Off the Grid...kind of....Part II

 3 and 1/2 min. read

Part I

In addition to my health issues, 2025 has brought with it a body-snatcher style shift in my landlord, Kojo’s behaviour. Up until recently, we've had a decent rapport. Based in South-East Asia, he passes by every couple of years to check on the place, normally during the festive period. He seems pretty pleased after his Christmas 2024 visit, as he did when he popped by two years earlier. I inform Kojo that the cooker went on the blink temporarily on Christmas Day. Kojo casually suggests I have the hob replaced, since it must be getting on a bit. Seeing the modest size of the T.V. (which he bought himself), he offers to purchase a new one - practically insists. I decline. I never watch it, I explain, it’s for my guests. 

On the other side of the New Year, let’s just say things take a sudden and inexplicable turn for the worst. I know at some point over the festive period, Kojo has suffered a bereavement. It's not clear to me if this has happened before he passes by in December - and he was in a state of shock and/or denial during his visit - or if it's occurred shortly after. In my more charitable moments, I try to be understanding; albeit imperfectly. Kojo's sudden about-turn makes it very hard. The acrimonious exchanges and borderline harassment add a great deal of unneeded stress to my already anxiety-inducing health issues. Fortunately, Kojo and I have arrived at some kind of entente-cordiale, although both acknowledging that my occupancy of the flat is less and less tenable. I will need to find alternative accommodation by the time my lease is up in early Autumn.

Thank God, my studies have been an oasis of sorts. The first quarter of 2025 has brought some encouraging news in the form of several of my abstracts being accepted for various conferences. I nevertheless feel I’m always running behind time. It hasn't helped that my recent health problems have slowed me down. 

One afternoon in late February, I attend a session with a new therapist, Sirin.  I’ve started seeing her in parallel to my (now less frequent) appointments with Sandrine.  Walking-dead exhausted, I catch Sirin up on all the drama that’s been going on lately. She advises I speak to my GP about taking a brief period off university to recuperate. I’m initially reluctant. My studies help redirect my thoughts elsewhere. Plus, I don’t want to fall further behind. Sirin points out that it’s better to take a break now as a pre-emptive measure, than eventually suffer burnout and lose a lot more time in the long run.

I come to appreciate this timely wisdom. When I do eventually see my GP, the pressure at uni has started to increase - as has my anxiety - with various deadlines. I must also find a way to pay for all those conferences fees and related expenses. That begins to weigh on me.

I begin to feel a familiar existential anger about moving from one crisis to another. 

'Lord, Jesus. Can't I catch a break?'

My thoughts become very dark at times.

Meanwhile, my supervisor and my teammates are supportive when I inform ahead of my absence.

My sick leave overlaps in part with Lent, as well as my first 2025 trip to the UK. It's a low-key, bus(wo)man's affair; part study and work, and part meeting up with a select few friends whom I haven't seen in a good while. I’ve already sensed that God wants me to slow down during the Lenten period- and beyond. Stubborn as I can be, if life didn’t intervene, it would be harder for me to do it of my own accord.

(c) Elena Mozhvilo

Since my PhD began last summer, I’ve been struggling with fitting the rest of my life around it. I've known several folk who've juggled doctorates with marriage, children and/or full time jobs. I assumed that, as a single person with no dependents, a PhD would surely be adaptable to my schedule. Not quite.

I once heard a pastor from my UK church advise: 'Don't compare yourself to freaks of nature'.

It’s the opposite to what happened when doing my MA. I forewarned my acquaintances at the time that I’d probably go off the radar quite a bit. Instead, my activities continued pretty much as normal until the last six months. I presumed the same dynamic would apply to my PhD. I willed it to. I have so many commitments that are close to my heart, particularly in the activist space and social action.  Some of these open up incredible opportunities to meet and learn from those who have already made a difference. In February for example, I have a great conversation with one-time anti-Apartheid activist, vocal anti-Zionist Jew and Keir Starmer's constituency nemesis, Andrew Feinstein at Intal's annual political education weekend - or Campus.

 I also want to make quality time for friendships; established and embryonic alike, not to mention a glut of cultural events I'd like to attend. Alas, something has to give. When I mention at the start of the year that time management will be a priority in 2025, my sis warns, You can’t simply add your PhD on top of an already busy schedule. Her words echo in my head.

Recent circumstances have accelerated the re-evaluation of how I distribute my time; negotiating what to maintain, reduce or put on hold until further notice. I know that self-care is central to any plan to make the world a better place. If I burn out, I can't show up for anybody. However, it remains a tricky and, at times, painful process. I have outgoing inclinations. Yet, haunted by Sirin and my sister’s admonitions, I’m aware it’s a necessary process too. Notwithstanding the numerous medical appointments or a problem landlord, I have a busy year ahead; purely on the academic front. 

