428: let’s meet in Shibuya. Goroawase, or how the Japanese speak in numbers.
Let’s get to know 56107
Someone writes “39” and it isn’t thirty-nine at all, but a soft “sankyū” — “thanks.” Someone adds “4649” and suddenly, in four characters, there’s an entire “yoroshiku”: a friendly “I’m in your care,” “I’m counting on good cooperation,” “let’s be on the same side.” And in a LINE message you might get a short note from a friend: “0106-428” — “I’m waiting in Shibuya.”
This phenomenon is called goroawase (語呂合わせ) — literally “matching the sound of words.” 語 is speech, 合わせ is fitting or aligning, and 語呂 (goro) is what you hear when a sentence “sits well on the tongue”: it has rhythm, it flows, you can say it in one breath. There’s something musical in it (not by accident, “ro” has old associations with terms of sound and tuning), but there’s also something very practical: Japan has long known that memory loves a melody. That is why historical dates are turned here into short phrases that slip into your head on their own — Japanese history textbooks are full of such hints on how to remember a date. For example, the year 794 — when Japan’s capital was moved to Heian-kyō (today’s Kyoto) — the symbolic beginning of the Heian period. Students remember it as the goroawase “na-ku-yo uguisu Heian-kyō”: 7=na, 9=ku, 4=yo, so “na-ku-yo” (“it sings!”), and then “uguisu” (a bush warbler) and “Heian-kyō” — “the bush warbler sang in Heian-kyō.” You can even memorize pi to nine decimal places as “The obstetrician is turned to face a foreign country.”
And then the same logic slips into modern everyday life, as if it were made for our times: short messages, abbreviations, symbols, codes. You can set a meeting “in digits” — “428” and everyone already knows where. You can recognize a brand by its number, because 573 winks at you “KONAMI,” and in the world of games numbers can reveal a character’s emotions: in “Final Fantasy IV” the HP value itself is a hidden commentary that, in Japanese, speaks of “hatred” and of “atonement” (we’ll come back to that). In today’s article we’ll break these codes down into syllables, show how they work and why they sound so natural — because even though number wordplay exists in many cultures, the Japanese truly love it and you’ll find it everywhere, every day — in ads, games, messages and chats, notes — even in 29-24. Welcome!
39, 4649
Imagine you step into a small eatery in Tokyo (or you’re simply scrolling Japanese X or LINE), and someone tosses you a quick “39!” There’s no math here, no invoice, nothing to calculate — it’s simply sankyū, meaning “thank you.” A moment later you see “4649” in someone’s profile, and suddenly it turns out it’s not a phone PIN, but yoroshiku — that very Japanese “nice to meet you / I’m in your care / I’m counting on good cooperation.” Someone else jokes about “893” and it turns out it isn’t a tram number, but “yakuza,” and in the calendar “2/9” or “2/29” flashes by, because niku means “meat” and it’s the perfect day for a grill. And then “26” — furo, meaning a bath, so a date you’ll often see in ads and promotions for onsen or cosmetics. All at once, digits stop being digits: they begin to pretend to be syllables, words, entire sentences.
This is exactly what goroawase (語呂合わせ) is: the Japanese art of matching sounds, in which numbers are treated like phonetic LEGO bricks. Instead of “forty-six forty-nine” you get a short formula of politeness; instead of “thirty-nine” — a smile and a thank-you; and instead of a random string in an advertisement — something easy to remember. And it isn’t merely a “fun curiosity”: it’s a tool for memory, marketing, jokes, sometimes superstition, and in pop culture — a cipher for the initiated.
Why does it work at all? Because the Japanese language offers perfect conditions for it. A single digit has several possible readings: some come from native readings, some from Sino-Japanese readings, and sometimes you also get abbreviations, softening, voicing, and even the influence of English. “2” can be ni or fu, “9” can be kyū or ku, “0” can be rei, maru, or “zero.” From such variants you can build words that sound natural — as if they had always been in the language, only someone cleverly “encoded” them into numbers.
It also matters that goroawase doesn’t pretend to be lofty poetry — it’s practical. It has to sound “good” and feel natural. And that is exactly why it works so well for everyday things: phone numbers, dates, advertising slogans, place names, and even for learning history (when you need to hammer a year into your head and don’t want to do it by brute force).
