Afropean Wanderers: Highlights from the Looking B(l)ack Symposium, Brussels 19-21 October 2018 (Part 2)

(Read Part 1 here)

My time is so limited in Brussels that I don’t rush back after lunch. I want to briefly take in some of the city during my visit. Back at The Bozar Centre I get talking to the half-Congolese, half-Belgian doorman and globetrotting Brazilian mulatto, Pedro*. He works for a major European institution in Brussels. We swap notes on being one of the few brown faces at international organisations that are ironically lacking in non-European diversity.

Pedro further impresses me with his appreciation for darker-hued women. We need to celebrate black love, he adds, reassuringly. I spent much of that evening in his agreeable company and that of his Caribbean-British girlfriend Sarah, whom he met when they were both working in Brazil. Pedro is squeezed out of the picture once fellow South-East Londoner Sarah and I get talking.

I manage to catch the tail-end of Johny’s interview with his four-square, no-nonsense mentor and fellow Yorkshire-man Caryl Phillips. The following session is a documentary-screening and Q&A chaired by Togolese-Polish journalist Claude Grunitzky with Tété-Michel Kpomassie, an inspiration to many of the speakers. Self-taught polyglot Tété-Michel (to whom I refer to as uncle as a sign of affectionate respect) quit his Togolese village in his mid-teens. He spent the next few years making his way to Greenland via various odd jobs across Africa and Europe. His arctic fascination developed whilst reading a travel memoir he found in a missionary book shop. So strong is Uncle Kpomassie’s affection for Inuit culture, he wishes to be buried in Greenland. It’s not hard to understand why his intrepid Northern excursions have been a catalyst for the careers of other African travel writers. The images from the dated (and occasionally offensive) documentary depicts a gloomy frozen landscape that is plunged into darkness for the half the year . Whereas thought of life in Greenland is depressing, Kpomassie makes adaptation to the climate and indigenous mores look effortless. Not to mention his patience in the face of the locals’ initial ignorance, referring to him as a ‘black devil’.

After the session, waiting in the dinner queue I embark on a heated discussion with Uncle Tété and Zap Mama’s photographer about the role of Christianity in African history. I sense a strong hostility towards the faith from Kpomassie. When I mention that Christianity in Africa pre-dates its advent in Europe by centuries, he insists that it’s still not the ‘natural’ religion of the Continent. He shouldn’t romanticise animism, I argue. Neither should you romanticise Christianity, he retorts.

Uncle Tété and I share Ewe heritage (albeit mine is on the Ghanaian side of the dividing colonial line). I am familiar with some of the indigenous West African traditions. My experience makes me wary of what he venerates. (I later think it odd that Kpomassie is so vehement in his support of these religions, having fled Togo partly to avoid becoming a juju priest). I remind him of the ritual murder of twins in South-Eastern Nigeria until the arrival of Christian missionaries or the trade in Albino parts up till today in Tanzania; all part of the traditional beliefs. My two interlocutors speak over me at once in French. Gender issues, religious wars, witch-hunts...The usual suspects; genuine yet oft-rehearsed gripes, not always well-researched by those making them.  In my experience agnostics with more nuanced views or looking to have a constructive dialogue approach the discussion differently. I switch to English to express myself more clearly, not very successfully trying to relativise Christianity’s chequered past (and present) and contrast it with the Gospel message. I add that these problems aren't specific to religion but rather symptomatic of the broken human condition. My efforts are limited. The two men are committed sceptics and show little interest in my responses, Kpomassie leaving half-way through.

Thankfully, my dinner conversation with other guests is tension-free. The officious and irritable venue staff usher us back into the hall from which they not long ago ejected us.

The next performance is a showcase of prose and poetry from some of the UK’s finest contemporary writers, hosted by multi-lingual spoken word artist Elisabeth ‘Miss Elli’ Fernandes. There’s just enough time before curtain call to catch up with featured artist and honorary Londoner, Inua Ellams. Someone takes a group photo of the Afropean crew. It’s a chance for me to quickly touch base with magazine co-editor Natalie and meet some other members of the team.