That brings me full circle to my hiatus from this blog. Prior to recent crises, I would be content to meet my minimum of one post per month, all things considered. At the moment, I can’t guarantee that. My primary blog, I Was Just Thinking, as well as my editorial duties over at Afropean.com take precedence. That said, out of necessity, I'm also scaling back on those preoccupations to some degree. 

The recalibration is ongoing. It might be that some months I’m quite active on these pages followed by several weeks -if not longer - of radio silence.  Either way, it felt rude to proceed without any notice. 

So, until…whenever?

Off the Grid...kind of....Part I

7 + 1/2 min. read

It’s been a while. This is the longest unplanned hiatus to date that I’ve taken from this blog.

The readers that occasionally pass by these pages might not have requested an update but I feel I owe you one.

Let’s just say 2025 has got off to a fairly dramatic start.

One early February morning, I find myself in hospital screaming blue murder from debilitating pain. It began in my lower back but by then, is radiating throughout my whole body.

Rewind to mid-2022. I start feeling pangs on a regular basis on the lower left-side of my back.  I assume it’s a psycho-somatic reaction to a period of prolonged anxiety.  Unable to ignore the pain any longer, I see my GP about it. Before referring me to physio, she suggests I apply Chinese tiger balm to the affected area and prescribes some special exercises. It seems to do the trick. The back pain will return periodically, usually during moments of intense stress, but my GP’s solution continues to be effective.

Until it isn’t.

From late 2024, despite religiously adhering to the regime, the pain does not alleviate. Worse still, it’s spread down to my left leg, close to the calf. It starts encroaching on my everyday life, impeding my movements at the gym. Sneezing induces sharp shocks of pain. Sleeping has also become more difficult. The discomfort from trying to turn in bed wakes me up. I get leg cramps during the night and I’m limping in the mornings. I try to book an immediate appointment with my GP but she’s on maternity leave at that time.

Desperate and not knowing much about back specialists, I go online. The Belgian site dedicated to medical problems of all kinds keeps bringing up osteopath information. I book a session with one based only a stone’s throw away from my flat - and, more importantly - available that same week.

Image courtesy of Nightingale Home Nurse

After I explain my symptoms, to my horror, the osteopath asks me to strip down to my (unmatching) underwear. I’m not even allowed to keep on my tights. Completely unprepared, despite my doubts, I submit to his instructions. I’ll find out later via Google and/or word of mouth that whilst getting undressed for the osteopath is not uncommon, it’s not essential. He should have also offered me a blanket for discretion, and the fact that it's the middle of winter.

Thank goodness, I’ve showered earlier that afternoon and my bikini line is up to date. The osteopath has me contorted in positions that would make the proverbial blush. I feel no man I’m not married to should see me in such a state. He seems almost dismissive about my prudishness; as if I’m overreacting. Surely it's pretty typical. He keeps insisting that I relax.

I’m mortified, I reply.

That’s a big word, he condescends.

And very apt, I retort.

I ask if he’s gay (not the first time I’ve done this in a medical context). No relief there. …But we’re all asexual during examinations…he jokes inappropriately.  

The mini-ordeal lasts for the best part of an hour, during which the osteopath claims I have a 'misaligned pelvis'. This theory makes sense at the time.

At last, properly taking note of my extreme discomfort, he let’s me re-dress. I’m still in pain at the end of the appointment.  That’s normal, he reassures, give it up to 48 hours.

Two weeks later and rather than seeing an improvement, the osteopath seems to have aggravated the situation. Peine perdue. All that humiliation for nothing. Plus 60 euros that I couldn’t really spare down the drain, with negligible assistance from my health insurance. I make an appointment to go back to the same osteopath, figuring he should finish what he started. Then again, I’m afraid he’ll make it worse.

Meanwhile, having herself recovered from a herniated disc a few years ago, my sis is upset with me for seeing an osteopath in the first place. She reckons it’s quack-science.

Go to an orthopaedist, she orders via video call.

Don’t they just take care of feet? I ask, revealing my level of ignorance.

I cancel the appointment with the osteopath and book to see an orthopaedist close to my university campus ASAP.

(c) Annie Spratt

The evening before that appointment, I’m due to host another dinner party. I’m nervous for a variety of reasons. I have a dicey relationship with one particular guest. My invitation is supposed to be an olive branch. My back pain is also playing up again. I’m worried I might have to cancel. Fortunately, it calms down enough not to interfere with my hosting plans. All goes well. I don’t mention anything to my guests.

