I am my father’s daughter. 

‘Well, duh! I can’t be my fathers niece! Tautology United!’

‘That phrase is usually used to emphasize or draw out similarities between 2 characters as opposed to restating the obvious. It’s literary not literal.’

‘You think you’re so smart!’

‘I’m just pointing out that there’s nothing wrong with the opening line.’

‘Whatever. That’s not the main issue anyways. You have a cow over the simplest things!’

‘Sigh. You try to please a girl...’

Now you know that I talk to myself. Moving on... This one is called, 

I have 4 Watches, but I can’t Tell Time.

In an environment that has legitimized the idea of African Time, my father is a punctuality freak. Even when he tries to be late, he's on time, which is supremely frustrating for him because he has lived for decades in constant bewilderment, wondering why people simply refuse to be where they ought to be, when they ought to be there. Poor baby. 

African Time is a derogatory term used to describe the laxity with which majority of the continent after which it's named treat time. Derogatory or no, the term is sometimes used with a hint of pride and entitlement, so don't be surprised to hear someone argue, 'that's just our culture' and expect that to be the end of it. As a result, except in a few highly regulated industries, punctuality is a practice that is roundly ignored. So while inconvenient, it is not unusual for a concert billed for 4pm to start at 7pm or for a 6pm party to go into full swing at 9pm. 
Still, be not deceived; we are not alone... In the western world, particularly in entertainment circles, the same practice is touted as being ‘fashionably late’. I guess it’s a matter of perspective: if the tardy party is African, it speaks of ignorance and a disregard for life’s most important resource, but if you’re from Hollywood is the ‘must have’ attitude that’s expected of the stars. Po-tay-toe, Po-tah-toe. 

Unfortunately, as concerns the much looked-down-upon-quality of keeping to time, I am my father’s spawn. Try as I might, 90% of the time, I am on time while for the remaining 10% I am a nervous wreck because I can’t believe I’m running late! There was a time that every time-telling device I possessed was between 5-10 minutes fast- just to ensure I was never late. OCD? Nah... I’m simply my father’s daughter.  

Still, I am not quite as accepting as dad when it comes to shrugging off African Time. He shakes his head, mutters some things about foolishness, indiscipline and poverty (in that order) and buries his head in a newspaper until the ‘Africans’ arrive. I on the other hand, work myself up to a glorious fit. You see, I tend to organize my life around appointments. If you say you will pay me a visit at noon, by 11am, I am in visitor mode. My understanding of your intent determines if I’ll plan your visit as a brief ‘drop-by’ or a full blown entertainment extravaganza! Now, no matter how extravagant the extravaganza, most guests will get to stepping after 6 hours (which by the way is a looooong time to be entertaining; go home already!) Meaning that from 11am to 6pm I shall cease from all other activities to be the world’s greatest host. Why, oh why, would you then show up at 4pm and stay till 9? ‘Well, just do something else between 12 and 4...’ Try as I might, I cannot fully invest myself in any other activity until that guest arrives. That’s just me. 

I really have tried to conform to African timing ... truly I have. I remember when I was invited to a 4pm get-together. It was a fairly new crowd, but I instinctively knew they would be of the fashionably late variety and so I agonized over how late I should be. 15 minutes? Too short. 1 hour? Now that’s just rude. 30 minutes it is!  I arrived at the venue at 4.25pm (even in my lateness, I’m punctual) feeling rather guilty but also quite smug... only for my 'how do you do?' to freeze on my lips as I came face to face with what had to be the decorating committee. 

‘What are you doing here so early?’ 

‘Uh... The IV said 4pm.’

***Insert hysterical laughter here***

‘You’ll be lucky if they start at 6! 'The IV said 4!' Hahaha!’

The irony. I was late all right ... just not late enough. Apparently there’s a code, and when we mere mortals attempt to crack it, ‘the powers that be’ change the formula. How do you know how late to arrive? I guess in this regard you are born cool or ‘late’ as the case may be. It can’t be taught. They just know you should be 90 minutes late for a cocktail and 3 hours late for an album launch. They understand that being on time is looked upon as desperate, or even worse, slow.

So there I was; a deflated version of myself watching balloons inflate with helium filled pride. For even the balloons knew what time to show up for the party. 

As I ducked away to hide in my car, I contemplated bowing out of the entire event lest I be pegged 'the hungry one'. Then I caught myself and wondered at the shame. When did integrity become a loser quality? The organizers are the losers not I. They were the ones who told deliberate lies! They were the untrustworthy, disrespectful ones.  They should feel shame not I! Not I! Not I! 

Why do people run late? After much pondering, I have come up with 2 reasons. 

1. Regardless of their (mostly flippant) excuses,  they do not care about you, about time or about life. Harsh, but the facts speak for themselves... or, 
2. They simply cannot tell time. Why else do their numerous wristwatches match every outfit they possess, yet they show up late for every appointment?

True to the decorators’ prediction, the party started at about 6pm. I freshened up, got out of the car, did some socializing, and at 6.30pm, I picked up my purse and bid the others farewell. 
‘The party is just starting’ the organizers protested. 
‘The party started at 4pm,’ I said. 
‘You just weren’t here to host it...’ 
and away I went. 

'What was the point in that?' You may wonder. I should have stayed and enjoyed the party since I had already spent 2 hours waiting for it. I guess that would have worked if I was free that day but unfortunately, I wasn't. 4 hours (commuting time inclusive) were all I could spare for a time of idle chitchat (for that's really what it was) and time was up!

Perhaps I should have called the host ahead earlier to decode the real time on the IV. My bad, I thought it was written in English. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so uptight and learn to relax a little- ‘no hurry in life’ as our people say. What’s the big deal about being a little (or a lot) late? Our people also say, ‘time and chance wait for no man’ so forgive me if I’m not in a hurry to chuck good habits in the river just yet. 

I am learning though. Though for the most part I still believe the best of people, if I doubt a person’s integrity I have learned to say, ‘call me when you get there'. For visitors with constant tardiness records, they no longer get my complete hospitality package. Why slave over a stove when your culinary masterpiece won’t be served fresh anyway? On such a tardy-pants’ arrival, I tear myself away from whatever I was engaged in and if I’m up to it, rustle up whatever grub is available or convenient. You simply can’t have it both ways. Something has got to give.

I am my father’s daughter. We might be a pair of stick-in-the-mud, socially naive, time-conscious, fuss pots, but I can say this: 

We DO have wristwatches, and WE CAN tell time.