Usually among foreigners and ex-pats on Zanzibar, the lingua franca is one of Swahili or English, or a mix of both. . . usually a mix of both.
Most of the words ex-pats subconciously choose to leave in Swahili will also be pluralized according to whomever is the present lazy speaker not caring to translate. So, saying "kofias" or "fundis" is well-understood. But, so is "kofia" or "fundi" . . . or "mafundi," or "wafundi," for that matter . . .
All of these words can be translated. It's just that their respective English counterparts do not carry the same sense, the same flavor and feeling, as they do in Swahili--their mother tongue (lugha mama).
Shamba: "For New Year's Day, we went to shamba with Mwalimu." Shamba translates to ''countryside,'' ''rural,'' or most literally, ''field.'' But, the connotations which don't translate include some different feelings. After the Revolution, many people were forced to move to the shamba on both mainland Tanzania and Zanzibar and work as farmers to support the new socialist economy. To this day, some people view doing farm work as a terrible punishment and misfortune. Shamba has a more positive meaning, too. For Eid, especially Eid el-Fitr, and for big holidays, whole families pack up and go on a trip to the beach somewhere to have a picnic. So, shamba usually carries one--or both--of two meanings: that you are not from this place and it is more rural than where you live, and/or that it is somewhere to spend one day and then return.
Fundi: "Hold on, I need to call my fundi." Fundi, as detailed in another post can be a fixer of any kind. Electricians, carpenters, tailors, plumbers, cobblers, etc. The many meanings this one word can hold probably contribute it to not translating. Also, I don't know many people who still say ''bespoke tailor'' in English anymore.
Zamani: "No, I didn't go yesterday, I went zamani *flicks wrist to show how very long ago it was*" In Swahili, zamani means anytime in the past from zamani kidogo--or a little bit ago--to zamani sana--meaning a long, long time ago. But, I've noticed that whenever non-natives use it in English, it only ever means "a really, really freakin' long time ago." I guess it's nicer since it's one word for that?
Duka: "I ran into him on my way to the dukas." I think duka does not get translated (by the way, correct plural: maduka) since there is nothing like it in Western culture. A duka is a store, or a shop, but at the same time no American would anticipate correctly the contents and feel of a duka by these translations. The closest--I'm told--is "bodega" or apparently some urban Americans actually use "duka" in NYC and Chicago since the 60s when Swahili culture arrived in mass. A duka is usually not somewhere you can enter. Rather, all of the wares--anything from bleach to bananas; or from tomato paste to telephones--are visible from the front and theduka owner gets anything you want and brings it to you. And, if you're on Zanzibar, then you do your best handing him or her money with your right hand at the same time as receiving your purchases with said right hand.
Kofia: "I bought a kofia for only 12 thousand!" Kofia simly means ''hat.'' But when you hear it, more so it specifically means the traditional Muslim hat worn by men. This style of hat is so specific that its name in English has become kofia, much like khanga, kitenge, or kanzu.
Umeme: "Is the umeme back yet? It's been gone since alfajiri." Umeme means electricity, but maybe because the electricity Westerners are used to behaves so differently than that of Dar or Stonetown, saying ''electricity'' or ''power'' just is not the same. That is, the beast that is electricity is so frustrating at times and funny at times that it has established a character all its own as umeme, an entirely different thing than this English ''electricity.''
Daladala: "Why would I take a taxi when the daladala is mia tatu?" The daladala is an iconic part of East African culture. Equipped with a driver, a konda (guy who yells a lot and takes the fares, short for kondakta), a destination, and significantly less seats than people within;daladalas on Zanzibar are never more expensive than two or three thousand shillings (at most two dollars), even to travel to the farthest part of the island. They are loud, they are bumpy, they have two dozen people fit onto eight seats, and everyone's luggage, chickens, fish, and small children somewhere present.
