He looked at us with excitement. “So… you want the one piece butter, and other piece peanut, and another one jam, and then”, his eyes twinkled, “You put it together.”
Dad and I looked at each other. We’d spent the last ten minutes trying to explain to our guide, who would later explain to our cook, how to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Frustrated, but at the same time motivated to get his sandwich, my dad attempted it once more. “You take one piece of bread, and you put peanut,” he held out one hand to demonstrate, then the other. “Then you take another piece of bread. You put jam. Okay? And then,” he clapped his hands together, “You put it together.” There was silence for a few moments, as we waited for all this new and strange information to register.
He looked up at us. “But what about the butter?”
“No butter! Peanut butter. Just… peanut, forget the butter.”
The next day we each got a sandwich with three pieces of bread, a layer of jam and a layer of peanut butter. If I recall correctly, the peanut butter had been mixed with butter. I guess it’ll be a while before we Westernize Africa.