chai.” She took the advice literally and bought two kilograms of tea leaves. Why settle for one cup? At her next hearing, she proudly presented the tea. Instead of gratitude, she received a week in jail. Because in that context, “chai” did not mean tea. It meant something very different.

One Drink, Many Stories

Swahili proverbs capture this beautifully:

“Penzi ni kama chai, likipoa halirudi moto wake.” Love is like tea. Once it cools, it does not return to its warmth.

“Maisha ni kama chai ya moto, ukinywa haraka utateketea.” Life is like hot tea. Drink it too fast, and you will burn yourself.

Tea becomes wisdom.

And perhaps that is the real story. Not that some people say chai and others say tea, but that one simple drink carries history, trade, hospitality, metaphor, humor, and caution all at once.

So the next time you hear “ chai tea, ” you can smile. Because now you know the journey behind it.

Picture courtesy of 3-Stones Restaurant The Hague.

How the word "Kupiga "is used in Swahili

Wed, 18 Feb 2026 13:44:49 GMT

How the word "kupiga"(to beat) is used in Swahili

The more I teach Swahili, the more I find new insights I hadn’t thought about before. We pick up our first language naturally and usually don’t stop to think about how we use words until we start learning another language. From a linguistic point of view, learning more than one language changes how your mind handles sound, structure, and meaning.

Have you noticed that learning a new language can change how you listen or think? As you go through the points below, think about your own experiences with learning languages.

1. Phonology (Sound System)

When you learn a new language, your brain gets better at hearing and making sounds that are new to you. You start to notice differences that people who speak only one language might miss. For example, people who know more than one language can often pick out and tell apart sounds that don’t exist in their first language.

Can you recall a time when you struggled to pronounce a word in another language? What did you do to master it?

2. Morphology (Word Formation)

You start to notice prefixes, suffixes, roots, and word endings more easily. This helps you understand how a word's meaning can change when its parts change.

Try breaking down a complex word in any language you know. What do its parts reveal about its meaning?

3. Syntax (Sentence Structure)

You start to see grammar as something flexible, not just a strict set of rules. This helps you understand how grammar works in different languages.

4. Semantics (Meaning)

You notice that words rarely translate exactly, revealing the subtle differences in meaning between languages.

Have you ever found a word in another language that didn’t have an exact translation in your own language? What was it, and how did you explain it?

5. Pragmatics (Language Use in Context)

You get better at picking up on hidden meanings and understanding the social and cultural hints in language.

Recall a moment when understanding a cultural reference or implied meaning helped you in a conversation.

6. Metalinguistic Awareness

This might be the biggest benefit: You learn to think about language itself. You start to compare how different languages are built and spot patterns more quickly. You notice similarities or differences between languages you know, which shape your perspective on language learning

Let me show you how the word "kupiga" is used in Swahili. While it literally means "to beat" or "to hit," it has many uses. These meanings might seem confusing unless you know how words can change across languages. Here are some examples:

As you read these examples, think about verbs in your own language that have multiple meanings depending on context.

1. kupiga simu - to make a phone call

2. Kupiga firimbi - to blow a whistle

3. Kupiga pasi - to iron

4. Kupiga chafya - to sneeze

5. kupiga bei - to bargain

6. kupiga bongo - to think deeply

7. kupiga chenga - to avoid

8. kupiga mswaki - to brush teeth

As you can see, "kupiga" can mean to make, blow, brush, avoid, etc. The main point is that its meaning depends heavily on context.

References:

Bialystok, Ellen. “Bilingualism: The Good, the Bad, and the Indifferent.” Bilingualism: Language and Cognition 12, no. 1 (2009): 3–11. https://doi.org/10.1017/S1366728908003477.

Peal, Elizabeth, and Wallace E. Lambert. “The Relation of Bilingualism to Intelligence.” Psychological Monographs: General and Applied 76, no. 27 (1962): 1–23. https://doi.org/10.1037/h0093840.

Thomas, Margaret. “Metalinguistic Awareness.” In The Routledge Handbook of Linguistics, edited by Keith Allan, 425–442. London: Routledge, 2016.

My Black Mama

Mon, 16 Feb 2026 21:00:44 GMT

My Black mama

Art by Dickson Nedia Were

In my Kenyan community, there is a beloved song, its melody woven through generations, that goes like this:

"Mama nu mulayi koo, mama

Mama nu mulayi mama

Khali makhono kamwame, mama

Mama numulayi koo mama …”

The song’s message is simple, yet profound: Mama is the best—no matter what. Even if her hands are dirty from life’s work, she remains the very best.

My mother would sing this song to me whenever I challenged her as a rebellious teenager, or when I insisted that other mothers were better than she was.

When my son Christian was about five, we went to a supermarket. I was the only Black woman in the store, surrounded by white mothers and their children. As kids do, Christian wandered off, exploring on his own. Suddenly, realizing he’d lost sight of me, he called out, “Mama!” One of the white women, thinking it was her child, replied, “Yes?”

Christian looked at her and replied, “Not you. My Black mama…”

“Black mama… Black mama…” he began to shout, his voice echoing through the shop. Laughter bubbled around us, but for me, it was a profound moment. My mother’s song came rushing back into my memory.

