Ménage à 11

In a rural capital, we are invited to dinner. Our host is a highly respected local dignitary. He carries himself very upright, and is greeted wherever he goes. “You know everyone”, I say. “No”, he replies, ”everyone knows me.”

He is not rich, though in relation to the majority of the population he is considered well off. After all, he has two cars, neither of which work very well, and both of which have multiple dents, but they are cars.

It is dark when we arrive, but the house looks quite imposing. From inside we can see that extensions are in progress. “It’s my wife,” he says, “she does all that.”

And a lot more. They have nine children, of which the youngest is 15. She also, of course, cooks.

There are two other guests beside my colleague and myself. We are offered drinks by one of the sons who has graduated from university but is unemployed. He is clearly in great awe of us, but more particularly his father.

As we drink we see dishes being placed on the dining table by what we assume to be daughters. First one dish, then another, then a third, at intervals of between five and ten minutes, so that after about 45 minutes the table is literally covered with dishes. At this point, the dignitary’s wife comes out of the kitchen. She looks far too young and fit to be the mother of such old, and so many, children, but we are assured that she is. Apart from a robust stomach she could be 40. As she is introduced she stands in the corner, meekly, with hands crossed over her skirt, then comes across to greet us.

We are ushered over to the dining table, where the plates from which we will eat are hard to find amidst the huge number and variety of serving dishes. It is not just the variety which is overwhelming, but the quantity. Each dish alone is enough to serve five or more people.

So, we sit, trying to work out what is what. There is clearly chicken (roast and stewed), beef and goat meat, brown fufu, rice, peas (yes fresh peas) and carrots, mushrooms, miniature aubergines in a lovely fresh tomato sauce, mounds of chips, a spinach-type vegetable, sweet potatoes, and white bananas which taste like potatoes. Have I forgotten anything? Probably - there was so much that none of us tackled more than about half the total. And the flavours of each dish were quite different.

The dinner was for us, not the family. The Mother sat, silent, in a corner, quietly watching and I imagine enjoying our exclamations of joy as each different dish was tasted. And half way through the meal two daughters and one son were brought in from the kitchen and made to introduce themselves.

This was not just a meal. It was a ceremony, designed to show us, very embarrassingly, I thought, how must we were respected. I hate to think how much it all cost, but I also don’t think that cost came into the equation from our hosts’ side. They were going to give us the very best. And that they did.