How To Tell A Ugandan At A Party
Nov 01, 2002
INDUSTRIOUS Ugandans have started schools to teach music, foreign languages, cookery and even to train nannies, now I suggest someone out there should start a school to teach Ugandans table manners and etiquette.
By Simon Omoding
INDUSTRIOUS Ugandans have started schools to teach music, foreign languages, cookery and even to train nannies, now I suggest someone out there should start a school to teach Ugandans table manners and etiquette.
If you have a penchant for etiquette and are invited to a Ugandan dinner or party, just cut it, that’s unless of course you’re prepared to crack a rib.
So it came down on me again recently when we were at the Grand Imperial where a Non Governmental Organisation hosted a dinner to bid farewell to one of their senior staff who was going back to her country.
There was this dapper lady, who sat on my right. She was good to be next to that is until the dinner started. She was smart and gorgeous.
Soon after the dinner started, our side of the table became the centre of attraction for the wrong reason falling cutlery, you could see the fret on her face, the tremble in her tender fingers and the discomfort in her whole body. She kept trying all the spoons and forks, at the wrong times, for wrong uses.
That, I could stomach, well for most of us, knives are strictly for mangoes, oranges, pineapples and so on, never for items like rice and meat. But when she watched as we descended upon the appetiser which was soup, I thought she had suddenly lost her appetite.
When she eventually stood up to serve herself, she had her main course swimming in the appetiser. She saved her buns all the way until she eventually ate them up with her soda at the end of the meal!
Right across the table, was a fellow journalist, who I had been chatting away with, until he did his service when he went dumb. He lost the power of speech. That was not very striking. What was, though, was that from my part of the table, he looked like he was eating direct from the table, he had no plate! Well, I later discovered that he actually had one, when he was finished and done, and had regained his power of speech. I made this joke to him as we headed home. This was a buffet, man.
From my left came different problems. The gentleman on my left, the lady on my right and myself, shared the same salt cellars. That wasn’t the problem. Problem was that I was at his complete service, but he preferred to extend his hand over my food to pick the salt for himself.
Talking about self-service reminds me of a cocktail I attended at one of the premier sports clubs recently. It was after a major tournament that had attracted players from Kenya, Tanzania and Rwanda. At the end, following the award of trophies, we were treated to some bites and bibs, thanks to the sponsors of the vent.
Doing the rounds were fish fingers. A gentleman of fairly good repute told the waiter to stay put right in front of him and literarily wait upon him, as he picked and played. Those of us who were next to him looked on in mixed disgust and despair, from the sides of the eye. Well, by the time the waiter moved on to us, we could not say for sure, whether the waiter had got fed up, or the gentleman had run out of oral space, for more picks.
Dinners aside, parties where beer is served are even more dramatic. At a kwanjula recently, we were ensconced in an argument in a small informal group. Then everybody went into a dead silence. Members started making their half-full bottles of beer lie on their sides, on the lawn. Those of us in the know, of course understood that a fresh round is coming so time to pose like your bottle is empty. That’s the Ugandan way in parties and dinners! Ends
INDUSTRIOUS Ugandans have started schools to teach music, foreign languages, cookery and even to train nannies, now I suggest someone out there should start a school to teach Ugandans table manners and etiquette.
If you have a penchant for etiquette and are invited to a Ugandan dinner or party, just cut it, that’s unless of course you’re prepared to crack a rib.
So it came down on me again recently when we were at the Grand Imperial where a Non Governmental Organisation hosted a dinner to bid farewell to one of their senior staff who was going back to her country.
There was this dapper lady, who sat on my right. She was good to be next to that is until the dinner started. She was smart and gorgeous.
Soon after the dinner started, our side of the table became the centre of attraction for the wrong reason falling cutlery, you could see the fret on her face, the tremble in her tender fingers and the discomfort in her whole body. She kept trying all the spoons and forks, at the wrong times, for wrong uses.
That, I could stomach, well for most of us, knives are strictly for mangoes, oranges, pineapples and so on, never for items like rice and meat. But when she watched as we descended upon the appetiser which was soup, I thought she had suddenly lost her appetite.
When she eventually stood up to serve herself, she had her main course swimming in the appetiser. She saved her buns all the way until she eventually ate them up with her soda at the end of the meal!
Right across the table, was a fellow journalist, who I had been chatting away with, until he did his service when he went dumb. He lost the power of speech. That was not very striking. What was, though, was that from my part of the table, he looked like he was eating direct from the table, he had no plate! Well, I later discovered that he actually had one, when he was finished and done, and had regained his power of speech. I made this joke to him as we headed home. This was a buffet, man.
From my left came different problems. The gentleman on my left, the lady on my right and myself, shared the same salt cellars. That wasn’t the problem. Problem was that I was at his complete service, but he preferred to extend his hand over my food to pick the salt for himself.
Talking about self-service reminds me of a cocktail I attended at one of the premier sports clubs recently. It was after a major tournament that had attracted players from Kenya, Tanzania and Rwanda. At the end, following the award of trophies, we were treated to some bites and bibs, thanks to the sponsors of the vent.
Doing the rounds were fish fingers. A gentleman of fairly good repute told the waiter to stay put right in front of him and literarily wait upon him, as he picked and played. Those of us who were next to him looked on in mixed disgust and despair, from the sides of the eye. Well, by the time the waiter moved on to us, we could not say for sure, whether the waiter had got fed up, or the gentleman had run out of oral space, for more picks.
Dinners aside, parties where beer is served are even more dramatic. At a kwanjula recently, we were ensconced in an argument in a small informal group. Then everybody went into a dead silence. Members started making their half-full bottles of beer lie on their sides, on the lawn. Those of us in the know, of course understood that a fresh round is coming so time to pose like your bottle is empty. That’s the Ugandan way in parties and dinners! Ends