Even African culture is colonial

In the beginning there was nothing but a dark abyss on the southernmost tip of this, the Dark Continent. And then, one glorious Saturday, the 6th of April, 1652, there came the trinity of illumination, the Dromedaris, Reijger and Goede Hoop. The Dutch East India Company had landed, bringing with it morality, electricity and pants.

I'm more grateful for the pants than anything else. Few things annoy me more than a cold draught swirling around my posterior ...

Until I was about 15 years old, I actually believed this fairy tale. This is when my uncle, Mafika Gwala of No More Lullabies notoriety, shoved a few books at me and grunted: "I can tell that you love reading. Put away those James Hadley Chases and read something worthwhile for a change."

I had read hundreds of books by then, and there was not a word in any of them about the fact that there were folks roaming these parts, living their lives, prior to the miraculous moment of illumination in 1652. Maybe it's because they didn't have pants on.

In any case, a few days ago I find myself in the middle of one of the bad-tempered sessions my friends and I refer to as "intellectual discussions", and it strays into "That's against African culture" territory - a red rag to me.

When confronted by the "that's unAfrican" brigade, I often ask: "Can you name just one historical indigenous figure who predates April 6 1652?" When this is met with blank stares, I know that I'm talking to a disciple of the "... and then there was light in 1652 ..." gospel.

I spend our so-called "heritage month" with my bottom jaw scraping the floor.

This is the month when we indulge in African "traditional foods" such as mogodu/usu (ox tripe), maotwana (chicken feet), amanqina (sheep, pig or ox trotters) and inhloko (sheep, pig or ox head). I am always left in bewildered amusement at the insinuation about our forebears' diets. Unless I'm missing a major trick, these folks used to ignore the T-bone, chops, rump and sirloin.

Yessiree, apparently there were many inter-village skirmishes over access to bovine intestines. In the aftermath, our traditional version of the Red Cross would visit the refugee camps, feeding the displaced "inferior" cuts of meat such as silverside, filet mignon and tenderloin.

I guess it makes perfect sense, then, that when the Dutch, French and British arrived, the locals were eager to volunteer their cattle in the much-vaunted bartering system. If your diet comprises mainly of cartilaginous trotters and the rest of the beast is worthless, it makes sense to trade it for shiny trinkets, doesn't it?

And don't get me started on our "traditional" garb. My male posse from the Kingdom of the Zulu has taken to leopard-print vests and colourful, patchy pants that would confuse a chameleon. Our favoured footwear is from the Dunlop factory. In the Eastern Cape we've gone for the German-inspired iJerimani. And after the initiation season, downtown Mthatha and Port Elizabeth are flooded with young men in DAKS of London checked caps, Pringle tweed jackets and wide-leg pants.

I have no issues with any of this. It's really just part of the natural, universal phenomenon of cultural diffusion. After all, chilli is an integral part of Indian cuisine despite the plant not being indigenous to that part of the world.

But I'll tell you where things get a tad hazy for me: when widows from villages from Ga-Matlala in Limpopo to Mthwalume in the South Coast are ostracised for failing to don black polyester during January heat waves. When you point out that this is just a Victorian practice that even the original purveyors have abandoned, you get stares.

I'm now at that age where I am often a part of ilobolo negotiations. A few months ago we arrived at a Vryheid homestead in 36ºC to negotiate a friend's nuptials. The bride's home had no aircon but we couldn't take off our jackets for fear of being fined for breaching "Zulu culture".

At the end, R20,000 out of budget, we produced a bottle of Chivas according to the strict dictates of Zulu culture.

I shall end this rant here for fear of being branded an impractical, impossibly purist critic of our "culture". But while you celebrate your heritage, bowl of entrails with traces of faecal matter in hand, I'll be over here enjoying a steak and trying to figure out what our ancestors were up to on Friday the 5th of April 1652.

• Follow the author of this article, Ndumiso Ngcobo, on Twitter: @NdumisoNgcobo