Back home we talk about culture, respect and the lack thereof. We bang on about recognising difference and yet when push comes to shove it seems to be my way or the highway.

If there had been space for more people and the church pews could have stood the weight of a few extra bodies, I would have invited some of our so-called leaders to join in celebrating the wedding of my sister to her Zulu husband.

Here was culture in all its diversity and beauty. We had the Northern Irish contingent, the Zambian chums, the Swedish clan, American crew, Zulu comrades, the English concern and all sorts in between. 

In a country with 12 official languages – we always knew we would be a diverse crew. But even more than our South African guests, we were blessed with family and friends willing to travel far to congratulate the happy couple.

We celebrated their marriage in an Anglican church, they entered their wedding party to a chorus of Zulu voices and they received the blessing and well wishes of all and sundry – with brogues and twangs that blended into a harmonious chorus.

No one voice was louder than the rest, no less love was felt because we came from different worlds – it was a celebration, a coming together of two clans over three days of chaos and confusion.

This was culture at its best. It brought together proud mums, dads, aunts, uncles, sisters, brothers, cousins, nieces, nephews, a weekend where strangers became friends and old and young carried on traditions and cultures that stretch back over the generations.

We may not have understood all the dialects and tongues or the cacophony of voices when blood alcohol content levels reached their limits – but we cried, chortled and cheered together as cultures collided and coalesced and two families connected.