"Mama nu mulayi koo, mama

Mama nu mulayi mama

Khali makhono kamwame, mama

Mama numulayi koo mama …”

I remembered, too, once, when I was ten, at boarding school: a friend of mine refused to go to her mother when her mother came to school barefoot. That incident has never left me, and whenever I think of this girl, I remember that scene. How could she? Why did she do that? Were questions that went unanswered.

In one of the Zoom meetings, a professor from Canada confessed to doing the same and having been traumatised with guilt and shame for the rest of her life, and she wrote a book dedicating it to her mother, who joined her ancestors years ago.

There I was, my son proclaiming with pride, “I want my Black mama.” I cherish that moment to this day; I have never been prouder. Yet I can’t help but wonder how those mothers felt when their children were ashamed of them.

We cannot underestimate the power women hold—as sisters, mothers, daughters, and wives. For those familiar with the Bible: Miriam, at the river, offered to find a maiden to care for baby Moses—here, a sister saves a life. At the wedding in Cana, Mary simply told her son Jesus, “They have no wine,” and with that quiet nudge, a miracle flowed—there is the silent power of a mother. When Herod’s daughter danced for him, he promised her anything; she turned to her mother, who answered, “Ask for the head of John the Baptist.”—We witness the influence of a daughter. At Jesus’ crucifixion, Pilate’s wife sent a warning not to harm Jesus, and Pilate washed his hands of the matter—here stands the power of a wife. In each story, we see women of influence making choices—between compassion and cruelty, between justice and injustice.

Women have fought differently.

Slavery has cast a long, painful shadow over generations. Yet the anguish of African women—whose husbands and children were ripped away, leaving them frail, heartbroken, and alone—too often goes undocumented. Still, these women found the strength to keep life moving forward. That is why you, woman of African descent, and I are here. We honor you, Mama Africa.

There are countless women like Winnie Mandela, who sacrificed for their country’s freedom. Despite her flaws, she is worthy of the highest honor. Josina Machel of Mozambique fought tirelessly for women’s right to join the liberation struggle, from bearing arms to political action. In Nigeria, Ransome-Kuti wielded her privilege to organize resistance against colonialism. Bibi Titi Mohammed in Tanzania mobilized women, spread information, and galvanized political action through cultural and economic networks. Their voices must never be silenced. In Ghana, Mabel Dove-Danquah—hailed as a trailblazing feminist—was ahead of her time, boldly advocating for women’s equality. She became the first African woman elected to parliament by popular vote.

In Kenya, Muthoni Kirima first took the Mau Mau oath in 1952. From then on, she had to balance her role in the revolution with her family responsibilities. She began by using her trading connections to gather information about events unfolding among the Mau Mau in the forest. She also organized the oaths of other people. Wangari Mathai, who fought for the environment, and so many other women from South, North, West, and East Africa.

In America, we know of Rosa Parks, Toni Morisson with her books, Maya Angelou with her teachings, and Coretta King. Women in both leadership and supportive roles.

As women of African descent, we must carry forward the lessons and courage of these foremothers.

Today, women of African descent still quietly bear the pain of losing husbands and children—echoes of the suffering endured in the days of slavery.

On 25 May 2020, the world witnessed the pain of every Black woman in broad daylight. On camera.

“Mama… Mama…” Those were George Floyd’s final words. They shattered the heart of every Black mother. Any Black mama with a son wept that day—I have two sons, and I cried for days in silence, keeping myself busy just to avoid the haunting flashbacks on TV. Even now, I search for answers in quiet moments, struggling to comprehend the depths of human cruelty.

We all watched. Our children watched—Black and white alike. We may never fully grasp the true impact of that day, but one thing is certain: we witnessed a man fall from grace.

Women are the anchors of life.

Lonnae O’Neal is a senior writer at The Undefeated, and she expressed the meaning of that word mama at the moment of dying. She wrote:

Floyd called for her mama as a memory's assurance. A call to your mother is a prayer to be seen. Floyd’s mother died two years ago, but he used her as a sacred invocation. He is a human being!” comes an anguished plea from someone in a desperate attempt to engage the officers’ reason or compassion, or oaths of office. But in that moment, those officers are beyond the reach of humanity. Not Floyd’s, but their own.

She goes on to write…

I didn’t want to click on the video. I didn’t want to see another police snuff film. I didn’t want to watch whatever it is that compels someone to put his knee into a man’s neck until he can no longer draw breath. But I heard this black man had called out to his mama as he lay dying, and I, too, am a black mother. One of the ones, since time immemorial, who have to answer the sacred call. Who has to answer the call for the divine sisterhood of black mothers? Even when they are not our own, we are asked to bear witness.

I was in the delivery room with my son, in pain with no medication, save the one that magnified my contractions. As my vision narrowed, I focused on a point above me, and I heard the nurses talking about me as if I wasn’t there. I stared at the ceiling, and over and over, I called out for my mother.

There are moments when it feels like life hangs in the balance, and in those moments, we want to go back to the beginning, when we were known.

Dying soldiers called out for their mothers, according to Civil War battlefield reports. Last year, an article from The Atlantic cited a hospice nurse. “Almost everyone is calling for ‘Mommy’ or ‘Mama’ with the last breath.”