Of course, Japan has more wordplay than this. There’s dajare — the classic pun, a linguistic groaner based on similar-sounding words. There are also older traditions of sound-play in poetry, where one word can transform into another. But goroawase has its own niche and character: here numbers rule, with their many readings, and all the magic lies in the fact that something seemingly cold and abstract — a digit — begins to behave like a living language.
And once you notice it, it’s hard to “unsee” it. Because from that moment on, any Japanese string of digits can be not only information, but also a wink, a jab, or a message.
What is goroawase?
Let’s start with the name itself, because it already reveals that this isn’t a “numbers joke,” but something more musical. 語呂合わせ breaks down into three parts: 語 (go — “word, speech”), 呂 (ro — the key element), and 合わせ (awase — “matching, aligning, pairing”). In Japanese, 語呂 (goro) means “the flow and sound of words,” that is, whether something “sits well on the tongue.” Interestingly, that “ro” didn’t come out of nowhere: goro has roots in vocabulary connected to court music gagaku, where modes and the “tuning” of a melody were spoken of as 律呂 (ritsuryō) or 呂律 (rorytsu) — hence the later association with whether someone “holds together” rhythmically and smoothly, and in language: whether a phrase has a good “run” and sound.
All right, but what does it do in practice? Goroawase is a sound game in which digits (or signs) are treated as syllables and possible readings are “laid under” them to form a word, a sentence, a slogan, or an association — most often so that something is easier to remember or can be cleverly encoded.
And where did it come from? Sensitivity to sound itself is as old in Japan as literature (but today, without giving lectures), yet for goroawase two very down-to-earth environments are crucial. The first is school and mnemonic techniques: goroawase is perfect for cramming dates, constants, and numbers, because it turns a dry figure into a rhythmic phrase. The second is the moment when digits became a real language of communication: the 1990s and the era of “pokebell” (pagers), when devices often displayed only numbers, so young people began sending each other entire messages “in goroawase” (like “0840,” “14106,” and hundreds of others), and the phenomenon grew into a fashion and micro-culture that later naturally carried over and developed in the young Internet.
Examples
In Japan, goroawase works a bit like a second layer of reality: if you know the key, you hear ordinary words inside the digits. First it’s play, then practice, and in the end you realize it’s simply an everyday cultural habit: how to make something easy to remember, pleasant in sound, and instantly “readable.”
Phones, PINs, addresses, reservations: the economy of memory
Take the classic 4649, which I already mentioned. On paper it’s four digits; in a Japanese person’s mind it’s yo-ro-shi-ku (“よろしく”), that whole package: “nice to meet you,” “I’m at your service,” “I’m counting on good cooperation.” That’s why such strings end up on business cards, signboards, social media signatures, or stickers — they’re short, yet they carry emotion.
Similarly, 0840: you write 0 as “o,” 8 as “ha,” 4 as “yo,” and 0 again as “o” — and you get o-ha-yo-o, i.e., “おはよう” (“hi, good morning,” in the morning).
And now imagine you run a business and you want the customer to remember your number. In Japan it practically begs for goroawase. A dentist chooses an ending like 6480, because that’s mu-shi-ba zero — “虫歯ゼロ,” meaning “zero cavities.” It sounds like a promise, and above all it sticks in your head.
A butcher shop can go for 1129: ii niku (“いい肉”) — “good meat.” And again: this isn’t cryptography, it’s marketing that works because the language itself suggests the tool.
There are also numbers that are “purely social” — the type where “it’s not a number, it’s a mini-message.” 39 is sometimes read as san-kyū → “thank you.” 5963 can be expanded as go-ku-ro-san → “ご苦労さん,” meaning “good work / thanks for the effort,” “good job” (often half-jokingly).
In the same spirit, various combinations function: the kind you can drop into a signature, a campaign name, a hotel room number, a discount code. And suddenly a reservation stops being a cold string of characters — it becomes something you can tell, like a little story.