The hall is now almost full to capacity and buzzing. The happy clamour nonetheless falls to a reverential silence for each performer. Living legend Linton Kwesi Johnson gets proceedings underway. The room collectively holds its breath as Catherine Johnson (no relation) reads a harrowing extract about sexual violence from her historical novel The Curious Tale of the Lady Caraboo. Glimpses of comprehension filter through the sad beauty of Amina Jama’s abstract verses. Ellams and Bernadine Evaristo lighten the mood with humorous contributions. Veterans of the UK poetry scene Roger Robinson and Nick Makoha take over the second half with excerpts from their newly-released mixtape; an enthralling and emotionally-charged multi-media theatrical event. During the break I discuss identity, semantics and Pan-Africanism amongst other topics with Sibo Kanobana and his congenial Moroccan acquaintance, Karim. He wonders if he is also part of the Afropean story.

Of course! Why wouldn’t he be?

Marie Daulne aka Zap Mama
(zapmama.com)

Afropean co-editor Yomi Bazuaye and I have also been conversing intermittently throughout the day, resuming our thread at convenient intervals. He calls me aside to record a soundbite for the website on what it means to be Afropean.

The symposium is brought to a spectacular close by the dynamic Zap Mama! and her energetic band. Since it's also Marie's birthday, the show has an even more celebratory feel. Between shaking my stuff I converse with Johny properly for the first time since I arrived.

You must do this again. I plead.

JP assures me it’s not going to be a one-off.

It’s close to midnight. This cross-cultural Cinderella has a tram to catch back to her Airbnb and a return coach to Strasbourg in the morning. I’ll miss out on the alternative tour of Belgium Johny has organised, to my chagrin.

I reflect on this intense and intellectually exhilarating weekend. It’s been a good while since I felt so completely in my element; fraternising with and learning from like-minded acquaintances and strangers. This is Afropean living at its best.

Part 1.

*Some names have been changed.

La-di-da, La-di-dum, ‘Tis Autumn

I try as much as humanly possible to be self-aware. Like any trait it has its advantages and drawbacks. I like to believe one benefit is healthy self-critique. For instance, anyone who has visited this blog recently might form the impression I’m a self-centred worry-wart; that there’s little of La Vie Strasbourgeoise that makes me smile. Alas, as much as I try to be outward-looking and cultivate gratitude, I don’t always succeed. I do also think there’s a place for honesty and acknowledgement of sorrow. 

Still, I wouldn’t want to sound like a stuck record either. Early autumn has brought renewed activity.  In September for example, I revive my monthly regional day-trips with a visit to Alsatian town Mulhouse. The weather is clement. The town itself is much like any other I’ve visited in the region; a mix of antiquity and toy-town charm. It’s an agreeable excursion but nothing out of the ordinary.

I’m still attending meet-up style socials but more for the experience than the contact. It’s in this frame of mind that I meet Renée at a gathering in a smoothie bar. The event has been organised by veteran Francophone Internations host, Annabelle although most of those in attendance have no French. Renée is comfortable speaking English but I never like to pass up the opportunity of French practice. She makes very generous comments about my efforts. I still need the confidence boost, I can’t pretend.  The discussion turns to origins. Renée is of Jewish extraction as is her husband. His father’s family fled Soviet Ukraine and settled in Argentina. Renée’s father-in-law met his French wife in Lyon and married within weeks before returning to South-America. Lithuanian Sofia relocated to Frankfurt with no German. She had one foot out of the door when her company offered her the opportunity. Her Teutonic experience hasn’t been very welcoming. It might explain why she’s made the journey into France to socialise. 

Perhaps because I’m not approaching these events with as much expectation, I’m pleasantly surprised by how freely the conversation flows. I am still somewhat guarded about maintaining contact and am content to live in the moment. 

To my surprise, Renée later reaches out to me via my Internations account. It’s not an empty gesture. We meet up a couple of weeks later at one of my new favourite haunts, Oh My Goodness! cafe. The conversation encompasses Renée’s disgust at the French translation for the #MeToo movement (BalanceTonPorc, which she finds vindictive and absent of the sense of solidarity of its English alternative), her family surviving concentration camps, the death penalty, intercultural marriages, Pope Francis (for whom we both have favourable opinions) and more besides.

In early October I meet up with my jet-setting polymath pal Vinoth Ramachandran. Based in Sri Lanka, he’s doing a tour of Europe during a sabbatical. He’s en route from Portugal, staying in Alsace with an old Strasbourgeois friend before heading off to the UK. I pick this intellectual heavyweight's brains about politics and theology as much as our one and a half hour window will allow. Before he leaves, he mentions his friend’s prodigiously intelligent daughter, Mariam is currently a trainee at The Organisation. We make contact by email later that week.