Other things that you'll never hear in English:
mchuzi-- any kind of sauce or curry with a meal
ugali -- sembe, or cassava flour boiled into a paste and eaten with fish, spinach, etc.
most food terms, even when they do have a good translation, like:
wali, samaki -- rice, fish
mboga -- vegetables
ndizi -- bananas
mihogo -- cassava
any monetary value with shilings
any of the times of day, since they have different feelings (and hours) in Swahili
randaranda -- walk around without a real goal
mzungu -- white person, foreigner who is pale
most terms that come from Arabic or Muslim culture
One thing I really admire about the community and the culture in which I've been living in Zanzibar is the practicality of people.
I cannot right now think of how to say 'practical' in Swahili, and perhaps that is because it is the natural way of life; not something in need of definition because it is the definition.
When people live based on needs, and not petty wants, humanity can be incredibly efficient. People of the western world who mean well, but inadvertently look down upon others for being 'impoverished,' need a reality check into just how rational, efficient, and logical these impoversihed people are.
If you know how to cook (kupika), there is no need to spend a thousand dollars each year on food. If you know how to make tea and coffee (chai; kahawa), like your mother taught you, and her mother taught her before that, you won't lose half your paycheck on Starbucks and that hip, local cafe.
If you spend each day with your family, your neighbors, and your community; you will know when someone is ill or having an off day by a glance. You will know how to share, and you will know how to give (kupa). You will know generosity (ukarimu) because it is impossible to live without it.
Further, if you know your neighbors (majirani) and your community, you will know who makes great bread. You will know who makes the sweetest juice, and you will know who is the best tailor. Then, you will not feel the need to buy your shirt from a store who bought it from a different company, who had it shipped in from a country two continents away. You can watch the money leave your hand and into that of the very person who sewed the hem in your pants, rather than watch it go into a cash register before going into an evelope, before going into a billionaire's bank account.
In Tanzania, you eat the fruit that was picked from a tree the hour before, you eat the fish you watched the fisherman pull from the ocean, and you wear the clothes your neighbor made you. When you are finished with your soda, you leave the bottle (chupa) in the street because someone will come to wash it out, and re-use it; rather than send it to a landfill. Stores (maduka) are in every neighborhood, because not everyone has a car to drive to the super-maket. The exterior of houses are not well-painted and the lawns (if they are present) are not well-trimmed. But what wealth are you showing off anyway if you just lost your wealth to decoration?
True, people in Zanzibar have less money, and that encourages everyone to use what they do have more wisely.
But, this necessary practicality is not sad, and I challenge everyone--especially the news media--to re-examine this verdict. Rather, it is admirable. People who live each day based on needs, and doing what is most practical to keep everyone in the community fed, healthy, and happy at the end of each day are everyday heroes. And, they deserve recognition. What is sad, however, is how much waste and inefficiency the western world produces each and every day . . .
In closing, what is poverty? It is a deficiency (ukosefu/uhaba); the lack of something. If you define poverty solely as the lack of currency, take a good look at your life and what you might be lacking. Do you know all of the names of your neighbors and what they are good at doing? Do you know their brothers and sisters? If you wanted to show someone you loved them, would you have to spend money?
This song, by Diamond featuring Hawa, is about a man who has to leave because there was nothing to harvest (mavuno), and his family is hungry (njaa). He promises his wife he will return (nitarejea, or the title of the song), by the grace of God (kwa mwenyezi). The chorus says:
kama watoto wakinililia waambie kesho n'tarejea
wadanganye na vibagia, waambie pipi n'tawaletea
kama watoto wakinililia, waambie kesho n'tarejea
na we usichoke kuvumilia, na kila siku kuniombea
which in English means 'if the children cry for me, tell them I'll be back tomorrow, trick them with bagia' which are fried bean-flour and delicious, 'and tell them I'll bring them candy. And for you, don't tire of perservering, and every day praying for me.'
Like my beloved word, fundi, an msanii can have a number of different meanings. Wasanii (plural) are artists of all kinds: painters, drawers, sculptors, as well as con-men.
I don't much like the con-men variety of usanii. However, any of the other forms are greatly appreciated. Especially the painting kind.
Obviously, art (sanaa) has many layers anywhere in the world, and is difficult to summarize in one blog post. But, I will do my best according to my personal experience.