We are the ballast. The anchors. A way for those who are close to the edge to find their way back, or their way home. This is true for black mothers, who are especially tested and learned in all the dread fates of black bodies. We are the hedge against the people who don’t see us. We are an assertion of black life.

For black people who feel they are about to be taken from themselves, we are the assurance of memory….

To conclude, I would like to quote Mama Madikizela-Mandela.

“As a woman, it is a personal, individual choice you make to make a difference. To understand that my neighbour is not as privileged as I am. To extend your heart to your neighbour and make a difference in her life… that is the democracy you should protect.

"Mama nu mulayi koo, mama

Mama nu mulayi mama

Khali makhono kamwame, mama

Mama numulayi koo mama …”

A visit to a Mathare School, Kenya

Mon, 16 Feb 2026 14:20:18 GMT

A visit to a Mathare School, Nairobi

Last summer , a group of friends expressed interest in touring Kenya. Excited by the opportunity, I invited them to join Educultural Travel.

Educultural Travel is the soul of the International African School. We don’t just show places—we invite people into stories, into moments that linger. Our journeys braid together learning and living, so every moment in Kenya feels alive and unforgettable.

One guest, a teacher, was especially eager—her questions about Kenyan schools never seemed to end. After a flurry of phone calls, I arranged for us to visit two schools: Brookhouse, polished and proud, and a tiny school tucked deep in Mathare, Nairobi’s beating heart. I thought I was ready for the contrast. I wasn’t.

We set out for Mathare at dawn. The city yawned awake as we drove. Our driver, Lawrence, navigated streets that shifted before our eyes—green, quiet suburbs melting into a maze of narrow lanes and restless crowds. The car filled with laughter, but outside, the city’s pulse grew louder, and an uneasy thrill threaded through us.

Mathare was alive in every sense. Women balanced sacks high on their backs, weaving through a river of people. Men hurried past with fresh meat, blood flickering in the morning sun. Shops spilled onto the street—vegetables stacked in bright pyramids, the sharp scent of soap and spices, snatches of music and laughter. Chaos, and yet, a kind of beauty.

Inside the car, we grew quiet. Our eyes found each other—some wide with wonder, others shadowed by worry. No one needed words; the air was thick with questions.

“We’re here,” Lawrence said softly. We peered out, expecting a building, but saw only shacks patched with iron sheets and children waiting in the dust. When they saw us, they burst into song—clear voices, bright as the sun. For a moment, we forgot everything and danced. Then we were led inside. The school was a maze of darkness, tin walls rusted and rooms tight as fists. The smell hit us hard. As we shuffled toward the principal’s tiny office, dozens of eyes followed us—curious, hopeful, and shining.

The principal, eyes bright with pride, welcomed us. We squeezed into room after room—each one darker, smaller, emptier than the last. Even I, a child of this land, had never seen such learning conditions. We then hurdled into the Principal’s office and sat quietly listening to the school's history. Words failed us when we were asked to say something. Silence broke, and tears came, quietly at first, then freely. In that moment, our hearts spoke the same language.

The teachers were there, gentle and steady. They taught with nothing but their voices and hope, chalk dust on their fingers, stories in their eyes. The children listened, learning by heart because there were no books—only memory and dreams.

I whispered, “Where’s the toilet?” The answer was a sigh: “We borrow from neighbors, when they let us.”

Suddenly, the smell made sense. The teachers could go; the three hundred children could not. The problem was everywhere, and nowhere to hide.

But hope did not leave this place. The community gave what they could, teachers gave what they had, and somehow, the school survived—held together by kindness and faith.

We left too soon. My mind clung to the girl in yellow by the door—what would her tomorrow look like? How could we help? Who would fight for these children? The questions trailed us home, heavy as dusk, begging not to be forgotten.

Yet, questions burned inside me, sharper than ever.

To those living in comfort, I ask: Whose children are meant to sit in darkness, to breathe in hope and dust? While your sons and daughters learn behind golden gates, shielded from want, do you see these faces? Is Kenya only for those who can pay the price? Or is it, truly, for every child who wakes up dreaming beneath her sky?

I urge the government: look again at our schools. When we sell off education and health, we loosen the very bricks that hold our nation together. If a nation forgets its children, whose future are we building? Every child carries a spark; every child can learn. But when we build walls between the rich and poor, we dim that spark—and weaken the future for us all.

Let’s step back in time. It’s 1964, and Kenya is free; hope is everywhere. But if we look at today, most public classrooms still stand on foundations built by missionaries, not the state. Private schools are growing quickly, and every year, more families are left behind. Take a moment to think: what do we lose when education is something you have to buy? Let’s look at the risks together, one at a time:

First, imagine two children starting the same race. One has sturdy shoes, the other is barefoot. When schools cost more than hope, the gap between rich and poor becomes impossible to cross.
Second, think about trust. Citizens pay taxes expecting good schools. But what happens when classrooms are sold to the highest bidder? In places like Haiti, most schools are private, and trust in government quietly fades away.
Third, what ties a country together? In Singapore, unity is built in classrooms where every child learns side by side. If Kenya’s schools are divided by money and tribe, how can we ever share the same story?
Fourth, think about the future. What will happen if our public schools disappear? Without them, innovation slows, skills fade, and our nation’s heartbeat weakens. When profit comes first, everyone else is left behind.
Fifth, who is in charge? In a private system, those with power make the rules. Politicians listen to lobbyists instead of parents or children.
Picture a country with many classrooms, each teaching a different story. When the government steps back, others take over, breaking apart our future and weakening what connects us.

