By Peter Ongera
Newindianews/International English may have been born in Britain, raised in America, and formalized by the Oxford Dictionary, but it now lives a carefree, adventurous life across the Global South—where it’s been unofficially adopted, delightfully localised, and sometimes held hostage for linguistic ransom.
Nowhere is this more delightful (and confusing) than in Kenya, where the Queen’s English has been stretched, fried, and served with a side of samosas. But Kenya is far from alone. From Lagos to New Delhi, Manila to Johannesburg, English has been lovingly hijacked.
Let’s take a tour of this globally “improved” English.
Kenya: Where ‘Hotels’ Sell Chapati and ‘Clubs’ Serve Keg
In Kenya, if someone invites you to a hotel, don’t expect room service. You’re going for lunch. A “hotel” is any place that sells food—be it a proper restaurant or a smoky tin shack with questionable hygiene and fantastic tea.
Meanwhile, when someone says they’re heading to the club, they could be en route to a high-end nightclub—or, more likely, a local “wines and spirits” joint with blaring rhumba, plastic chairs, and suspiciously cheap vodka served in used soda bottles. The only thing elite about it is the mosquito population.
And then there’s Colgate. In Kenya, it’s not a brand—it’s the entire toothpaste category. You could brush your teeth with Sensodyne, Aquafresh, or a minty unknown from China. As long as it foams, it’s “Colgate.”
Jik, originally a brand of bleach, now refers to any chemical substance capable of murdering germs or, at the very least, your sense of smell.
And Nissan? That’s not just a car make. It’s short for Nissan matatus—the 14-seater vans that move humans, hope, and heresy through Nairobi traffic. Need to send furniture to your rural home? Get a canter—a lorry, not a horse’s gait.
Kenyans and the Transport Money Olympics: Enter “Kukula Fare”
In Kenya, transport money is not just cash—it’s an expression of intention, trust, and deception, all wrapped in a mobile money transaction.
Imagine this: You invite someone for a coffee date or a meeting. They agree but casually say, “Nitumie fare.” You oblige, feeling responsible and polite. Then comes kukula fare—the dark art of receiving transport money and promptly vanishing into radio silence.
“Kukula fare” literally means “to eat the fare.” And it’s not about dining out—it’s about collecting the cash and never showing up. It’s a quiet, cheeky heist powered by digital wallets and optimism.
“Bro, I sent her Ksh 500 and even added airtime. Next thing, blue ticks,” laments Dennis, a heartbroken university student in Nairobi. “She kukulad my fare and posted selfies at home.”
It’s the Kenyan version of ghosting—but monetized.
Nigeria: ‘Wahala’, ‘Gist’, and Time Travel
In Nigeria, “I’m coming” may mean “I haven’t left my house,” and “now now” is code for “maybe today, maybe not.”
Gist isn’t watercooler gossip—it’s a detailed debrief on everything from politics to your neighbor’s failed marriage. And wahala? That’s trouble, real or potential. “No wahala” means you’re safe—for now.
And don’t forget the phrase, “You’re looking fresh!”—a compliment that could mean you slept well, got a new haircut, or simply bathed. It’s versatile like that.
India: Doing the Needful and Preponing Chaos
In India, English took a detour through bureaucracy and came out sounding like a memo. “Prepone the meeting” means reschedule it earlier. And if someone asks you to “do the needful,” don’t ask follow-up questions. Just panic quietly and get it done.
Titles are sacred: even if you’re 17 and ordering pizza, someone will address you as “Dear Sir.” And “revert back” doesn’t mean they’re changing form. It means they’ll reply. Eventually.
The Philippines: Nosebleeds and Karaoke Diplomacy
In the Philippines, you don’t “turn on” a light—you open it. You off the aircon. And if someone says they have a nosebleed, don’t call a medic—it just means your English is too deep and you’re making their brain overheat.
Karaoke bars double as confession booths, and Taglish (Tagalog + English) rules the streets. It’s not uncommon to hear: “My gosh, sobra traffic! I was like, ‘Ano ba yan?’” That’s fluency. Accept it.
South Africa: Robots, Shame, and Mzansi Logic
In South Africa, robots aren’t from Transformers. They’re traffic lights. So if you’re told to “turn left at the robot,” don’t check for AI surveillance—just obey the light.
“Shame!” is the national Swiss Army word.
“Ag shame, look at the baby!” = Cute.
“Shame, that’s bad.” = Sympathy.
“Shame, you still support Arsenal?” = Deep pity.
Singapore: Can, Cannot, Lah!
Singapore’s Singlish is efficient. One-syllable wonders rule conversations.
“Can?” = Is it possible?
“Can can!” = Of course.
“Cannot.” = End of discussion.
“Can lah.” = Stop doubting me.
Add lah to anything, and you’re suddenly relatable. Forget the Queen’s grammar—it’s about rhythm, not rules.
A Word for the English Speakers of the World
Back in Kenya, if someone says they’re “hustling,” they’re not a con artist—they’re just juggling three side jobs, none of which pay on time. Campus isn’t a location—it’s a memory. And a salon could mean anything from a hairdresser’s paradise to a corridor with one plug socket and an overconfident cousin.
Across the world, English has been adopted, adapted, and unapologetically localized. In doing so, it has become more human—and certainly more hilarious.
As one Kenyan taxi driver once told a confused British tourist:
“You don’t understand English? Pole. This is Kenyan English. We made it ours.”
So no, English isn’t broken.
It’s just finally having fun.