In Swahili-speaking East Africa, there is a definite lack of a thriving art scene, especially on the islands. That is not to say that that there is no art. In fact, there is plenty.
Especially (hususan), Tingatinga. Tingatinga is--like the paintings pictured above--a style of painting East African animals made famous by Edward Saidi Tingatinga, who was originally from southern TZ very near (or maybe in...) Mozambique. Tingatinga himself is an interesting incarnation of Tanzanian culture in that his mother was Christian and his father Muslim, thus the given names of Edward and Saidi. Around the 1950s, Tingatinga saw the lack of painting in Tanzania and Tanzanian images and decided to do his best to change that.
I would dare to say he succeeded, even if Tingatinga is very often painted for the purpose of tourists' purchase. Regardless of the goal of the painter, Tingatinga is a famous (maarufu) and very specificallyTanzanianstyle of painting, one that features Tanzania's flora and fauna.
I first learned about Mr. Tingatinga thanks to my own artistic mentor here in Stonetown, Philbart. My relationship with Bart started small and simple. One other American student and I visit Bart's makeshift studio once each week for a couple hours and learn about painting. That was the agreement. We want to learn. Teach us. "Tunataka kujifunzia Tingatinga na sanaa. Tufundishe," is what we said.
Bart has far exceeded the expectations of that agreement. The first weeks, he encouraged us to learn all about Edward Tingatinga, the history, and the movement to spread art. It quickly became clear that Bart does not paint for tourists. Bart paints because he is an artist, and he loves art.
One week I asked to keep one of my paintings. He immediately refused, "Hapana. Huu hapa si mzuri, hutaki bado. Utachora nyingine kwanza," that painting was not good enough, I would paint a better one, and then maybe I could keep that one.
Last week, though I finally finished a painting with enough effort and skill that I was permitted to keep it, I managed to kick out the whole table and spill ink and oil all over our shoes (viatu), phones (simu), and the floor. Fortunately Bart wasn't present to witness it . . . when he did return, he immediately spotted a little puddle of ink and asked "Nani?" who did it? Mie . . . Me. He smiled and explained to us that he was shocked it took so many weeks for this to happen. He had been waiting months for us to spill everything and now he was happy because he could stop worrying about when it would happen, and we would learn never to do it again.
Bart has a couple young children, as well. We asked him if he would teach them painting technique and give them lessons in art like he does for us. His response made me respect him even more--especially knowing the ever present search for a steady income in Tanzania. Bart said that his one does like to doodle and sketch, but he will not teach her until she asks him. He will teach her all that he knows and help her on a path to success. But he'll never do that until that is what she wants.
There is a person in my life who I’ve never shaken hands with, but he’s saved me from an oncoming collision with a toddler on a bike. I’ve never hugged him, but we’ve laughed about the idea of him getting a tattoo. I’ve never sat close enough to him for our thighs to touch, but he’s taught me...
A blog post my friend wrote about my 'language partner' and best friend in Tanzania, Kassim Hamad. More than anyone else, except possibly my host mother, Kassim has done everything to make me feel welcomed during my time on Zanzibar. He is one of the most generous, understanding, and compassionate people I have had the good fortune to have known. I am so lucky to have gone to his home in Pemba, and it looks like I will have to go back again soon (to visit him).
Thank you for this post, Karlie.
And thank you for your time, brotherly love, and beautiful spirit, Kassim.
It is said that Zanzibar was once completely uninhabited by humanity. No one truly knows who lived here first, but it is generally agreed that whoever did came here from someone else.
And since then, Zanzibar has been a microcosm of globalization; of multiple cultures, religions, skin colors, and merchandise moving from Arabia to Africa, over the Arctic to Salem, Massachusetts, through the Suez to Europe.
As intellectuals proclaim the world to be flat, and all question what exactly that means, I contribute Zanzibar as the real and living answer. The answer is visible in the faces who defy a guessing game of ethnicity or origin after more than a thousand years of mixing.
Or the Japanese conji placed upside-down upon the windows and bumpers of cars.