In the end, education is not just a service—it’s the foundation for every dream, every job, every anthem we sing together. When we let go of that foundation, what’s left?

Bibliography

Anderson, Benedict. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. London: Verso, 1983.

Besley, Timothy, and Torsten Persson. Pillars of Prosperity: The Political Economics of Development Clusters. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2011.

Green, Andy. Education and State Formation: The Rise of Education Systems in England, France, and the USA. London: Macmillan, 1990.

Heyneman, Stephen P. “The History and Problems in the Making of Education Policy at the World Bank 1960–2000.” International Journal of Educational Development 23, no. 3 (2003): 315–337 .

Common Swahili words with more than one meaning

Sun, 15 Feb 2026 19:43:21 GMT

Common Swahili words with more than one meaning

Just like every language, Swahili is sprinkled with words that wear more than one hat. It usually depends on the context in which the words are used.

Let’s dive into some of the most fascinating examples.

1. Chai

Chai means tea, breakfast, or bribe.

If someone asks, "Can I have tea?" Then he or she means real tea.

But if someone says they left at dawn without having chai , they really mean they skipped breakfast altogether.

Every country in the world experiences bribery. It is not a good thing, but it exists.

I heard a story in Kenya about an elderly lady fighting a court battle. A person suggested to her that if she wants to win the case, she must buy “ chai ”, meaning tea, for the Judge. For her next appearance, she literally bought 2 kgs of tea and offered it to the judge in court. The judge was so angry that she locked her up for one week. The poor lady did not understand the meaning of chai .

So, keep your ears sharp and do not hesitate to ask questions when you hear chai in this context. It might just save you from a sticky situation.

2. Mzee

The word mzee may mean old, but its uses are as varied as the people who speak it.

Mzee is a polite word for husband- My mzee is not around.

Mzee Misiko- means Mr. Misiko.

Mzee passed by your house, meaning an old man passed by your house

Mzee is also a title for an important person, such as Mzee Kenyatta.

3. Bwana

Much like mzee, Bwana is a word packed with meaning. It often swaps places with mzee, though sometimes it stands on its own.

Bwana is husband – My Bwana means my husband

Bwana Misiko means Mr. Misiko

Bwana is Master, Lord, or God

Bwana Mungu wangu means, My Lord and my God.

4. Mswahili

Mswahili literally means "someone whose mother tongue is Kiswahili," or “who speaks Kiswahili.”

It can also describe someone who is clever with the truth, a bit of a trickster. Don't be a Mswahili means, in this case, don't be sly.

Mswahili also means African people. For example, if someone says there is no Mswahili in the room, they mean there is no person of African descent in the room.

5. Kiboko

Kiboko is a hippo. But if you say, Misiko ni Kiboko , you are saying Misiko is as strong and mighty as a hippo itself.

Msichana Kiboko ? That means a girl whose beauty is simply unmatched.

Swahili is a living tapestry of culture and environment.

These words reveal not just culture, but the very way Waswahili connect and relate to one another.

Your turn

Has a Swahili word ever left you puzzled or adrift? Share it in the comments and let’s unravel its meaning together.

Is Swahili Easy to Learn? An honest answer for beginners

Tue, 10 Feb 2026 14:41:12 GMT

Is Swahili Easy to Learn? An honest answer for beginners

Many new learners, especially adults, wonder about this as they start learning Swahili. They often ask, "When will I be able to speak fluently?" It’s a common and eager question from beginners.

Learning Swahili is like learning to play a musical instrument.

Let's take, for instance, a violin. You learn to hold the violin, the striker, and to move your fingers and read notes at the same time. For a beginner, this can be very overwhelming. You will learn to coordinate and play simultaneously, and you will make many mistakes along the way. Sometimes you will want to play perfectly at your twentieth lesson, but it's not going to be. You must practice for hundreds of hours before you play a simple piece. If you don't give up, you will start noticing that your brain reminds you which note to strike and how long. Also, you can now play! You can even hear your own mistakes without the teacher correcting you. Afterwards, you start composing your own music and become a master of the violin.

Learning Swahili is similar. You start by learning the alphabet and how to pronounce the sounds, just like learning the basics of a musical instrument. Then you pick up grammar rules and new words. At first, you might make mistakes, but with practice, your sentences start to flow, and words come more easily. Get really good at playing the instrument; you have to play a lot. The same goes for learning music or any new skill. With Swahili, you need to spend plenty of time speaking, listening, and reading. It can feel tough sometimes, but each time you practice, you improve a little more. Your teacher can help, but you’re the one who has to keep practicing and moving forward. Once you get past the beginner stage, everything becomes easier and a lot more fun.