That evening, I’m awoken in the middle of the night, partially by pain and partially to check I turned off the heating in the living room. I bend down and feel something pop. The pain is so acute I let out an involuntary yelp. It’s around half-past 3am. I’m scared about waking up my neighbours. I bend down again to retrieve something from the floor. Another bad move.

For the best part of the next hour, I negotiate unsuccessfully with my body. The otherwise strong painkillers that I've started taking more regularly (prompted by the osteopath) have no effect whatsoever. I cannot find any sustainable position in which my body is not in unbearable pain. I drag myself into the shower, hoping the hot water will offer some reprieve. I’m trying to avoid going to the nearby hospital at all costs. It would involve me getting dressed, finding my Belgian residency card, dragging myself to the door to let the paramedics in...and unlike the NHS, it's not free. I have hospitalisation insurance courtesy of The University but I have no idea how this works in Belgium. Thank God, up until now I've not needed to know.

I tell myself that I just have to make it through the night and until the orthopaedist appointment at midday.

My body screams 'no'.

I call the ambulance. By the time they arrive around 5am, the pain is so bad, I can’t walk to the van. I can’t even put on my coat, in spite of the cold. They bring the stretcher round to the front of my building. It’s too painful to lie down. The paramedics reluctantly allow me to remain on all fours - the least excruciating position. Unable to strap me in, they beg me to hold tight. One of them teases that I resemble a woman in labour.

I’m tempted to immediately ask for morphine but fear the hospital staff will presume I’m a junkie, faking the pain for a fix. I needn’t bother. They end up pumping me full of it anyway. A nurse pops me some valium at some point to relax my muscles (something I wish they had done earlier).

(c) Sardar Faizan

The needle from the IV digs into my right hand as I continue to be on all fours. I’m still in too much agony to lie down. It takes hours for the pain relief to kick in properly. The nurses tell me there’s not much they can do in the meanwhile or thereafter.

From the moment of the ambulance' arrival, I'm repeatedly asked similar questions by various health professionals. Fortunately, despite the pain - or maybe because of it, since it forces me to slow down - my French is clear and fluid. I've never been more grateful to have a level of fluency in one of the country's official languages. I hear words thrown around like ‘sciatica’ and ‘herniated disc’.

I don’t know if I’ll ever experience the blessing of motherhood. I nevertheless pray that if I do, the process of giving birth doesn’t test my tolerance for pain to the extent of that early morning. Now in a private hospital room, I scream with abandon, interspersed with growling invectives aimed at the Almighty- and the occasional song of worship. 

When the painkillers finally take effect, I fall into fitful sleep with funky dreams. After I awake, I'm served a humble breakfast by a cheery nurse, only too glad to fetch me hot chocolate instead of coffee or tea.

A friendly young doctor prescribes diverse medication to alleviate the pain, including more valium. My mind drifts straightaway to celebrities who have become addicted to legal drugs and/or died from accidentally overdosing on painkillers.

The young doc also prescribes some physio sessions and recommends I see a sports physician at some point. I tell him about my orthopaedist appointment at noon. That’s the next best thing, he agrees. By the time I'm discharged, I’ve been in hospital around six hours.

In the meantime I’ve texted my supervisor, my mum and close friend, Karin to let them know where I am. I leave hospital in time to make my providentially-scheduled midday orthopaedist appointment. He affirms the A&E doctor's advice and writes me a prescription for a MRI scan. The rest of the day is spent in a fog of painkillers. I’m barely coherent. I limp from that day onwards, and not just in the mornings. Walking up the stairs also feels odd.

After a speedily-obtained MRI -a small miracle in itself, I'm told - the images are made available within a few days. The report follows a week later. I can't make head nor tail of it in any language. Google is little help, with results ranging from the risk of quadraplegia to not much more than a momentary inconvenience. I go back to the same orthopaedist to translate the report. Whilst acknowledging my condition has improved, he's clinical and more prone to speak about grim outcomes. I leave the appointment demoralised and a tad bewildered.

(c) Annie Spratt

Mercifully, I have a follow-up appointment with my brilliant physiotherapist, Simone, later that week. She's based at my main gym. Nearly half my age, Simone is confident, full of pep and very competent. Where the doctors tend to go overboard, either prescribing too much physio in one week or, in the orthopaedist's case, being full of gloom, hers is a level-headed and pragmatic voice.