Or the word for corn being mahindi, or 'Indian plants,' since it was brought here from the New World where Europeans (Waulaya) falsley labeled Native Americans 'Indians.'
Or the laundry soap (sabuni) reading, "The best for dirt!" in English, and then backing up this claim with an explanation in Portuguese.
Or a compilation of journals and articles written half a century ago praising the rule of Kim Il-Song, all in French, and found in a pile of books in the Sultan's old palace.
Or Mexican telenovelas dubbed over in English, with Arabic sub-titles.
Or the boys who speak English with a London accent whilst wearing a Pittsburgh Pirates cap.
Or commercials for chocolate in Hindi, for Malaysian tourism in Arabic, for insurance in Swahili, and for cooking oil in English.
Or a young mother who covers her head and shoulders, but is Catholic, speaks Kisambara as her first language, English as her second, and Swahili as her third, and whose son will go to school in India in order to get a job that might take him to America.
Or the funding to build a highway straight through the Serengeti in order for Chinese companies to gain access to precious metals to build the smart phones bought from Berlin to California.
All one must do to see globalization and the mix of cultures--for better or worse--in Zanzibar is simply open one's eyes.
As I explained this place, called Pemba, to friends and family back in the States, I found myself continuously saying the "other island" of Zanzibar. And, it felt that way--that Pemba was this other place, an entity I might not ever reach where they speak differently, believe in different politics, and grow mabungo by the kilo.
Until I arrived.
I will never refer to Pemba as the "other island" again. Rather Pemba is Pemba, and deserves just as much respect as Unguja.
The people there, Wapemba, have been there for hundreds, if not a thousand or two, years. Unfortunately, Portuguese colonization, the slave trade, as well as other factors have left a good portion of the island's history in the dust--literally. But, just like anywhere you can learn so much if you only ask.
I happened to be on Pemba during the first three days of celebration for Eid al-Adha, a.k.a. Sikukuu, when Muslims from all over the world make the pilgrimage to Mecca. Therefore, Friday (Ijumaa) night had all Wapemba out and roaming the one main road in Wete, where I was staying with my friend's family. Music played, lights twinkled, goats were butchered, and there was even a dance hall open for just one night--usually it's a gym run by the police on the island, since people on Pemba don't take to dancing unless it's Sikukuu.
On Saturday (Jumamosi), we rode to the north tip of the island on my friend's vespa. On Pemba, there isn't an ever-moving system of public transportation like on Unguja, so having your own motorbike--or car, if you're really wealthy--is a must if you need to travel on your own time. We ate octopus (pweza), grapes (zabibu), and drank sugarcane juice (juis ya miwa). We waded through the water ofVumawimbibeach, where the sand is white and grainy. When you drag your feet, the sand whistles out a high-picthed tune. My friend and I walked around, swishing our feet in the singing sands for at least half an hour just to enjoy this unique place.
By the end of my four-day trip to Pemba, I was full to the brim with love for the valleys (mabonde), fields of rice and cassava (mashamba ya mpunga na mihogo), and tremendously welcoming people. Each time we visited jamaa(relative, close friend, etc.) we were told a dozen times "Pita ndani!" "Come in! Come in!" because the culture is that a guest must be welcomed and well-fed before going on his or her way. This culture of generosity was tenfold since my friend hadn't seen some of these people in some time, and I was clearly a guest since I am visibly foreign; but the problem was that we were running late most of the day, so we had to refuse. As we rode away through the fields and back onto the main road, my friend explained to me that all these jamaa will now complain about him and accuse him of ignoring them . . . and they're right to complain, he said.
Now that I have seen Pemba, its flying foxes, its endless forests and farmlands, its hills and valleys, cows, goats, and chickens, and its farmers, shepherds, and teachers, I will never again call Pemba the "other island."
The things that we love tend to almost always be things the we least expected to love. You will learn the most interesting stories from the people you last think to ask. The tastiest foods are the ones that look the strangest. The most beautiful homes are those that contain their love not in their well-trimmed lawns, but within their walls.
Trust me, open your mind and your heart.
