Ubuntu: the art of catering for gatecrashers

IN his bestselling book Could I vote DA?, my friend and colleague at PowerFM, Eusebius McKaiser, makes a compelling argument about the fuzziness of the concept of ubuntu.

Okay, he does more than that. He calls ubuntu “at worst an incoherent ethical theory and at best an underdeveloped ethical theory”. Ouch!

That is just fancy Oxford talk for, “The concept of ubuntu is a cross between the figment of an overactive imagination and a half-baked hallucination”. Did I say “eina!”? I think the pompous bastard has a point … but he also doesn’t.

On the one hand, I must confess that, at a cursory glance, behaviours consistent with ubuntu seem to be more prevalent among indigenous Africans. While our Euby argues his case using logic and incisive academic theories, I come armed only with my usual anecdotal evidence.

Where I come from, it is considered an embarrassing booboo for a visitor to come into the house and leave without eating something.

Growing up, as soon as I saw a guest coming through the gate, I’d put on my shoes and wait for my mom to place a R10 note and an empty Sparletta bottle in my hand so I could run to the nearest spaza for Creme Soda and a packet of Choice Assorted biscuits. I never asked why we needed to feed someone without the decency to make an appointment.

So you can imagine the horror I experienced the first time I dated across the melanin barrier. Let’s call her Susan. The first time a cousin dropped by without warning, we sat out on the balcony chatting. I could hear Sue tinkering about in the kitchen and naturally assumed she was putting together something to serve. After 10 minutes, I went in to see what was taking so long,

I’ve visited white folks who have force-fed me croissants, despite my protestations

only to find Sue munching on a sandwich. I was horrified.

As I made friends with more of my paler compatriots, I noticed that if I called someone to say, “I’m in the neighbourhood. Can I pick up that thing we talked about?”, more often than not he’d be waiting in the driveway, hand over the item and off I’d go. No Creme Soda or biscuits.

Then again, I’ve also visited white folks who have force-fed me croissants, despite my protestations.

On the flip side, I have a friend from Eshowe in Zululand. When he met his first wife, he says they’d be at the Pick n Pay and she’d grab a pack of drumsticks and start counting them. When he asked why, she’d tell him she was calculating how many they needed for the month.

Even at home, she’d cook just enough for two, so if someone dropped by just before meal times, they’d have to sit there with their tummies digesting their spleens because there wasn’t enough for three. She wasn’t pale. She was a Motswana.

For the benefit of the culturally wounded, there is a prevailing stereotype that Batswana are notoriously … mmm … conservative when it comes to feeding guests.

My wife, who is half Motswana, has always been at pains to point out that it is not all Batswana but a specific denomination of Batswana called Bakgatla. I always respond by saying I’m just a dumb Zulu and I don’t make a distinction between the different variants of that bunch of misers.

I must confess I think this whole ubuntu thing, insofar as feeding people is concerned, is overrated. When we got married, we sent out invitations months ahead and hired a marquee just big enough for the 150 people who’d said yes. Our wedding planner provided seating for an extra 15 people or so.

Not only were all the extra seats occupied but some of our invited guests had to sit outside. Why? Some people not only rocked up without RSVPing, they also came in a Toyota Quantum with eight of their closest friends. That’s just how my people roll.

Truth be told, I think I’m also part Mokgatla. It annoys me no end that, when I invite a few friends over, I must cater for surprise drop-bys. Mrs N once invited three people over and ended up with 11. Fortunately, we had catered for 15 because we know our people.

At this point, I’d like to invite angry e-mails from offended Batswana. Please be gentle. Just remember, some of my best friends are Batswana. LS ngcobon@sundaytimes.co.za @NdumisoNgcobo