Simone interprets the MRI results for me again but in plainer language. It turns out that I did have a herniated disc and some general wear and tear at the base of my spine. Very common symptoms she says, and nothing insurmountable. Simone commends me for the progress I've made so far and for staying active the whole time. She massages the affected area and tweaks my already light exercise regime. Her prognosis is far sunnier than the orthopaedist's. I just need to be patient, although not for too long, Simone reassures.

My brush with severe back pain will also lead me to discover how common it is. Family members and acquaintances share similar stories of which I was hitherto unaware.

Several weeks later, I’m well on the road to recovery. I walk up the stairs pretty much normally again. I’ve been off analgesics for several weeks. Thank God. The pills were not only pricey but knocked me out. I was constantly making a toss-up between distracting pain or constant fatigue.

There are still tell-tale signs, however. I’m not yet able to run properly and I avoid weights classes. I’ve limited my gym visits to a maximum of three - rather than four - per week whilst I await my return to full capacity.  The limp, whilst diminished, hasn’t yet totally disappeared. I have had a recent relapse that makes it more pronounced on occasion.

Nevertheless, I remain hopeful.

Part II

A Festive Transition

 4 and a 1/2 min. read

Image: Hi Mac

As well as ruffling feathers at conferences, I also find time to host two successful December dinner parties. The first ends up being an unintentional dry run for Christmas. I don’t plan for it to be so close to Yuletide; more just a case of finding a suitable space in my diary. I realise it’s the first time I have hosted more than one person for a good while. Maybe that’s why unconsciously, in terms of numbers, this soirée will be my most ambitious to date.

I invite a mix of recently made acquaintances, in addition to my long-time confidante Karin. Guests include Vision, my University colleague originally from Zimba; Mélanie, who recruited me for a migration rights consultancy in Spring 2024; Anne-Marie, a thoughtful and beautiful young woman of Congolese, Rwandan and Eritrean heritage that I met at a Palestine solidarity event; Romana, a straight-talking, multi-lingual I know from a monthly language event, also of mixed-Congolese heritage and Kathleen; a Brit I’ve met at various cultural events and who generously offered me a ticket to see Robert Glasper in autumn.

My choice of diverse and intergenerational guests turns out to be propitious. After the initial awkwardness, a natural kismet emerges. The ambiance is celebratory. Luxury-loving Romana brings a bottle of champagne that will remain untouched all evening. (I’ll eventually gift it to my mother during her Christmas visit.)

We have a number of candid conversations about race, misogynoir, culture shocks and interracial dating, amongst multiple themes. In particular, Vision opens up about life adjusting to Belgium and the scandalous not-so-micro-agressions she has encountered living in Flanders. 

I couldn’t be more pleased about the amazing feedback over the coming days. Vision comments on how easy I make it look to find compatible friendships.  Being in a committed relationship, mothering a young child, and as a full-time post-doc, she struggles to find the time to socialise. She presumes it's easier for me as an outgoing singleton.

If only you knew, I reply, proceeding to outline in brief how difficult it has been, and to some degree continues to be, finding solid community in Brussels.

Image: Juan Gomez

In reality, the only guest in attendance I’ve known for longer than a year is Karin.  It’s also the first time I’ve hosted a group in years. Until late 2023, I had entertained a sole guest within the space of a year. Owing to the disposition of said invitee, it was a disaster. I needed to break out of this subconscious hosting moratorium.

My reluctance had a lot to do with the aforementioned bad experience and general relational disappointments, including the abrupt end to my friendship with Lorenzo.

Speaking of the devil, I happen to bump into my Italian former BFF en route to a shift at the Red Cross. That afternoon, I just about manage to board the close-to-full bus. I have little choice but to sit at the back. If I had sat in my usual spot, I’d have never seen Lorenzo. I don’t initially recognise him. He’s grown his fair locks to Rip Van Winkle lengths. I wonder whom this smiling hippy-like figure is. It’s not that he recognises me straight away either, he later admits. I'm differently coiffed to when we last saw each other, almost two years prior.

Lorenzo smiles not from recognition but because of the serene state of mind in which he’s currently in. I mention to him that, ironically, I have a long overdue call scheduled with our mutual friend, Melissa, the following day.

I am guarded at first. There is no apology or acknowledgement on Lorenzo's part for the way he torpedoed our friendship or the deep relational trauma caused by the insensitively-handled rupture. The bus ride is too short to address it, yet it’s something I’ll remain displeased about. Nevertheless, perhaps out of shock, the grace of God or both, we manage an organically cordial conversation before I have to rush off. If I could have anticipated our meeting, I wouldn't have responded with anything approaching magnanimity. As I alight the bus, I mutter to the Almighty that S/He has a wicked sense of humour...