There is also goroawase “for a good mood.” 2525 is often read as ni-ko ni-ko (“ニコニコ”), simply “a smile, cheerfully” (it’s also the numeric shorthand for the “Japanese YouTube” — NicoNico — more about this here: Overview of Nico Nico Douga's Domestic Scene - What Drives the Japanese?). People like choosing such numbers as “nice numbers” — for example on license plates (in Japan, as in Poland, you can legally order a chosen number) or in phone numbers.
Dates and holidays
The best-known is, of course, 2/22 (February 22): “ni-ni-ni,” which sounds like nyan-nyan-nyan — the cat “meow meow meow.” And that is exactly how, in Japan since 1987, Cat Day (猫の日) has functioned — chosen in a vote because “2-2-2” is the easiest to turn into cat speech.
And here something very Japanese begins: a date is not only a date, but a pretext for a campaign, posts, limited editions, in-store events, small office rituals. Entire calendar “halos” are created, in which people happily participate because it’s light, shared, and “ours.”
On top of that come days that aren’t “national” but live in circulation — like 11/1 (wan-wan-wan (a reading from Engurishu, i.e., “English-ish”) → Dog Day), or all kinds of “theme days” invented by industries, shops, fandoms. The mechanism is the same: if the date sounds right, the date works.
Sometimes “joke-dates” from abroad also enter Japanese circulation and start living in a Japanese way. A good example is May 4 (5/4), known worldwide as “Star Wars Day”: in English it sounds like a pun, “May the Fourth (be with you),” a humorous twist on the famous “May the Force be with you.” In Japan, this doesn’t come from goroawase (because it’s an English pun), but the mechanism of celebrating is similar: the date becomes a pretext for pop-cultural actions — gadget shops, cinemas, brands, and fans who post themed content, run promotions, or organize small events. That is: even if the joke is not “from digits into Japanese syllables,” the very idea of a “day that sounds / makes sense” fits perfectly with the Japanese love of calendar occasions. The Japanese truly love it.
Superstitions, avoidance, and “a language that wards off bad luck”
Goroawase can be a joke, but it can also be serious — because sound in Japan carries weight, also in superstitions. A classic known in the West as well is “4” (often read as shi, associated with “death”) and 9 (e.g., ku, associated with “suffering”). That’s why in some contexts these digits are avoided, their reading is changed (instead of shi one says yon), or one chooses numbers that “bring good luck.” This isn’t uniform or absolute — rather a soft culture of associations that sometimes influences choices (room numbers, gift sets, prices, dates). Many legends circulate, for example about how in some hotels there are no rooms with the number 4 (after room 33 comes 35), and there are no fourth floors. And you know what? Sometimes that really is the case (also in Korea).
School and history: dates that enter your head on their own
Here goroawase shows its oldest, most “honest” function: a mnemonic technique. For decades, Japanese children have learned dates through phrases that have rhythm and imagery.
The most famous: 794 as na-ku-yo (“鳴くよ”) and then uguisu Heian-kyō — meaning “the warbler / bush warbler sings” and “Heian-kyō,” because in 794 the capital was moved to Heian-kyō (today’s Kyoto). This sentence doesn’t merely encode the number — it immediately creates a scene in your head, so the date stops being abstract.
There are countless such phrases (and schools really use them), because it works better than raw cramming: a number becomes a little rhyme, and the rhyme becomes a hook for memory.
But this mechanism works along the entire axis of history: the year 645 — “mu-ji-ko” (無事故) as “no accident” in a slogan like “無事故(645)で大化の改新” (“without an accident — the great reform”), i.e., the beginning of changes associated with Taika no Kaishin.
Then the era of wars: the year 1467 — “i-yo(14) i-yo mu-na(67) shi-i” (いよいよむなしい), literally “more and more empty / pointless,” and then you attach “Ōnin no ran” — and you have the year of the Ōnin War, which opens the path to Sengoku chaos (a phrase that already carries the mood of the era, about which you can read more here: The Real Sengoku – What Was Life Like for the Swordless in the Shadow of Samurai Wars?).
Then a sudden technological turn: the year 1543 — “i-go(15) yo-san(43) ga fu-eru” (以後 予算が増える), meaning “from that moment on, budgets increase” — because teppō denrai (the arrival of firearms) meant expenses, production, a change of tactics, and in general a new chapter of war.