To make your language learning journey more enjoyable, consider immersing yourself in Swahili culture. Listen to Swahili songs and appreciate the rhythm and words. Enjoyment comes from songs like "Malaika" and listening to Swahili radio shows where conversation becomes second nature. Reading Swahili short stories can be a window into the culture and enrich your vocabulary. These engaging materials make practicing not just a task but a delightful experience, helping you improve more naturally and with enthusiasm.

What are Bantu Languages?

Tue, 10 Feb 2026 12:34:33 GMT

What are the Bantu languages?

Swahili is often recognized as a Bantu language, but what does that truly mean? Imagine a family of over 5,000 languages stretching across Sub-Saharan Africa, all connected by unique traits like intricate noun classes, agglutinative word structures, and a vibrant oral tradition. These features echo the rich tapestry of cultures and histories woven by Bantu-speaking peoples.

Across Bantu languages, the word for 'person' often takes the form mtu, umuntu, or mundu. If your language lacks a word resembling these, it is likely not a Bantu language.

The term 'Bantu' was first used by South African librarian Immanuel Wilhelm Hendricks Bleek in 1850. One common theory is that all Bantu peoples migrated from the Congo region, a view often taught in schools during colonial times. However, many Bantu peoples, particularly in Kenya, have oral histories that report that their ancestors came from Egypt. The history, migration, and diversity of Bantu languages and cultures remain the subject of ongoing research.

The languages

When two Bantu speakers meet, they might not fully understand each other, but familiar words often prompt recognition. Curiously, some languages spoken far from Swahili are actually its closer relatives. Take Kiholu, for instance, spoken between Congo and Angola on Africa’s west coast. Some researchers believe Kiholu is the oldest Bantu language because it has absorbed fewer foreign words. Yet, when you compare Kiholu and Kiswahili, you find many basic words in common, even though these languages have never directly mingled.

Kiholu Kiswahili English

Mingi mingi Many

Khaka Kaka brother

Dimi ulimi tongue

Moyo moyo heart

Kusimama Kusimama To stand

Musitu Msitu forest

Muti Mti Tree

Vungua Fungua open

Source:Lexiques 1999.

Here is a list of some similar Bantu words from different languages.

Language Elephant Meat Heart tongue

Kabras inzofu inyama moyo lulimi

Swahili ndovu nyama moyo ulimi

Zulu indlovu inyama umoya ulimi

Shona nzou nyama mweya rurimi

Sesotho tlovu nama moea leeleme

Conclusion

No single study has unlocked all the mysteries of Bantu languages. As Africans reclaim and rewrite their history, exploring the roots and evolution of Bantu languages becomes essential. Governments should champion these efforts, encouraging universities and scholars across all fields to participate. The Bantu story shapes not only language but also the social, political, and cultural landscape of Africa itself.

References:

Bohannan, P. (1964). Africa and Africans. New York, NY: Waveland University Press.

Ehret, C. (2001). Re-envisioning a central problem of early African history. International Journal of African Historical Studies, 34(1), 5. doi:10.2307/3097285, http://dx.doi.org/10.2307/3097285

Safari with Odilia [3 October – 19 October 2023]

Sat, 07 Feb 2026 14:27:52 GMT

Safari with Odilia

Mi langa, hebi koiri ……….. It dawned on me. This morning, my mind wandered among beautiful objects, as always. I awoke to the reality of my present. Looking around, I observed the objects that followed my train of thought without meaning. Every piece, every thing I saw with my naked eyes had a story. I took the time to see, hear, feel, live, and speak every object in my imagination.

There was one object, that one object that completely enchanted me. I looked at it for a long time. Or was it looking at me? What was it about this object that intrigued me so much? Without uttering a word, the object told the story of the long journey, the safari, that I had experienced in a group in just under three weeks. The tears left me no choice. I hadn't asked for it; it just happened to me. The stream of emotion flowed so serenely. It was as if a burning candle overwhelmed me with love, looked at me, and understood me. Unwillingly confronted with my deeper feelings. Feelings within me that know, that experience, and share the experience with me in their own way. With them, I do not feel distraught or hopeless. Sometimes they leave me in a dilemma. Yet it does not hurt; it liberates.

Before I embarked on the long journey, I had no idea what awaited me. I saw it as a well-deserved holiday. Looking back, I realise that it was more than just a well-deserved holiday. It was confrontation, perseverance, courage, victory, pain, but above all, love. It was a series, a succession of signals that reflected the deeper meaning of the group journey. My head is full of all the beautiful and sometimes destructive things I have seen. For now, I would like to thank everyone from the bottom of my heart for the impressions you have left on me. Those impressions are woven into the tornado of my life.

Thank you to those who helped me overcome my fear of water. That one shoulder, which at that moment felt like the warm embrace of my mother's breast. The unforgettable words of encouragement that sounded like violin music echoing across the savannah. Those who helped ease the pain. There is so much more to say. My fingertips are worn down. The book is in the making. Get well soon to all who are ill, speedy recovery. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Krofaya Kromanti

Learning Black History in the USA

Thu, 05 Feb 2026 21:24:10 GMT

Black History

As I sit here in Washington, D.C., reflecting on the end of my holiday, I find myself looking back on my two-week journey of discovery and learning in the land of the free and the brave—America. Initially, I was apprehensive about coming here because of what we often see and hear on television. However, as I traveled across this vast country, my fears gradually faded. Just as I began to truly settle in and enjoy America, it was time to leave.

