Essential French & Arabic phrases

Peace be upon you. Chad has two official languages, French and Arabic, and in N'Djamena the Arabic half does most of the everyday work. Opening in French where Arabic was expected is not an error, but opening in Arabic is a decision people notice.

'How are you?' and the answer, 'praise be to God'. Chadian Arabic is its own thing — closer to Sudanese than to anything in the Gulf — and the greeting exchange runs longer than a Westerner expects. Cutting it short to get to business is the fastest way to make the business slower.

Thank you, and 'no problem'. The second is the most useful phrase in the country: it closes a transaction, defuses a misunderstanding and answers an apology, and it is understood everywhere in N'Djamena regardless of which language the rest of the sentence was in.

God willing — and, in administrative contexts, a complete and polite answer that commits to nothing. Learning to hear the difference between insha'Allah meaning 'yes' and insha'Allah meaning 'no' is most of what fluency in N'Djamena bureaucracy consists of.

'Hope of life' in Gorane — the name given to the seven-million-year-old Sahelanthropus tchadensis skull found in the Djurab desert in July 2001 by a Franco-Chadian team. It is the name of a beer, a hotel, a foundation and a national self-image, and knowing what it means is a small courtesy that lands well.

The national staple: a firm ball of millet or sorghum flour, eaten by hand with a sauce. Every meal in N'Djamena is described relative to it. Ordering boule with sauce rather than a plate of rice is the single clearest signal you have started eating where you live.

The okra-based sauce that most often accompanies boule — thick, green, sometimes with dried fish or meat. Order 'boule avec daraba' and you have ordered the meal that Chad would put on a stamp.

The millet beer of southern Chad, brewed and sold informally. It matters as a social map as much as a drink: N'Djamena is a city where the Muslim north and the Christian and animist south meet, and what is served where tells you which half of the country a quarter belongs to.

The motorcycle taxi — from 'clandestin' — and the way most of N'Djamena actually moves. Agree the fare before you sit down, wear the helmet if there is one, and do not use one after dark; UK government advice against night travel applies to two wheels more than to four.

The dry, dust-laden wind that blows off the Sahara from roughly December to April. It drops the temperature, wrecks the visibility, coats everything in fine sand and inflames every respiratory condition in the city. It is also why April, the hottest month, arrives with the worst air.

'How much?' — the first word of every transaction at Dembé or the Marché Central. Nothing has a fixed price, the first number is not the price, and asking in Arabic rather than in French usually produces a better second number.

The bridge over the Logone to Kousséri in Cameroon. N'Djamena is a cross-border agglomeration: the other half of its economy is in another country, a few kilometres away, and a great deal of what you buy here crossed that bridge on a lorry.

'Let's go' and 'gently, slowly' — the two speeds of the city, one in Arabic and one in French, often in the same sentence. Code-switching between the two languages mid-clause is normal here and is not something to apologise for.

The residence card, and the document the police ask for. Since May 2026 the National Police has run generalised checks on foreigners' visas and residence cards across the country. It is not a document to be casual about, and 'it's at home' is not an answer that ends the conversation.