And finally stabilization: the year 1603 — “hi-to-mu-re sa-wa-gu(1603) yo Edo no machi” (人群れさわぐよ江戸の町) — “the crowd stirs, it chatters: here is the city of Edo,” i.e., the establishment of the Edo bakufu and the beginning of the Tokugawa era (more on that, for example, here: What to Do with a Society of Samurai Who Only Know War and Death in Times of Peace? - The Clever Ideas of the Tokugawa Shoguns).
There are countless such sentences and schools really use them, because it works better than raw cramming: a number becomes a short phrase, the phrase creates an image, and the image forms a hook in your mind that holds the date for years. Such breakdowns of dates turned into a rhyme or a little story can be found in the margins and boxed notes of school textbooks.
Marketing, brands, places: when a number becomes a logo
The most “Tokyo” icon is SHIBUYA109 (I mention it here: The Moyai Point at Shibuya Crossing: Tokyo’s Furious Momentum and the Fishing Communities of Okinawa). In everyday speech, many people simply read it as ichi-maru-kyū (“1-0-9”), but the number itself is not accidental. “109” was conceived as an associative play with the name of the Tōkyū (東急) group, which stands behind this complex: “10” can be read as tō, and “9” as kyū, so 10-9 → tō-kyū. On top of that, a practical association was added: for years it was emphasized that it also refers to “opening hours” in the style of 10:00–21:00. In other words, a single number does several things at once: it reminds you of the owner’s name, it is easy to remember, and it immediately fits the urban rhythm of Shibuya.
Or the number 23 at Nissan, especially in motorsport: in circulation it functions as “ni-san” → Nissan, so “23” is no longer a number, but a recognizable emblem of the brand on the track and in fans’ imaginations.
In a similar way, 428 works as “Shibuya”: you can break it down into shi(4) – bu(2) – ya(8), and suddenly the number becomes a place name, a slogan, a meme, and even a game title. You could say “let’s meet at 428.” But you could say it even better: you can send, for example, 0106-428 (I’m waiting in Shibuya), or 11014-428 (“I want to meet in Shibuya”), or 194-428 (“I’m going” + Shibuya), and once you’re there: 21104-428 (“I arrived” + Shibuya). It sounds like a normal, short “city message” — only written in digits, the way people did it when communicators displayed only numbers in the early 1990s.
And here we enter the moment when goroawase stops being merely a “clever number” and becomes an element of pop culture — because once you learn to read 428 as Shibuya, you will start seeing it everywhere.
This is precisely the special side of Japanese goroawase: it doesn’t live in a linguist’s office. Of course, number–word games exist in many languages, but in Japan they are truly part of everyday life. Goroawase lives on signboards, in numbers, in campaign dates, in conversations, on license plates, and in that distinctly Japanese sense that sound is also an element of meaning.
Goroawase in video games and pop culture
It’s hard to believe how ubiquitous goroawase is in Japanese daily life. But imagine a place where it dominates even more. That place is Japanese video games. In games, goroawase works as an Easter egg and a secret layer of the world: a number on a plaque, an HP value, the name of a company inside the game’s universe — and suddenly the digit begins to speak. Creators love it because they can leave fans small winks, and fans love it even more, because they can play detectives.
KONAMI and 573: the king of all digital jokes
The most classic example is 573 = ko-na-mi. You can break it down simply: 5 is sometimes read as ko, 7 as a shortened nana → na, 3 as mi (from mittsu) — and suddenly you have the company’s name in three digits. That is why KONAMI for years has “signed” itself with the number 573 in various places: in numbers, in promotional materials, sometimes as a score/high score, or as a detail for those in the know.
The most tangible (and beautifully “game-like”) example is that KONAMI named its arcade board “System 573” — hardware based on the architecture of the first PlayStation, which powered, among other things, arcade machines from the BEMANI series (including the classic Dance Dance Revolution). Here goroawase stops being a metaphor: the company literally took its own name and pressed it into a model number.
There are also treats “for the ear.” In KONAMI rhythm games, a number appears as a title/marking with a reading — for example, .59 can be read as ten-go-ku (“天国,” meaning “heaven”). For a player it’s supposedly just a dot and two digits, but for a Japanese person it is already a word, an atmosphere, and a joke all at once.
