One of the things that set blacks and whites apart is the sense of colour, or the lack of it.

I was vividly reminded of this difference at that dinner dance of Nigerian nurses based in the United States, which took place in New York the other week.

Africans love colour, West Africans and Congolese more so than the rest of us. We are not sometimes referred to as “people of colour” for nothing.

It must be that when African nurses are in their bland white or pink uniforms imposed by European colonialists, they must feel naked. For without the bright yellow, red, gold and purple patterns, where is the dress?

So you can imagine the sea of colours that confronted me at the Nigerian party. I have never in my whole life seen so many colours in one place. Not even at a Brazilian carnival. I had but to wonder where these African women get their fabrics (and I was told mostly from the Netherlands!).

As if the flowing dresses weren’t dazing enough, they matched them with equally colourful accessories. Imagine a woman wearing a flowing dress of green and purple patterns, a head dress of the same colour combination, a pair of green shoes, a green necklace, green earrings and carrying a green handbag.

Don’t forget that her nails, lips and eyelids are all painted in purple to match. Now multiply this woman by 300, replacing the purple and green with all the bright colours you can imagine.

If your head is already spinning, you know the state I was in the entire evening of the Nigerian party. Throw in a couple of wine glasses and you would be lucky – which I was – to remain on your feet.

So what's with Africans and colours?

One of my friends says it is a manifestation of our radiant nature. That we are a happy people, and that is reflected in our attraction to bright colours. This would explain why, at one time, a restaurant that had something on the menu described as “colourful goat’s meat” was one of the most popular in Kampala.

“Did you think you were going to a funeral?” one of my West African friends commented when I complained about the dizzying colours at the Nigerian party.

He was obviously talking of a funeral of white people because I have been to hundreds of funerals of blacks and, believe me, they are not any less colourful.

Someone else thinks that Africans like bright colours because we like to be noticed. We compete to be the brightest in the room.

Now I can see the point of those flamboyant head dresses that kept me on tenterhooks, darting from side to side, to avoid being knocked down by them the whole evening of the Nigerian party.

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