“Tabangi ko, please.”

That’s what I whispered to my mom last week when I couldn’t open a jar. She laughed. Not because I was struggling—but because I said it in Bisaya.

“Ay, nakabalo pa diay ka?” she teased. Oh, you still know how?

And honestly? That question stung a little.

Because the truth is, I don’t speak Bisaya as much as I used to. Manila swallowed my accent. English flattened my expressions. And somewhere along the way, I stopped saying words that used to roll off my tongue like childhood lullabies.

So today, I’m going back. Let me walk you through my favorite Bisaya words—the ones that don’t have exact English translations, the ones that carry entire worlds inside them.

“Gimingaw” — The Longing That Sits in Your Chest

English says “I miss you.”

Bisaya says “Gimingaw ko nimo.”

But it’s not just missing. It’s that hollow feeling when you smell your lola’s adobo from three rooms away. It’s the ache when you hear a Cebuano song in a Manila mall. It’s the sudden tightness in your throat when someone says “taga-din ka?” and you realize you haven’t answered that question in years.

Gimingaw isn’t just emotion. It’s geography. It’s memory. It’s the version of you that still lives in your hometown, waiting for you to come back.

I tell my friends abroad, “Gimingaw ko ninyo.” And they know. They always know.

“Palangga” — Love Without Conditions

Tagalog has mahal. English has love. But Bisaya has palangga.

And palangga is different.

It’s the word my mother uses when she’s scolding me and suddenly softens. “Palangga man tika, ma-o bitaw naga-sita ko.” (I love you, that’s why I’m scolding you.)

It’s the word grandparents use for grandchildren who can’t even walk yet. It’s not romantic. It’s not passionate. It’s protective. It’s the kind of love that says, “I’ve got you. Always. No matter what.”

When someone calls you palangga, they’re not just fond of you. They’re claiming you. You’re theirs. And that’s a beautiful thing to be.

“Hala” — The Most Versatile Word Ever

I swear, hala is the Swiss Army knife of Bisaya.

Here’s what it can mean depending on your tone:

  • “Hala!” (sharp, surprised) = Oh no! / What the—?
  • “Hala…” (drawn out, worried) = Oh dear. This is bad.
  • “Hala, sige!” (cheerful) = Come on, let’s go!
  • “Hala, ka gwapa!” (admiring) = Wow, you’re so beautiful!
  • “Hala, sorry.” (sheepish) = Oops, my bad.

One word. A hundred feelings. That’s Bisaya for you.

I caught myself saying “Hala” in a meeting last week when my laptop froze. My boss looked confused. My Bisaya coworker winked at me across the table. We both knew.

“Puhon” — The Word That Teaches You Patience

Puhon means “someday” or “God willing.”

But it’s so much more than that.

When I was a kid, I’d ask my parents, “When are we going to the beach?” And they’d say, “Puhon.” Not a no. Not a yes. Just… when the time is right.

As an adult, I use puhon for everything.

  • “Puhon, maka-uli na ko.” (Someday, I’ll come home.)
  • “Puhon, mag-minyo mi.” (God willing, we’ll get married.)
  • “Puhon, ma-human ni nako.” (Eventually, I’ll finish this.)

Puhon is hope with patience. It’s surrender without giving up. It’s saying, “I want this, but I trust that life has its own timing.”

I think we all need more puhon in our lives.

“Lagot” — The Playful Threat

“Lagot ka.” (You’re in trouble.)

But here’s the thing—when a Bisaya person says “lagot,” half the time they’re smiling.

It’s the word my sister uses when I steal her fries. It’s the word my friends use when I tell embarrassing stories about them. It’s a threat, sure, but it’s a threat wrapped in affection.

Unless your mom says it. Then you actually run.

“Bitaw” — The Nod of Agreement

Bitaw means “true” or “exactly.”

But in conversation, it’s like a warm handshake. It says, “I hear you. I feel you. Same here.”

  • “Kapoy na kaayo.” (I’m so tired.)
  • “Bitaw.” (Same, same.)

That’s it. That’s the whole exchange. And somehow, it’s enough.

I miss saying “bitaw” to someone who just gets it. No explanations. No backstory. Just… bitaw.

“Lang” — The Small Word That Softens Everything

Bisaya uses lang the way Filipinos use “na lang”—to make things less heavy.

  • “Kain lang sa.” (Just eat first.)
  • “Relax lang.” (Just relax.)
  • “Ako lang.” (Just me.)

It’s a humble word. It takes the pressure off. It says, “No big deal. Take it easy. You’re okay.”

When I’m anxious, I tell myself “Kalmahi lang.” (Just calm down.) And somehow, that tiny word makes the world feel smaller and safer.

The Words I’m Teaching My Kids (Even If They’re Not Bisaya)

I don’t live in Cebu anymore. My future kids might grow up in Manila, or worse—abroad. They might never hear Bisaya on the streets or sing Bisaya lullabies.

But I’m teaching them anyway.

Because utang na loob is universal. Because gimingaw is a feeling they’ll need a word for. Because puhon will teach them to wait and hope at the same time.

Language isn’t just words. It’s how we carry our ancestors. It’s how we stay connected to the soil we came from.

Even if they speak with a twang, even if they mix it with English, even if they only know five words—those five words will be enough. Because those five words carry my childhood, my mother’s voice, and every hala and bitaw that ever made me feel at home.

A Challenge for You (If You’re Bisaya)

Read this and felt something?

Text your mom. Call your lola. Message that friend you haven’t talked to in months.

Say “Gimingaw ko nimo.”

Say “Palangga tika.”

Say “Puhon, magkita ta.”

Say it even if you’re shy. Say it even if it’s been years. Say it even if you think they don’t remember you.

They remember. And those words? They’ll open doors you didn’t know were closed.

PS: My favorite Bisaya word is “lagot”—because every time I say it, I’m smiling. What’s yours? Hit reply or comment. I genuinely want to know.

PPS: If you’re not Bisaya but made it this far—thank you. And next time someone says “palangga,” don’t overthink it. Just smile and say “Salamat.” You’ll be fine.

Want me to make it shorter for social media, add more words, or switch to a funnier tone? Just tell me and I’ll rewrite any section.