Beyond visiting friends, my primary goal was to deepen my understanding of African American history. What truly happened to those of us who were forcibly taken from our homes and villages in Africa? This question has long haunted me. While I have read many accounts, this trip was my chance to see, hear, feel, and retrace the steps of those once considered less than human.

My journey began at Monticello, Thomas Jefferson’s historic estate. As we drove up the lush, tree-lined hill surrounded by tranquil greenery, I was struck by the immense wealth and influence Jefferson possessed. He was a Founding Father, principal author of the Declaration of Independence (1776), and the third President of the United States (1801–1809).

"We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal..." and "it is the great parent of science & of virtue: and that a nation will be great in both, always in proportion as it is free." These famous words by Jefferson are often quoted by politicians. But did he truly mean them? The stories I heard at Monticello were heartbreaking—accounts of families torn apart, forced wet nursing, and relentless hard labor endured by the enslaved.

George Washington, though often compared to Jefferson, had his own complex legacy. The grand house and scenic waters of Mount Vernon evoked memories of European castles. Yet, the presence and legacy of enslaved people were palpable—visible, raw, and haunting. Washington, who enslaved people for 56 years, struggled with the morality of slavery and expressed his wish to end it. In his 1799 will, he made the unprecedented decision to free all the enslaved people he owned.

The highlight of my journey was visiting the Harriet Tubman Underground Railroad National Historic Park. Harriet Tubman is a figure I deeply admire. Known as the “Moses of her people,” she escaped enslavement herself and went on to help many others find freedom as a conductor on the Underground Railroad. Despite having no formal education, she believed in her ability to transform others' lives.

At the Sandy Spring Slave Museum and African Art Gallery in Maryland, just outside Washington, D.C., the collection of wood carvings and architectural features crafted by African artists was truly a sight to behold. Their sheer genius and creativity left a lasting impression on me.

In conclusion, I echo the famous Swahili saying, “Kutembea kwingi kuona mengi” —to travel is to see and learn much. I have witnessed firsthand and learned lessons I was never taught in school.

Beautiful Swahili words with Deep meaning

Thu, 05 Feb 2026 20:23:02 GMT

Language carries culture.

One thing people notice quickly when learning Swahili is this:

Some words just hit differently.

You can translate them into English, sure—but the feeling, the culture, the emotion behind them? That part doesn’t always survive the translation.

Swahili is a language shaped by community, respect, rhythm, and lived experience. So, let’s talk about a few beautiful Swahili words with deep meanings—and what they really carry with them.

1. Pole – More Than “Sorry.”

You’ll hear pole everywhere.

Someone trips? Pole.

Someone is tired. Pole .

Someone lost a loved one. Pole sana.

Someone is working. Pole kwa kazi.

Technically, pole means “sorry,” but culturally, it’s closer to “I see you” or “I acknowledge what you’re going through or doing.” It doesn’t always mean you caused the problem. It means you’re human enough to notice someone else’s discomfort. That’s powerful.

2. Karibu – Welcome, But Make It Warm

Karibu is often translated as “welcome,” but in Swahili culture, it goes deeper. It can mean:

Welcome to my home
Welcome to this space
You belong here
Come closer, don’t be shy

When someone says karibu , it’s not just politeness—it’s an invitation.

And when you hear karibu tena (welcome again), you know you’ve officially made it.

3. Heshima – Respect with Weight

Heshima means respect—but not the casual kind.

This is:

Respect for elders
Respect for community
Respect for how you speak, dress, and carry yourself

In many Swahili-speaking communities, heshima is taught early. You don’t just demand it—you live it.

Lose heshima , and no amount of education or money can fully save you.

4. Subira – Patience with Faith

Subira means patience, but not passive patience. It’s the kind of patience that says:

“I trust that things will unfold, even if they’re hard right now.” There’s a quiet strength in Subira.

Not rushing. Not panicking. Just holding steady.

You’ll often hear it paired with life advice—and honestly, it’s a word the modern world could use more of.

5. Utu – Humanity, But Shared

Utu roughly translates to "humanity" or "kindness," but it’s deeply collective. It’s the equivalent of UBUNTU.

It’s the idea that:

Your humanity is tied to mine.
We exist because of each other.
How you treat others reflects who you are.

When someone says, “ Hana utu, ” they’re not just saying someone is rude. They’re saying that the person has forgotten their responsibility to others. That’s deep.

6. Mapenzi – Love, With Action

Mapenzi means love—but not just the butterflies.

It includes: Care, Commitment, Sacrifice, and Effort

In Swahili, love isn’t just something you feel. It’s something you do. That’s why mapenzi shows up in poetry, music, and proverbs—it’s layered and alive.

Why These Words Matter

Learning Swahili isn’t just about vocabulary or grammar. It’s about understanding:

How people relate
What communities value

Why are words chosen carefully?

These words carry culture. And when you use them, even as a learner, people feel that you’re not just speaking—you’re listening.

