The word "Sheng" is coined from
the two languages that it is
mainly derived from: Swa h ili and
English. The "h" was included
from the middle of "Swah ili
because "Seng" would have
sounded unusual.
Originating in the early 1950s in
the Eastlands area of Nairobi
(variously described as a "slum",
"ghetto" or "suburb"), Most of the Sheng words are introduced in various communities and schools and given wide exposure by music artists who include them in their lyrics, hence the rapid growth. It can be assumed to be the first language of many Kenyans in urban areas.
It is finding broad usage among
hip hop artists in the African
Great Lakes region, both
mainstream and
"underground" (whose music helps
spread the language and
contribute to rapid changes or
shifts in Sheng vocabulary), as well
as among some university and
secondary-school students.
Sadly, Sheng is spreading faster
than the flu, particularly in my
hacienda. My mboys are
consummate Sheng aficionados.
Little Tiffany — who is a second year
student at the local kindergarten —
has slowly become acclimatised to
this lingo, and Mama Jimmy has also
joined the bandwagon. Maggy the
mboch, too, has elected to kaa ritho
and learn how to bonga like a true
mnati. Not to be left out, Baba
Jimmy has taken a crash course in
Sheng.
For instance, thanks to my piecemeal
knowledge of the lingo, I am now
aware that policemen are known as
makarao, magava or masanse. “Chuo”
means school, daro means class,
thafe stands for Math and odijo is
the universally accepted misnomer
for teacher. Modo means a random
person such as you and I. In plural,
we are mamodo. Wathii , wasee and
kirindi are polite terms used to refer
to members of the public. A
beautiful lady is known as mresh,
msupa, manzi, msusu or mroro , while
a not-so-attractive girl — the kind
that will only get a husband through
prayers and fasting — is known as
an otwong’o .
Back in the hacienda, everything has
been renamed and rebranded in line
with this “language”. For starters,
our house has been baptised keja,
mbanyu and base. Mburungo stands
for cargo, iza means sorry, and the
family car has been christened moti .
Being their father, my official title is
buda, which they prefer to call me
behind my back. Their mother, too,
has not been spared this name-
calling. She answers to several
unaccredited monikers that range
from mathe to mthama, mnyaka,
mokoro and moda.
Things get worse when my mboys
dialogue in this lingo, as many are
times when I don’t know what they
are talking about. The lads could be
seated right there, discussing the
length of my nose, and I wouldn’t
have a hot clue what they are
talking about. One such conversation
happened on Thursday evening. I
had just stepped in from work, and I
was chilling in the living room with
my comptroller, Little Tiffany and my
Assistant Couch Potato, Tyson the
cat. At around 6pm, the lads
stepped in from school.
“How was school, boys?” I queried
the lads, attempting conversation.
”Chuo iko poa tu,” announced a
visibly tired Jimmy, while dumping
his fossils on the couch. Having
uttered these words, he then turned
to his broda.
“Manze niko na unenge ile deadly!”
he moaned, referring to his
everlasting hunger pangs. So there
you have it. There is a language
crisis in my hacienda, and we are
officially in a “ Kiswahili kifukuzwe”
situation.Sadly, Sheng is spreading faster
than the flu, particularly in my
hacienda. My mboys are
consummate Sheng aficionados.
Little Tiffany — who is a second year
student at the local kindergarten —
has slowly become acclimatised to
this lingo, and Mama Jimmy has also
joined the bandwagon. Maggy the
mboch, too, has elected to kaa ritho
and learn how to bonga like a true
mnati. Not to be left out, Baba
Jimmy has taken a crash course in
Sheng.
For instance, thanks to my piecemeal
knowledge of the lingo, I am now
aware that policemen are known as
makarao, magava or masanse. “Chuo”
means school, daro means class,
thafe stands for Math and odijo is
the universally accepted misnomer
for teacher. Modo means a random
person such as you and I. In plural,
we are mamodo. Wathii , wasee and
kirindi are polite terms used to refer
to members of the public. A
beautiful lady is known as mresh,
msupa, manzi, msusu or mroro , while
a not-so-attractive girl — the kind
that will only get a husband through
prayers and fasting — is known as
an otwong’o .
Back in the hacienda, everything has
been renamed and rebranded in line
with this “language”. For starters,
our house has been baptised keja,
mbanyu and base. Mburungo stands
for cargo, iza means sorry, and the
family car has been christened moti .
Being their father, my official title is
buda, which they prefer to call me
behind my back. Their mother, too,
has not been spared this name-
calling. She answers to several
unaccredited monikers that range
from mathe to mthama, mnyaka,
mokoro and moda.
Things get worse when my mboys
dialogue in this lingo, as many are
times when I don’t know what they
are talking about. The lads could be
seated right there, discussing the
length of my nose, and I wouldn’t
have a hot clue what they are
talking about. One such conversation
happened on Thursday evening. I
had just stepped in from work, and I
was chilling in the living room with
my comptroller, Little Tiffany and my
Assistant Couch Potato, Tyson the
cat. At around 6pm, the lads
stepped in from school.
“How was school, boys?” I queried
the lads, attempting conversation.
”Chuo iko poa tu,” announced a
visibly tired Jimmy, while dumping
his fossils on the couch. Having
uttered these words, he then turned
to his broda.
“Manze niko na unenge ile deadly!”
he moaned, referring to his
everlasting hunger pangs. So there
you have it. There is a language
crisis in my hacienda, and we are
officially in a “ Kiswahili kifukuzwe”
situation.