Returning to the subject of my Christmas plans, I have no intentions to travel. I decide against it long before the PhD is even on the horizon, after the chaotic and stressful commute to the UK in 2023. 

Image: Debby Hudson

Whilst sis will also stay put in Japan this time, it is agreed mum will join me for the second half of the Yuletide pause, as is now habitual. For Christmas Day itself, I resume my custom of hosting non-relatives who also remain in situ over the festive break.

This year my guestlist is made up of my colleague Geraldine and Nadia; a Canadian-born, Italian-Libyan I know through my activism. She is unable to fly because of a health issue. Nadia is accompanied by her sister, Mariam- sleepy from jetlag. A good acquaintance from church, Wallace, makes a cameo. Originally from Uganda, she has a harrowing story that her ready smile belies. Living with a precarious migration status, travel isn't currently feasible. 

If this once again ends up being an all-female affair, it’s not for lack of trying. My male guests are no-shows. (One doesn’t even do the courtesy of letting me know. Despite his earlier confirmation, my efforts to follow-up are met with radio silence. My experience in Belgium reminds me once again of the male species' unreliability.)

On Christmas day itself, my stove decides to go on strike. This thus entails some improvising with the oven and microwave. Fortunately, I begin most of my Christmas meal preparations days in advance. However, it does mean my mashed potatoes aren’t as fluffy as I’d like and the veg is a little too crunchy. My guests are very kind and complimentary nonetheless; whether from a genuine place of contentment, pity or politeness, I can’t tell.

Soundtrack: California Holiday by Kadhja Bonet; a Christmas mix compiled by yours truly.

Happy 2025 to La Vie Continentale readers.

A Breathless Semester

 6 min. read

Image: Nathan Dumlao

The unplanned mini-hiatus since my previous posts is a reflection of how hectic the final quarter of 2024 has been; not least, December. The first two weeks of the month are consumed with preparation for and/or participation in two big conferences. The first of which is the major annual event of LILAC (Liminality in Literature Academic Centre); the University sub-department to which my team belongs. For this particular event, my colleague Elif has been recruited - or coerced - into joining the organisational team. She is balancing these responsibilities with her own research, as well as preparation for various other conference papers.

When applying for the PhD, my professor friend, Danny Dorling, advised that there would be a lot more event organisation and project coordination than one would gauge from the vacancy ad. 

Birgitta, our supervisor, is a gentle and emotionally-intelligent soul but also a woman of very high standards; be it strict adherence to grammatical rules or conference planning.

One week after the LILAC event, the EMW (English in a Multilingual World) gathering takes place. This time it’s my colleague Geraldine and I, alongside several other LILAC colleagues of varying seniority, who are roped into organising. The conference booklet becomes the bane of our existence. Subject to much proofreading, revisions and weeks and weeks of email exchanges, the booklet will still be riddled with mistakes after going to print. Most notably, the University’s in-house comms team manages to miss out a whole abstract page.  Their work generally leaves a lot to be desired. Despite the many exchanges and astute observations of colleagues, the oversight somehow escapes our collective attention. We resort to printing out inserts.

If that weren’t enough, there's a last minute cancellation by one of the EMW keynote speakers, who’s caught a strong bout of COVID. By then all the promotional materials, including the booklet, have long gone to print. Miraculously, Birgitta manages to find a hail-Mary replacement; one Dr. Johann Larsberg. Cue another page insert.

During these intense weeks, Birgitta prefers the team to be on campus as much as possible. Furthermore, a number of administrative meetings are squeezed into this period; likely in an effort to grab folk before the Christmas holidays and campus closures. I’m also obligated to attend sessions during the once-a-year Ethics Week, in order to complete the compulsory online training for PhD researchers. It’s a mind-numbing, box-ticking exercise as well as a missed opportunity. This year’s theme is on the use of AI in academia and military research. The sessions are mostly didactic and non-interactive. In addition, the University’s Free Palestine campaign group, of which I’m a member, criticises the event for ignoring Israel’s use of technology to terrorise Palestinians, as well as the institution’s continued complicity through collaboration with Israeli academia. 

Apart from Ethics Week and/or conference planning, there are numerous other events - not all during office hours - abstracts to draft for more conferences, team workshops for which to prepare and our own reading and research with which to contend. I feel all the project management and admin is distracting me from the ‘real’ work of study. This is something with which I need to make my peace quickly. As the official team project coordinator, these duties fall on my shoulders even more than that of my colleagues. I share my concerns with my life coach, Pieter. He's gone through the PhD process himself, whilst working and raising a young family. Piet advises me to observe the rhythms of one full academic year to better understand effective time management for the future.