In terms of food (chakula), this belief of mine truly applies to what I've tasted while in Tanzania.
My favorite things above all are mostly things I had never had before coming to Zanzibar. Dagaa za kukaanga are deep-fried sardines, and delicious. Before Zanzibar, I had never had fresh papai, or papaya, either. I'd had fenesi, or jackfruit, before, but only from a can. Juis ya karkade is another new favorite--tea made from hibiscus flowers, then chilled like juice. Lastly pweza, or octopus, grilled, fried, raw, or otherwise--yum!
It's about time I explained the title of my blog. Here is a brief article I wrote for The Nomad, a publication of The Global Village, a Living-Learning Center at Indiana University, and I think it does the trick:
I've seen the sun set over the Indian Ocean, and I've been acquainted with numerous sea turtles. I've waded through alleyways filled with water, and I've been told my skin was light enough to be a flashlight in the dark. I've discussed education, ethnicity, tattoos, segregation, religion, farming, and relationships, among other things.
And, I'm not halfway done.
I've been living and studying in Zanzibar for five months now, and I could not be happier with the decision to do so. In finding happiness, I found many other things along the way.
I found that the best cure for your body is not the one that comes in a pill bottle. I found that you are never,never, too old to continue learning, and thus, growing. I found that food is love, water is life, and burdens are shared. Most importantly, I found that we are all in this together.
The Swahili people have a simple saying, Tuko pamoja. It translates to "we are together." At first, I took this phrase for its translated worth. But, after spending some time in Zanzibar--but honestly anywhere in Africa--you will understand. When a shop does not have the soap I'm looking for, so the vender runs two blocks down to get it from a different store; when you do not become angry at the pace of events because you understand that we are all busy; when learning names is unnecessary because you know meeting again was meant to be; when you study in a culture not your own, but you give your soul to the experience and you are blessed with the spirit of a million smiling faces . . .
Then, you will understand that we are all in this together.
There is a big difference, culturally, gastronomically, ethnically, etc. between visiwani and bara; that is, between the islands of Zanzibar and mainland Tanzania.
I've encountered many Zanzibaris who have a plethora of stereotypes about Wabara--the people from the mainland. The worst of which are that mainlanders are theives and godless. But, Wabara have just as many misconceptions about Wazanzibari. For example, it's not uncommon for Wabara to think that anyone from the islands is from Pemba. Therefore, Mpemba, has almost become a derogatory term for someone from anywhere in Zanzibar.
The political situation only furthers a separation between the islands and the mainland, but that's a whole story for another day.
However, I have to express my love for both the visiwa and the bara. I've met extraordinary people in both places, and there is so much diversity of culture and ideas in both places.
This past week, I traveled to Usambara, a region in the mountains (milimani) close to the Kenyan border. I hiked through the most lush hillsides, and ate no less than eight different kinds of fruit (matunda) straight from the trees. I don't recommend eating raw coffee beans (buni), though. The mountain air re-energized me, and by the time I returned to the visiwa, I was ready to warrior through the heat once again.
related words:
safari orziara-- travel, journey
mlima -- mountain
milimani -- in the mountains
baridi -- cold (weather)
kisiwa -- island
kisiwani -- on the island
mashamba -- fields, farms, rural
winu ke.zeze? -- 'how are you?' in the Kisambara dialect
There is a special place on Unguja (the main island of Zanzibar) nestled in between the port and the resort hotels in Stonetown, and it's called Forodhani. Or, Foro for short.
During the daytime, Foro is a sleepy, green oasis amongst the pavement of Stonetown. As my friend, Kassim, said, "naweza kujipotea hapa" or I could lose myself here. Time stands still in Forodhani and the sun (jua) and the wind (upepo) conspire to lure you into sleep.
But, during the evening, the Foro you knew is not what you find.
Starting around saa 11 (5 p.m.), the atmosphere of Forodhani is no longer a sleepy, leafy getaway. Rather, dozens of traveling foreigners mix in with a hundred or so Zanzibaris. An orange glow bathes the concrete, and every cat that lives in town emerges. Often, boys practice diving off the walls into the sea, and sometimes there are break-dancers, and even capoeira. People from all over the world and all over the island with stories as disparate as the many cultures of this world meet to, as my resident director says, "get their groove on." The only similarity between Foro daytime and Foro nighttime is that they are the same geographic location.