Your Turn.

What Swahili word has stuck with you—or surprised you the most?

Drop it in the comments and let’s talk about it.

" If you talk to a man in a language he understands, that goes to his head. If you talk to him in his language, that goes to his heart" - Nelson Mandela

The History of Swahili

Mon, 26 Jan 2026 10:11:28 GMT

The History of Swahili

Based on writings by ancient travelers from China, it appears that Kiswahili, which is a Bantu language, was spoken along the East African coast even before the first century AD. A Greek sailor wrote in 45 AD that this coast was inhabited by Black people who spoke their own language. (Anonymous, n.d.) People who came to this coast included the Chinese, Persians, Indians, Shirazis, and Arabs—especially those from Oman.

The Swahili people are said to have first settled in Kismayu, Somalia, and then gradually moved southward. Every area where they settled had its own dialect of Kiswahili. However, these dialects were very similar. As transportation improved, people interacted more linguistically, expanding their vocabulary. Gradually, the distinct antiquity of each dialect began to disappear.

It is believed that in the seventh and eighth centuries, the Swahili community also developed centers of trade and culture in Kismayu and on Lamu Island, where the Kingozi dialect of Kiswahili was used. From the ninth to the fifteenth centuries, Mombasa and Kilwa served as major trading centers. From the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries, Zanzibar became the main trade center. In the nineteenth century, Kiswahili spread further inland, especially the Kiunguja dialect, which was widely used by the rulers of that time. (Swahili language | African Lingua Franca, Bantu Language, 2025)

There were also Egyptians who came to these regions, and they are said to have given the coast its name, calling it Runt-Pwani. A person named Tuan Diang Thih wrote about Kiswahili in 863, before the birth of Christ. A scholar named Al-Idrisi from Sicily recorded Kiswahili names for bananas around 1300 in his travel records of East Africa. Letters were also written in Kiswahili and translated into Portuguese in 1728. Many people came for various reasons, especially trade. Arabs also came to spread Islam, to trade in ivory and slaves, and later sought political power. They interacted with local people and traveled inland, which greatly influenced Kiswahili. Initially, they influenced those living along the coast. People of different dialects used the language—with its many dialects—as it spread into the interior.

All areas along the slave caravan routes were the first to adopt Kiswahili. Later, everyone wanted to learn it because it was used in trade, and people communicated in Kiswahili during these activities. Arabs penetrated as far as Katanga through Umani (Umani traders). As a result, Kiswahili spread to those regions, though it differed greatly from the variety spoken on the coast. (Recreating a Language: a socio-historical approach to the study of Shaba Swahili, 2023) Kiswahili became increasingly weakened as it moved inland, because the way inland communities spoke it was less standardized than the Kiswahili spoken by people from Tanga or Mombasa. However, the situation gradually improved through religious interactions, as coastal people traveled inland and inland people came to the coast.

The slave caravan routes were as follows:

1. From Bagamoyo to Tabora, where they established camps near Kapalapala. Even today, there is evidence such as writings and huts where slaves lived; the place served as a resting station.

2. Before reaching Kigoma toward Katanga, or before going from Mwanza to Uganda (see map).

3. From Tanga through the Usambara Mountains and Pare Mountains to the Kilimanjaro highlands, passing west of Lake Victoria to Lake Turkana.

4. From Tabora to Mwanza and onwards to Uganda.

References

(2025). Swahili language | African Lingua Franca, Bantu Language. Encyclopaedia Britannica. https://www.britannica.com/topic/Swahili-language

Anonymous. (n.d.). Periplus of the Erythraean Sea. Periplus of the Erythraean Sea. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Periplus_of_the_Erythraean_Sea

(2023). Recreating a Language: a socio-historical approach to the study of Shaba Swahili. Cultural Survival Quarterly. https://www.culturalsurvival.org/publications/cultural-survival-quarterly/recreating-language-socio-historical-approach-study-shaba

The Elephant People of Tsavo

Sun, 29 Jun 2025 18:07:11 GMT

The Elephant People of Tsavo

On a hot day in Tsavo, Galgalo sits among his peers while the simmering hours pass. The top agenda of their discussion this afternoon is the number of elephants each has slain in their lifetime. Galgalo’s toll supersedes everyone else’s. Hunting elephants for game meat has, sadly, been the way of life for the Watha community, known by another name: The Elephant People. Things have, however, not been usual this past decade, as concerns have arisen over the rapid decline in elephant numbers with each passing day.

The Watha is an indigenous Cushitic group that has lived near the wild for centuries. They are found in the biodiversity-rich, forested hills of Kilibasi in Kwale County, as well as in Coastal forests including the Arabuko Sokoke, parts of Kilifi, Marsabit, Lamu, and Tana River in Kenya. Their story began in the 1950s, when the area they called home was set aside to create the current Tsavo East National Park. Although the government’s need for conservation was met, the Watha community was left in limbo, as their dependence on bushmeat, honey, and firewood was significantly impacted.