Image: Claudia Wolff

Once the conferences arrive, they are stimulating and even fun; in a frenetic way. The good grub is an added bonus. The second keynote speaker at the EMW conference is Prof. Dr. Kristophe Meyer; a specialist in the evolution of varieties of English in the former peripheries of Empire. I learn a lot during his session about the growing influence of Nigerian pidgin - already amongst the top 12 most spoken languages globally, according to the statistics cited by Prof. Meyer. He also has quite the handle on UK - particularly London - argot, influenced by various waves of Afrodescendant migration. I'm tickled by this elderly Swiss-German professor's use of slang during his keynote address, as well as our own one-to-one conversations. Prof. Meyer makes many references not only to Naija but the South-East London multicultural landscape in which I grew up. His interventions thus take on a rather nostalgic air for me.

As well as keeping an eye on catering, alongside our most affable colleague Jessica, Geraldine and I try to catch as many of our immediate team members’ presentations as possible. Frustratingly, there’s a scheduling clash between Elif’s paper and that of new colleague, Maddox. In Autumn she took over from our former teammate, Janneke for whom the PhD wasn’t a good fit. She subsequently returned to teaching. Maddox came personally recommended by Janneke. It’s so far been an auspicious transition. Also hailing from Flanders, you’d never know from Maddox' naturalistic English and clipped diction.

Alas, during the EMW conference I’m caught between her accomplished presentation on travel writing, checking on the caterers and following Elif’s intervention. Something has to give and thus, I don’t make it in time to catch the latter part of Elif’s paper, much to my regret.

For the sessions of the LILAC and EMW conferences I do attend, I pose challenging questions. Whilst attending one particular presentation, I find it especially hard to bite my tongue. All three participating academics speak on Afrodescendant literatures and contexts with which none have any direct experience. Two of the speakers are European, one is East Asian. This wouldn’t be an issue if academia didn’t already strongly reflect the racial and class inequalities of the real world. I am the only black face in the room. I debate on whether to say anything at all.

I reflect carefully on how to formulate my question in such a way that makes my point, whilst causing the least amount of offence. Many of those who’ve packed out the session also specialise in Afrodescendant literatures.

I affirm that I’m not advocating academic segregation. Neither would I claim to represent the entirety of the 'Black British Experience' - whatever that is. However, what might be merely source texts to my paler-skinned fellow academics aren't just abstract stories to me. They often reflect something of my lived experience. It bothers me that certain (neo)colonial practices are being inadvertently replicated. A group that is minoritised in the Western context are effectively being objectified by 'outsiders' for research purposes. It risks being extractive, as phrased by one of a number of black academics with whom I’ve discussed this sensitive issue. How to avoid it?

One visiting professor comments about the power of literature to break down barriers and change perspectives, citing Richard Wright’s memoir Black Boy; one of my own personal favourites. She's not wrong. I don’t have to be an Englishwoman of the early 19th century to enjoy the work of the Brontë sisters, for instance.

Image: Shubham Sharam

Nevertheless, this appreciation does not redress existing macro/structural inequities being reproduced in academia. She further tries to find common ground by making a well-intentioned but tone deaf comparison to the prejudice her parents faced as Spanish migrants to Belgium. Once again, I diplomatically attempt to point out the limitations of such an analogy.

To my surprise, there are sympathetic nods and remarks during and after my intervention, by the likes of Prof. Meyer no less, for which I’m grateful. Still, I sense a shift in the atmosphere. One faculty member, about whom I’ve had reservations from the outset, approaches me with a feigned friendliness that drips with passive-aggression. When they ask for suggestions on how to address the quandary, I can almost hear a ‘wise guy’ left off the end of the sentence.

I remind them of my own endeavours to acknowledge the complexity of the issue, as well as remarks made by Dr. Larsberg during his own keynote speech. Referencing the work of a Polynesian poet, the main theme of his intervention is the decolonisation of literary analysis. Whilst Johann was not in the room when I raised my question, you’d think from his presentation that we’d previously consulted on the subject. He also uses terms like ‘objectification’ and ‘extraction’ to warn against colonial capture, all whilst recognising that there are no quick fixes.

Vindication.

As pointed out by my sweet and sympathetic Dutch colleague, Karolijn - also researching Black British literatures - awareness is the game. Or, as I like to call it, methodological humility. It’s incumbent on white or non-black academics in these spaces to acknowledge imbalances and colonial overhang.

A few days later, we will review this conversation as a team at our all-day Christmas outing in Flanders.  Maddox once again commends me for raising the issue. If not you, then who? Birgitta agrees that it's no bad thing for academics to be upfront about the motivation for their field of study. Particularly when it pertains to minoritised groups of which they are not part.

