Safi sana, bwana.

As every passing day becomes one more day since I came back from Tanzania -- the one year anniversary lurks around the corner -- my fear of forgetting my Swahili grows bigger and bigger. Siwezi kusahau... I worked so hard to learn it. What will I do to impress people in conversation starters if it ceases to be true that yes, I am a white boy who speaks no other foreign languages besides some random African one?

I don't play guitar. I'm not related to anyone famous (sorry, Mom, you're not famous just yet). I do look like the kid from "Stepmom," but that's not exactly a conversation starter. The easiest thing to do is just try my best to remember Swahili.

And so, I regularly hold conversations with myself. In the car and in the shower -- those are the two most frequent locales.

"Oya, mambo vipi?" "Yo, what up?" I ask my imaginary friend. He's a cab driver in Austin, and I can tell he's from Tanzania by the music he's listening to in the front seat.

"Ah! Unaongea Kiswahili?" he asks, a ridiculously large smile taking control of his face, and beaming at me through the rear view. "Ulijifunzaje?" "How did you learn it?"

"Bwana mimi MBONGO MWEUPE -- niliishi Tanzania kwa zaida ya mwaka."

"Kweli? Sehemu gani?"

"Arusha."

"Ah! Aisee mimi natoka Arusha -- Ngulelo."

"Kichaa -- mimi nilikaa Tengeru kwa miezi sita kabla ya kuhamia mpaka Kijenge Chini."

"Kijenge Chini? Karibu na --"

"Impala."

"Ndiyo, karibu na Impala! Ah! Safi sana bwana, safi sana."

Sorry, I forgot you were there. I was just talking to my friend -- he's from Tanzania.

I love when people say "safi sana bwana" (say it with me: sah-fee sah-nah bwah-nah). I always use that in my make believe conversations. It means "very clean, man" in the literal sense, but it's more akin to being like, "nice, man."

You should see me when I get into these conversations. They can last for upwards of ten to 15 minutes, involve lots of hand motions and fake laughter, and can get pretty deep. They are real conversations. When I tell people that I do this, they usually look at me the way you'd look at someone if he admitted to liking the song "Mmm Bop." (I know this because I've told people that I like "Mmm Bop.")

"Cool man..."

So you could imagine how excited I was to get woken up this morning at 6:15 with a phone call from a non-U.S. number.

I thought I was dreaming, I was so tired, and so confused to be seeing that country code show up on my screen.

2...5......5?

255!

"Oya!" I screamed, though still asleep. "Mambo vipi?" It was like clockwork.

"Niaje??" a familiar voice came through. It was Bariki Mdogo, 'Little Bariki,' my wannabe thug friend who looks like an eight year old in a 16 year old's body, but who is actually older than me.

"Bariki Mdogo!" I love that guy. He was with Hunter, who moved back to TZ the day I moved to Austin. I am jealous of Hunter sometimes. I mumbled something about being too tired to speak Swahili, and then, just as I was getting ready for a long talk, the phone cut out.

When conversations get cut off in Tanzania, it's not because of a bad connection. It's because the few dollars of credit you can afford to buy that day -- or week -- have run out. No one talks on the phone for more than a few minutes in TZ.

It's a lot cheaper to just talk to your friend in the shower. Much more safi sana that way, bwana. Very clean.