Inside the haze of orange lamplight, fishermen and vendors sell kuku (chicken), mishikaki (kebabs), samaki (fish), papa (shark), kamba (shrimp), kaa (crab), chipsi (fries), saladi (mixed vegetables), urojo (soup with a plethora of goodies), chai (tea), and juis ya miwa (my favorite--sugarcane juice), and much more. Their tables fill the space shown in the picture above, and transform it entirely.
If you wanna be heard, you've gotta be understood.
This is for my father, who pointed out that he sees the Swahili but has no idea how to say what he's seeing.
Briefly (kind of), I'll do my best to explain Swahili pronunciation, or matamshi . . .
Disclaimer: the Swahili I am learning in Zanzibar -- specifically Kiunguja mjini, or the dialect of Stonetown -- is not the only way to speak Swahili. Kiswahili sanifu, or 'standard' Swahili, was based on Kiunguja mjini, but the times -- and the sounds -- have changed.
Vowels, or vokali:
a -- sometimes in the front of the mouth like 'attAck'
but sometimes farther back like 'dOg'
e -- most of the time like 'pEt'
i -- right in between the sounds of 'bEEt' and 'bIt' in the mouth
o -- safest bet is to pronounce it like the 'o' in 'Or'
u -- like 'bOOt'
there are NO diphthongs (when more than one vowel sound combines like 'sound,' 'home,' 'ache,' or 'eye') in Swahili. Say those words slowly, do you feel your mouth moving during the vowel sound? That's because there's actually more than one vowel going on. Don't do that.
consants, or konsonanti:
b, d, g: when not following an 'n' or 'm,' they are implosive. This sounds dangerous, but it just means you breathe in a little instead of out when you pronounce them . . . maybe that still sounds dangerous. A good way to practice for 'b' is pull in your lips a little as if you ate something bitter, then release with the 'b.' Get the idea?
j: like the first three, is also implosive. But, it is NOT like the 'j' in English. Feel where you place your tongue before you make a 'd' sound, then think about touching a little farther back, more in the middle of your tongue to the roof of your mouth.
ch: always like 'CHalk' never like 'chaperone'
dh: the 'th' in 'this.' Whereas th in Swahili is the softer version like 'thigh.'
gh, kh: these guys come from Arabic, if that helps. Gh is the voiced version, and kh is voiceless (the voiced one makes your vocal cords vibrate, and the voiceless means they take a snooze). They're made between the back, soft part of the roof of your mouth and your tongue, and vibrate like 'f' or 'z,' but way back there. But, mainlanders just pronounce them 'g' and 'k' if you wanna take the easy way out.
ng': when an apostrophe follows 'ng,' English speakers are in for trouble. Try saying 'sing,' without the 'si' . . . you should kind of sound like a cow starting to moo. If you know French, it's the 'gn' of 'champagne.'
r: do NOT pronounce this like an American 'r'. It's more like the middle of 'quitter' -- feel how it's just a quick tap of your tongue and not actually the sound 't' at all? Or the 'r' in Spansh 'pero.'
also, know:
The stress is almost always on the next to last syllable.
When 'm' or 'n' come before another consonant, do not put a vowel sound between them. They were written side by side for a reason. Example: mtu, which means 'person,' is said ['m.tu] with the stress on the first syllable so that you sound like you meant to start humming, but then quit early.
Double vowels are also there for a reason. Treat each one individually, so that there are two syllables of one vowel each. Example: chokaa [cho.'ka.a] is different than choka ['cho.ka].
The difference between words is sometimes how much breath you put into it. And, this is not displayed in spelling. Example: kaa said like English with a breathy 'k' that will make the newspaper in front of your face tremble means 'crab' but kaa said closer to a 'g' than a 'k' with much less breath means 'sit.'