Um Parêntese Portugûes: Part II

 7 min read

Part I

Inside Faro Cathedral 
(image: Expedia)

By the next day, I’m familiar enough with my surroundings to avoid the unnecessarily circuitous routes to Faro city centre. I still take the occasional wrong turn but I’m quickly able to rectify my path. Besides, getting lost is part of the adventure.  I try but fail to resist the urge to scratch furiously at my mosquito bites. Despite diligent application of my roll-on repellent, the critters have chewed up the fleshiest parts of my legs.

On my jaunts, I’m in the habit of greeting locals in a way I wouldn’t in the UK, France or Belgium. At least not consistently. Faro has quite a friendly atmosphere, something I’ve picked up on previous trips to Portugal.

As also observed in other major Portuguese cities, the Black presence is well-established in Faro. There is scarcely the kind of othering that one might experience in certain contexts; even next door in Spain. I greet my fellow Afrodescendants with a nod and ‘Bom dia’ or ‘Boa tarde’. I spark conversation with folk of Mozambican or Cape Verdean heritage in shops and restaurants. One day, when my Portuguese skills are more assured, I’ll have more in-depth conversations about multiculturalism from their perspective. If there were one other country in mainland Europe with which I’d experiment taking up residence, it would be Portugal. At the same time, I don’t want to be naïve. It was also a major empire that held on viciously to its former colonies. It’s one thing to dip in and out as a tourist, and another to immigrate.

It’s yet again a glorious day; nothing like the Novembers to which I'm accustomed, even compared to when I was last in Portugal around this time of year. I have on my sight-seeing list mainly holy sites; Faro Cathedral, São Pedro church and the morbid Igreja do Carmo; the one with all the bones.  São Pedro is a hop and a skip away from my accommodation but is closed when I first stop by. Same for the Igreja do Carmo.

I therefore take a leisurely stroll to the Cathedral. I’ve noticed en route that Faro has a surfeit of beauty clinics; so many in such close proximity that I wonder how business remains viable. Perhaps the Faronenses still consider grooming a priority, despite these economically straitened times.

The animated fellow at the Cathedral’s ticket office  - fresh from ending what sounded like a heated phone conversation - goes on about the 'bargain' five euro entrance fee. I think. My Portuguese still isn’t as advanced as it should be. That I find the Brazilian variety much more pleasing to - and easier on - the ear than the European, only adds to the challenge. However, I still have enough of the language to feel at ease in the country and make my way around without difficulty. If I miss much of what the receptionist has said, the practice is still valuable. He offers me a guide in Portuguese which I gladly accept.

I usually don’t like to pay to enter churches but I make an exception. The interior of the Cathedral is inviting, if a bit gaudy - as these gilded Roman Catholic spaces often are. There are entire walls made up of azujelo; artisanal blue tiles, for which Portugal is famous. I’m surprised this area haven’t been cordoned off like other parts. I reach out to touch one wall and notice how brittle the tiles are. I’m suddenly overcome with emotion; as if their fragility reflects my own. 

Adjacent to the main chapel is a modest-sized museum, housing sculptures, slightly damaged portraits of various apostles and miscellaneous church regalia. Not for the first time, the latter unnerves me. I wonder how Jesus, a humble carpenter who epitomised simplicity during His earthly ministry, came to be associated with such pomp. A sincere desire to offer God the best became an end in itself.

I complete my visit with what I’m most interested in; the view from the bell tower. It doesn’t disappoint. I sit down on a piece of elevated stone, which appeases my mild vertigo but still affords me a decent view of the city from on high. The half-hourly gong of the bell is pretty formidable at this close distance, as is to be expected.

Feeling more and more confident about my navigation skills, I return to some of the areas covered on the tour the previous day.

I plan to finish up at the Skull Church, en route to my accommodation. Not before stopping off to replace my broken suitcase; an additional expense I do not need. 

I stop off at São Pedro’s - now open - for a few serene moments. An elaborate choral soundtrack, similar to that I heard playing in the Cathedral, streams through the church speakers at a low volume.

When I arrive at the Igreja do Carmo, I’m told it’s cash entry only. Having used up all my change, I’m not about to be ripped off by one of the many nearby commission-charging ATMs. I take it as a sign. I already had doubts about this macabre detour. 

After a pit stop back at the accommodation, I return to the bay to catch another splendid sunset.  I hope to spend a couple of hours at the waterfront before making my way to a free early evening Jazz jam, held in a bar-cum-arts centre in the vicinity. It’s the same kind of event I’d attend in any city I’ve lived in. I don’t know. These shows have a way of finding me. 