The struggle to adapt to new ways of survival, therefore, began in earnest, a journey that took a toll on them because of a deeply ingrained belief that the life of elephants in Tsavo was inextricably linked to their fate. According to the Watha story of God’s creation, elephant dung is a partial fulfillment of the sacred covenant between their society and the elephant. This, they posit, explains their intimate knowledge of the bush, from the ability to describe the peculiar behavior of individual elephants to navigate both their paths and those of other animals with ease.

One of the traditional Watha practices includes cultural dances performed after every successful elephant hunt, accompanied by triumphal songs to praise the elephant for providing food for their community. For the sake of herd continuity, hunters like Galgalo were only allowed to prey on bull elephants, as it was an abomination to kill female elephants for food. Apart from the meat, elephant tusks were used for a bride price or for
barter trade in exchange for cloth, tools, and ornaments.

Things are different now as the government continues to implement measures aimed at conserving natural resources. What was initially a source of community pride and nourishment is now synonymous with arrests, detainment, and imprisonment. Left without alternative means of livelihood, the Watha have been struggling to adapt to a new way of life through subsistence farming on small tracts of land. This has led to the population of the once-robust community dropping exponentially as climate change, poverty, illiteracy, and unemployment ravage the Elephant People. But all is not lost.

Their one-time vast knowledge of the bush is slowly being replaced with formal education, and the pen has overtaken their prowess with the spear. It has been a journey of discovery, opening new frontiers and broadening eyes to a new world; it is expected to bring forth a new generation that will protect rather than harm or kill game animals. With each new dawn, Galgalo and his ilk will have to slowly but surely find new
topics to discuss at their under-the-rock meetings, as keeping lists of elephants killed will no longer be something to boast about.

Tribute to Prof. Ngugi wa Thiong'o

Sun, 29 Jun 2025 18:07:11 GMT

Tribute to Professor Ngugi wa Thiong’o

The passing of Professor Ngugi wa Thiong’o is a profound loss for African literature, languages, and the humanities — a loss that resonates deeply with me.

Years ago, as an aspiring writer navigating the uncertainties of the publishing industry, I felt adrift and desperately in need of mentorship. During this time, I had a pivotal meeting with Mukoma wa Ngugi at the Winternachten Festival in The Hague in 2019. After reviewing my work, he generously shared his father’s contact information and encouraged me to reach out to him. I remain immensely grateful to Mukoma for his kindness.

Initially, I feared making that call and sought guidance from various sources instead. But during a particularly challenging moment, I recalled Professor Ngugi’s number. I gathered my courage and made the call, fully prepared for rejection.

In our first conversation, I introduced myself and shared my writing journey. To my astonishment, he was incredibly supportive and offered me invaluable advice. He asked me to send him my Swahili work.

He was thrilled and offered to write a foreword for my books. This led to our bi-weekly phone calls.

When friends asked about my Saturday evening plans, I would often reply, proudly, “I’ll be having a call with Prof. Ngugi,” which usually elicited disbelief.

Our conversations were simple yet deeply enriching. I would update him on my writing progress. He would say, “Anyachi, don’t forget your mother tongue… your mother tongue, please…” I assured him that I would write in my mother tongue, too.

He shared captivating, nostalgic stories from his life in Tigoni. One particularly memorable tale was about his mother. “That lady had supernatural powers,” he began.
He recounted a night, when he was around 13 years old, that he stayed at a friend’s house. They had lit a jiko for warmth against the biting July cold in Limuru. Later, they went to bed, leaving it burning. In the dead of night, his mother knocked fiercely on the wooden door, waking him. His head was foggy, but he struggled and dragged himself to open the door because he recognized his mother’s voice.
His mother had sensed that her son was in danger and had walked five kilometres through the darkness to rescue him. Leaving the door wide open, she rushed to his friend, shook him awake, and dragged him outside. That night, she saved two young men from suffocating — one of whom would go on to inspire generations of African scholars and writers.

These stories, along with the many informal lessons from our conversations, will stay with me forever. Though we never met face-to-face, our bond evolved into one akin to that of a father and mentor, significantly enriching my literary journey. His wisdom, laughter, and constructive criticism came from a place of deep experience and generosity.

Just last week, I finished translating my first-ever children’s book, Nasuma and the Ogres. I called him last Sunday to share the great news. I could hear he was in a noisy place. He said jovially, “Anyachi, let me call you back…” Those were his last words to me.

Professor Ngugi dedicated his life to instilling self-worth and pride in our African heritage. His relentless advocacy for preserving our African languages and revitalizing African academia cannot be overstated. Ignoring his noble fight would be a disservice to his legacy.

Another essential but underestimated virtue was his availability and accessibility to anyone who sought his audience. He was ready to guide and inspire freely, and without ever demanding compensation for his wisdom.

Today, we face a crisis of intergenerational mentorship—a vital tool for preserving African heritage and understanding the place of African and Black people in the world. This is one of the significant challenges that Mwalimu Ngugi has left us with: a challenge to those who have “made it” and broken the ceiling:

Are you mentoring a young one freely, or are you gatekeeping?

My humble plea to Generation X is this: We are the last generation that still holds the wisdom of our ancestors. Do you think we could pass it on? Time is running out.

May Prof. Ngugi rest in eternal peace, even as his legacy lives on forever in all of us whose lives he touched!