No one would dispute that transitioning from life in America to sub-Sahara Africa comes with many radical changes. But who would expect one of the hardest among these not to be to food, but the meal time?
In a country where many live only to find food and survive the day, it seems petty to complain about the time I “come on the table,” as some say in African English.
But beginning dinner between 7:15 and 8:30 can bring that out of an American. Don’t forget this American has been hearing another language all day and wants to go to bed at 8:30. Unfortunately, that’s not much of an option when your hostess has been cutting, peeling, and cooking for the last hour and a half ”for you,” as my hostess usually says to guests about remaining food, even after devouring a mountain of rice, beans, French fries, some mushy green stuff and vegetables. The hot tea must not be forsaken either, for as my host family also says “How can you survive without tea?”
Night after night, I have grumbled about it (and still do), but as I have often waited and listened for the definitive sound of pots clanging down on the table incremently over fifteen to thirty minutes, the sin of myself and much of American culture surfaced--our dependence upon food to keep us chipper.
In the states, we can bless it and thank God for it all we want. But rather than it being a privilege, it has become something we deserve. To go without one meal or even a snack is challenging, and I know this from my own experience.
How is it that we are so dependent that often our mood changes because we lack only a little? How can I justify my complaints about eating dinner at 8 when so many would do much to have a third or even second meal at any time of day?
Well, its only 5:30 now, so I will have a couple more hours to ponder that one before dinner.
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