A solo guitarist has replaced the duo busking at the bay the day before. I intermittently swap between my own playlist and listening to his covers of Sting, Grover Washington Jr, The Cranberries and Prince. He’ll also be at the same location the next day, adding George Michael to his repertoire.

(image: Deposit Photos)

It soon becomes too cool to continue sitting by the bayside and the venue won’t let punters in before showtime. Hungry, I decide on an early dinner at a restaurant recommended by the tour guide. I can’t visit Portugal without sampling some of the local catch. For a while, I’m the only customer. The young mulatto waiter tells me it’s typical of the low season. I order some vegetable soup and a piping hot cod gratin with shrimp and a side of salad, on the waiter’s recommendation. Having cleared my plate, I have no regrets.

The Jam is in full swing by the time I arrive. A drums/keys/guitar/double-bass quartet combo is on stage, occasionally swapping musicians in and out.

There are no free tables, although a few spare chairs are scattered around. I pull one up. At an adjacent table a young lady, sitting with a sardonic-looking older man, sucks on an e-cigarette. (The establishment’s smoking policy is pretty lax). Her dress is so short that when she stands up, the gusset of her tights is on full view. A red-faced young woman behind me interrogates an androgynous-looking individual, in loud accented-English, about their relocation directly from Nigeria to Portugal. She speaks with an aggressive friendliness particular to inebriation. 

I’m eventually invited to join the table of a Colombian couple, Jose and Alicia, with whom I’ve struck up a conversation. It seems impolite to refuse, even if I dislike being the third wheel. Oddly, the conversation stops once I join them.

One of the guitarists is Alicia’s tutor. Whilst he has his moments, he doesn’t always blend well with the other musicians.

The couple disappear before the end. Showtime is over at a very respectable 9pm on what is, after all, a school night. I recall the advice I received on the evening of my arrival to avoid staying out beyond 10pm.

On the way back to my accommodation, I notice a young man from the audience walking in a slight zig-zag ahead of me. He stood out when I heard him speaking with a native English accent. He also bears a resemblance to French singer/songwriter, Julien Doré.  When I see him make a left turn towards the pier, I quicken my steps to follow suit. It’s poorly lit and I can’t see well without my glasses. When he walks a little too gingerly towards the edge, I shout to get his attention. 

Hey, hey!

I ask his name. He doesn’t want to divulge it. 

I’m just checking you're all right.

No, I’m okay, really. Just about to have a beer.

Oh well, fine. Jesus loves you...Umm...The universe would miss you if you weren’t around.

(I normally hate the vague, new-agey reference to 'The Universe'. In this case, I mean it in terms of the entirety of God’s creation)

Thanks for your concern. Really.

I continue on my way but then get it into my head that he could have been lying. I rush back. I can only make out treacherous shadows, before I see a young couple sitting calmly at the same spot. Tired and panicky, my Portuguese is especially garbled. They ask me to switch to English. If it weren’t urgent I’d insist otherwise. I ask if they’ve seen a man with long curly blond hair. They point unhurriedly to a dark mass lying on the pier. He overhears my concern and thanks me once again for checking up on him. Relieved, I return to my room with a clear conscience.

Faro Beach
(image: Travel in Portugal)

The last full day of my Faro trip, the weather begins to feel a bit brisk. Rain is forecast the following day, when I’m due to fly back to Brussels.

In the meantime, in light of the slight temperature drop, I’m second guessing my choice to spend a day at Faro beach. A very cheap and cheerful round trip by boat will have me there in 20 minutes. 

I’ve already made up my mind, so power through. I’ll be glad I did. It’s a wonderfully serene, not to mention temperate day by the coast. Being off-peak, the beach is far from crowded. It’s mainly smatterings of folk like myself, strolling along the coastline or a few going for a swim. A woman in a skimpy bikini dips her giddy toddler into the water.

The beach is so tranquil, that mine are the only footsteps I see in the sand for some distance. I park myself under a beating sun, tempered by the sea breeze. Apart from being beset by pesky flies, I spend a mellow afternoon reading, meditating or listening to podcasts at leisure, before returning on the last boat to catch the sunset in Faro city. I linger until it becomes too nippy to remain in one place.

I round off my sweet Portuguese parenthesis with some traditional barbeque chicken - or churrasqueira - in the neighbourhood.

Soundtrack: I Won’t Say I’m Not Hurting by Boddhi Satva; Candle Flame (Opolopo Remix) by Jungle; Options by Bluelab Beats feat. Farah Audali and the Better Days EP by Tom Misch.