The rock 'n roll of Cultural differences

My first encounter with the concept “cultural differences” was when I was in my first year class. But, sadly enough, the understanding of the concept eluded me until I was in third year. You know how it goes. Getting above 75% exam mark isn’t always a sure-fire proof that you know what’s going on in page 3 of Introduction to Human Resources Management. Ever heard of cramming? Now you are following.

I know that this revelation will shock many people. Siphiwe Moyo, Tshepoetsile Mokolobate, Michael Mosia, Nonkosi Sihlali-Siko, Thabang Thabzozo Moyo, Lebohang Moshoadiba, Tintswalo Kubayi and many others. Docky Ngubeni and Carter Mofokeng, go ahead and judge me if you so wish! To all of you, my class-mates, I want to say: if it seemed like I already got the hang of fancy concepts in our first year, chances are that I was pretending.

Anyway, the first time I ever understood the concept was in my third year. It didn’t happen in class. No. I had invited a likeable fellow called Matsobane Frans Kwakwa for supper. He lived in the next room. I guess I was returning the favour because Matsobane enjoyed cooking (but he usually did so mostly late in the evening; hence I gave him the nick-name “Nightfever”, a long story on its own.)

When he had cooked, it was awkward for him to chow alone while I was making small talk by his door. The guy cooked the type of food you’d only eat at home on a Sunday. So surely you cannot judge me for employing small talk around 23:47 just to score a plate.

One Saturday evening we had been chatting loudly, marveling at the music of Dan Siegel, and dancing to “madambadamba” by Sankomota. I served lephotho [phuthu] with fresh milk. I cooked the best, at least by my bachelor/ student standards. If you don’t believe me, ask Lindiwe Khoza. She should be embarrassed when she looks back now, that she used to bring a 1litre pint of Clover full cream milk to my room so that we could get the feast going.

All was good, on the evening of hosting Matsobane. After about 30 minutes of having eaten, with the conversation having evolved in and out of music to the shenanigans of student politics, women, cars and dream jobs, Matsobane’s mood changed somewhat. He was eyeing the pots. ‘Ai Motaung, kanti when are we eating supper,’ he asked me. I was taken aback. So I asked him, ‘What supper?’ Akere re qeta ho ja?’

Matsobane was so amused by my response he literally rolled on my single bed. I was dumbfounded by this. He got up to pull himself together ‘Heh Motaung,’ he said as if mimicking some academic ancestor who liked to make intelligent arguments in a rowdy, sometimes half-asleep, student parliament at 22:55 pm, on a Wednesday, ‘You mean phuthu with milk is food? Where is proper supper, Motaung?’ He protested before repeating the “rock and roll”.

I was starting to feel small, thinking that my menu was indeed low-class diet. Then it hit me, that while the Basotho culture from Qwaqwa recognise lephotho with fresh milk as being food, a Mopedi fellow from Polokwane was seeing this as just the starter ahead of real food – meaning rice or pap with meat, and gravy.

If only my first year Lecturer had used an example similar to this experience unfolding in my third year to explain the concept of cultural differences, damn, I'd be a cum laude graduate, as we speak!