The gatherings we must keep

When was the last time you spent an afternoon without a plan? Not an idle moment, but a deliberate stretch of hours devoted only to the company of others. Last Saturday, my husband and I went to visit Harriet, a friend I have known since our first year of secondary school. We travelled to her mother’s home, a place I had not been since her father’s passing many years before. It was a family affair, a very relaxing afternoon and evening that vividly reminded me of the days I used to spend with my late mother. The experience felt authentic and without pretense. We shared a good meal and good conversation. There was acapella singing and a lot of dancing. The star of the day was Harriet’s mother, ma mère as they fondly call her, a name probably from Harriet’s first French class that settled and stayed.

What does it mean to gather now? In a world measured by outputs and defined by calendars, the act of meeting with no objective other than to be together has become a radical one. It is a gentle rebellion against the tyranny of busyness. That afternoon was not an event. It was a gathering. The distinction is critical. An event has a programme. A gathering has a pulse.

We arrived at three in the afternoon. The air carried the familiar scent of approaching rain mixed with charcoal smoke. The greetings were not perfunctory. They were full-bodied and unhurried. Hands clasped, eyes met, hugs were exchanged, and laughter came easily. This initial exchange set the tone. It was a reclamation of time.

The grammar of connection

We prayed for the meal, served each other, and ate. The food was tasty and organic, the juice fresh. It was the kind of real food that speaks of a mother’s cooking. The conversation moved from small things to significant ones. We spoke of remembered faces from school and the subtle changes in our neighbourhoods. We spoke of parents and of children. There was no pressure to steer the talk toward a topic of weight. The weight was in the connection itself. The active listening, the nods, the shared silence that comfortable company allows. This is the grammar of true connection. It uses the vocabulary of shared history and the syntax of mutual respect.

When do we listen to understand, and not merely to respond? In our digital age, conversation often becomes a dual monologue. That afternoon, we practiced a different way. The acapella singing was a seamless thread in the fabric of the afternoon. It was not performed, but offered. A couple from Harriet’s church began, their voices harmonising on a hymn in French, a gesture of welcome. This was followed by a song in Luganda, its familiar cadence a comfort to the ear. Others joined where they could, finding the harmony. The music was biblical, faith-based—a shared breath of praise that felt neither formal nor forced, but a natural extension of the conversation. It was the sound of togetherness itself.

The wisdom of ma mère

The singing was imperfect and full of joy. It was not a performance. It was a collective act of celebration, a resonance felt in the chest. It reminded me that our ancestors did not need curated playlists to find rhythm. They carried it within them and released it together. This embodied expression is a fundamental human need we have boxed into entertainment. When we sing and dance not for spectacle but for solidarity, what ancient part of ourselves do we reclaim?

Then there was dancing. It was not the dancing of a nightclub. It was the dancing of a garden and a porch, with furniture pushed back. Ma mère danced from the verandah, a queen of the rhythm, kicking her legs to Congolese music with a joyful energy that defied any assumption about age. We danced below in the garden. It was improvised, freeing, and inclusive. My husband, usually more reserved, was pulled into the circle. There was no skill required, only a willingness to move. In that movement, a different kind of communication happened. It was a detox from days of work and pressure. We were not professionals or parents or partners in that moment. We were simply people connected by rhythm and shared space.

The undeniable centre of this gravity was Harriet’s mother. She presided over the gathering with a calm, observant joy. Her eyes, bright with intelligence and memory, missed nothing. She did not command attention. She drew it. When she spoke, the room quietened not out of obligation but out of desire. Her conversation centred on faith, on marriage, on relationships built on love and trust. She spoke of gratitude and rhythm, of the importance of set times for work, prayer, and rest. Her wisdom was not a lecture. It was woven into anecdotes, into her graceful movements, into her deep, unforced laughter at a familiar joke.

What do we lose when we separate our generations? Watching her, I understood the deep human need for elders who are present, not as figureheads but as integrated anchors. In many urban African settings today, this integration is fraying. Grandparents live in villages, and nuclear families inhabit city apartments. We lose the daily osmosis of intergenerational wisdom. We lose the living memory that ma mère embodies. Her presence in that home was not incidental. It was foundational. It granted the gathering depth and a sense of continuity.

The poverty of agenda

As the evening wound down, the feeling was not of exhaustion but of renewal. The goodbyes were as slow and meaningful as the hellos. We carried the feeling with us into the night, a tangible warmth against the cool air.

Reflecting, I asked myself why such afternoons feel so rare. The answer lies in our capitulation to the cult of agenda. We meet to network. We meet to plan a project. We meet to discuss a problem. There is always a pretext, a stated objective that justifies the expenditure of time. While these meetings have their place, they are transactional. They feed the to do list but not the soul.

The gathering at Harriet’s mother’s house was non-transactional. Its sole purpose was nourishment of a different kind. It was an exercise in social resilience. In a continent often defined by its challenges, our greatest strength has always been our capacity for community. This is not a romantic notion. It is a practical, survival-tested reality. Yet, as we adopt more individualistic, productivity-obsessed models of living, we risk eroding this core competency. We become poorer in the midst of potential plenty.

How do we build immunity to this poverty? We must be intentional about preserving and creating these agenda-free zones. They are the workshops where empathy is built, where stress is dissolved not through therapy but through kinship, where culture is passed on not through textbooks but through lived experience. They are where children see adults relate as human beings, not just as roles. They are where we practice the art of being, rather than the relentless grind of doing.

The call is not for a nostalgic return to a past that cannot be reclaimed. It is for a conscious integration of this essential practice into our modern lives. It is to recognise that a visit, a shared meal, an impromptu song, are not distractions from productivity. They are the foundation of a healthy, rooted human society. They remind us that before we are professionals, we are people. We are neighbours, friends, family. We are keepers of each other's stories.

We should be doing this more often. Let us reach out not only when there is news to share or a favour to ask, but when there is simply a Saturday afternoon to spare. Let us clear the space without a special occasion. Let us invite the ma mères and let their presence steady us. Let us cook simple food, speak of small things, and find the rhythm that exists only when we are truly present with one another.

That is how we build a world that is not just connected, but meaningfully attached. That is how we sustain ourselves. One gathering at a time.