NAMCO and 765
The second great “company number” is 765 = na-mu-ko = NAMCO. The mechanism is similar: 7 gives na (from nana), 6 can give mu (a reading variant), 5 gives ko (a variant of go → ko). And again — three digits function like a logo.
In "The iDOLM@STER," this number was transformed into the agency’s name: 765 Production. This is wonderfully Japanese, because on paper it looks like a cold, office-like name (“some production company”), but a fan immediately hears: “that’s NAMCO.” And here the game begins: once you know that 765 is “readable,” you start hunting for this number throughout the entire ecosystem of the series, as if you’ve switched on “tracking mode.”
And goroawase also likes life after mergers: after NAMCO merged with Bandai, 876 = ba-na-mu (Bandai Namco) began circulating — and this is no longer a conspiracy theory but a real “branding trace,” because even the official Japanese Bandai Namco Games account used the number 876 in its name/handle.
Final Fantasy
In "Final Fantasy IV" there is an example I love, because it shows goroawase in the role of psychological commentary. The villain Golbez has 2943 HP — which can be read as ni-ku-shi-mi (“憎しみ” — “hatred”). And when he is freed from the influence of evil, his HP changes to 2971 — read as tsu-gu-na-i (“償い” — “atonement/expiation”). Suddenly a statistic is not merely a statistic: it becomes a signature of a narrative transformation in four digits. There are countless such tidbits throughout the entire world of FF.
This is also an ideal example of why Japan loves such details: because they are “honestly hidden.” The game doesn’t have to explain anything — it is enough that someone notices it one day, writes out the reading, posts it online, and suddenly the whole community begins to look at parameters as if they were text.
Why translators suffer (goroawase versus localization)
Because it is a joke that lives in a specific language. 573 works because 5/7/3 have these, and not other, shortened readings; 2943 works because you can assemble it into a specific Japanese word; 765 works because NAMCO sounds like na-mu-ko. When you move a game into English or Polish, those readings suddenly vanish — and localization then has three options: invent a different number-joke, add an explanation (which kills the rhythm), or accept the loss of the layer. And that is precisely why fans often feel that “the Japanese version has more secrets” — because it literally has more language hidden inside the digits.
“Exercises” to finish
At the end, you can treat goroawase as a small instrument for everyday play with language. It is, admittedly, an exercise mainly for those who are learning Japanese, but theoretically you can also try it with Polish, though it will be harder to find suitable words. Choose a number, preferably a short one (2–6 digits), write out all possible Japanese readings of each digit (native, Sino-Japanese, abbreviations, sometimes “English-ish”), and then start arranging syllables from them as if you were assembling a puzzle. If something sounds clunky, shorten it, swap a reading, add or remove a rhythmic ん (“n”), and if needed allow yourself a slight voicing — not to cheat, but to make the phrase flow.
The second step is to fit the meaning. Good goroawase is usually not random: the number is meant to mean something — a place name, an emotion, a joke, a promise, a motto, a “secret password” among friends. So after you assemble the sound, check the associations: does it brush up against something unwanted (for example the unlucky 4 and 9), does it sound ambiguous, does it feel artificial. We like it when it sounds natural — when you can say it in one breath and immediately feel that it makes sense.
And there is one last, most important test, simple as a sip of tea: does it sound good. If it does, that’s already half the success: these codes live because they are convenient and quick. That is why in Japan goroawase makes its way into phone numbers, dates, brand names, and even into game statistics: it is not an academic brainteaser, but a practice meant to work in real life.
And the punchline? Goroawase says something very interesting about contemporary Japan: that even in a world of digits and technology, sound still matters — rhythm, and a soft smile in communication. It is humor, memory, and a culture of sound in one — a small art of everyday life, in which even a calculator can tell stories, if only you know how to “listen” to it.
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"Strong Japanese Women"
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未開 ソビエライ
An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)
Personal motto:
"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)
Mike Soray
(aka Michał Sobieraj)
未開 ソビエライ
An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)
Personal motto:
"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)
Mike Soray
(aka Michał Sobieraj)
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