Here's a challenge: after you master implosive sounds, when 'm' or 'n' precede them, they are more like the consonants you used to know. But, the 'm' or 'n' make a cluster with them, like 'tr' or 'cl' in English. That is, mbio is said ['mbi.o] and njema is said ['nje.ma]. This might not be natural to you at first. Think of it like you're saying the two consonants at the same time, but with 'm' or 'n' just barely first.
Hope that wasn't too boring. . . here's a happy tortoise to make Swahili less intimidating!
I would not survive Zanzibar life without the fundi.
A fundi is anyone whose profession is to fix (rekebisha), build (tengeneza), or otherwise create, and/or improve something. In Stonetown, these masters of their craft usually tend to be men, and include tailors, mechanics, plumbers, wood-workers, upholsterers, n.k.
The reasons mafundi deserve love are bountiful.
Another excellent example is the beauty that mafundi create. Most, if not all, furniture on Zanzibar is hand-made by someone. The love put into these desks, cabinets, and chairs, is undeniably more tangible than in anything you might buy from IKEA.
Likewise, clothing that passes through the hands (mikono) of mafundi always turns out beautifully, and if not always aesthetically perfect, at least beautiful by the fact that someone put there own time into creating something completely new for you.
Some fundi-made clothing: (not including the menswear in the second photo)
Before anything else, you should probably learn the basics, and in terms of Swahili the basics must include greetings.
Far too often, I overlook someone I know in the street, and as I'm passing I hear, "haoni, hanioni . . . amekuwa mgonjwa? Nisalimie basi!" or something along those lines: "he's blind, he doesn't see me . . . is he sick? So greet me, then!"
Yes, in Swahili culture, not greeting properly amounts to being sick. Know your greetings!
But first, some important stuff:
pronouns
. . . . . . . singular . . . plural
1st person mimi . . . sisi
2nd person wewe . . . ninyi
3rd person yeye . . . wao
Just like Spanish, it is not required that you state the pronoun if it's going to be followed by a verb. But, this means each verb will begin with the subject marker to show who's doing the action in case you're feeling too lazy to say 'mimi'.
1st person ni -- . . . tu -- negative: si -- . . . hatu --
2nd person u -- . . . m -- negative: hu -- . . . ham --
3rd person a -- . . . wa -- negative: ha -- . . . hawa --
It's important to also remember the negative markers since they're needed for a common greeting.
first, examples:
(Mimi) ninataka . . . I want . . . (mimi) sitaki . . . I do not want.
(Wewe) unapenda . . . You like . . . (wewe) hupendi . . . you do not like.
(Yeye) anaenda . . . He/She goes . . . (yeye) haendi . . . he/she does not go.
(Sisi) tunazungumza . . . We speak . . . (sisi) hatuzungumzi . . . we do not speak.
(Ninyi) mnapiga . . . You (plural) hit . . . (ninyi) hampigi . . . you do not hit.
(Wao) wanauza . . . They sell . . . (wao) hawauzi . . . they do not sell.
Here is a pretty long, but not complete list of greetings, with the prompts and replies:
(a)-Salaam Aleikum . . . wa-Aleikum a-Salaam . . . between Muslims, but on Z'bar between anyone, very respectful
Shikamoo(ni) . . . Marahaba . . . said by younger to older, the added -ni is to address more than one elder
Hujambo? . . . Sijambo . . . 'do you have no issues?'
Habari gani? . . . Nzuri . . . 'what news?'
Mambo (vipi)? . . . Poa . . . 'how are things?' 'cool'
Umeamkaje? . . . Vizuri / Salama . . . 'how did you wake?' 'good'
Habari za ____ ? 'what news of ___ ?' . . . for example:
Habari za familia? . . . Hawajambo . . . 'how is the family?'
Habari za nyumbani? . . . Nzuri / Salama / Safi / Freshi / Shwari . . . 'how is home?'
'' za asubuhi? . . . 'how is the morning?'
'' za mchana? . . . 'how is the afternoon?'
'' za jioni? . . . 'how is the evening?'
'' za kuchwa? . . . 'how is the evening (during sunset)?'