In between official meet-ups, I have some heartening encounters with perfect strangers. A Lebanese expat, Jonas approaches me at the Andre Malraux Médiatheque one Saturday. He's a mix of eagerness and nerves. He claims to recognise me from an Internations event. I have no recollection of him. Despite my initial defensiveness, Jonas persists. I loosen up. My plans for a quiet read are jettisoned as we discuss travel, geopolitics and the persecution of religious minorities. As you do.

Another occasion, on my day off, a quiet read at yet another smoothie bar is once again interrupted by a young Anglophone West African woman asking about my hair. She’s on lunch break with her daughter. She introduces herself (Constance) and fills me in on the activities of the Anglophone West African diaspora in the region. She’s organised a few herself. She is disillusioned by some of her experiences, with the Nigerian community in particular. It doesn't surprise me. It’s one reason why I’m not in a hurry to make my presence known amongst them.

There’s no improvement on the heartache front; neither regarding our moribund unofficial language sessions or the abatement of my feelings. Whether by accident or design, his schedule doesn’t permit us to meet (to be fair, I'm not keeping my diary free for him either). Meanwhile, the thought or sight of him continues to do something to my head that rhymes with muck. Excuse my French. Being in close proximity to an ideal but doomed love interest must be a form of torture. Like the perverse outcome of some Faustian agreement or one of those Greek myths where a lovelorn and hapless hero/heroine is tricked by the gods.

Thank God for healthy distractions. My weekday evenings are busier. I’ve signed up for Brazilian Portuguese classes on Tuesday nights. My Fridays are spent engaging in some musical therapy; aka singing with the soprano section of the High Rock Gospel Singers.  A number of us newbies have joined after La Rentrée and we hit the ground running. There is not much in the way of hand-holding as we get to grips with the substantial repertoire. Choir director Kiasi alternates between French and English at breakneck speed and with a playful irony. He says "entre guillemets" ("quote/unquote" in English) so much, it's virtually his catchphrase.  He and co-director Evan are former members. They haven’t been leading the group for long but have covered a lot of ground in a short time.

Every Friday, Kiasi selects a member of the choir at random to introduce themselves in an ‘inventive’ way. He gives a quick reminder each week so no-one can claim ignorance. It doesn’t always work. I expect to do my introduction one week but it doesn’t happen until the next. I’m therefore less prepared. I gabble something about my reasons for moving to Strasbourg, forgetting to mention why I joined the choir. I finish with a Louis Armstrong medley and do the splits. The group seem to like my singing but are apparently more impressed with my feat of flexibility. 

Some members write songs especially for the occasion. My commuting buddy, Élise for example does a feisty original number. One of her fellow contraltos introduces herself melodiously to the tune of Let My People Go. A glamorous soprano does a song/rap in her own made-up language that sounds like a parody of English. Desperately shy young beauty, Aurélie is a dead ringer for Cillian Murphy. (I mean that as a compliment.  He’s a pretty man!) She braves the crowd by singing with her back to us, trembling all the while. I’m moved by her courage but can’t find a way to tell her without sounding patronising.  Instead, I ask Élise to pass on my sentiments by text.

  

Soundtrack:

Sly and the Family Stone (various). 

Chris by Christine and the Queens.

Peace & Love by Tommy Sims.

...Plus La Même Chose

My experience with the male

population hasn’t been wholly positive since moving to France. Any interest usually comes with mixed motives (again, that’s where my heartache has been a respectful exception). Creepy Thomas has at last disappeared into the ether after he alludes to me being withdrawn. I explain that his overly-tactile manner leaves me feeling uneasy. He feigns much indignation. The texts and ‘language exchange’ requests come to an abrupt halt.

Benoit’s behaviour is also of increasing concern. When we bump into each other, as we do fairly often working and living so close to each other, I notice he’s far more excitable. His olive palate flushes red; he perspires and is short of breath. In turn it makes me feel very uncomfortable in his presence. I start to wonder if our interactions are hazardous for his health. I wouldn’t want him having a cardiac episode on my account. Death by infatuation; I think not.

I receive a random text from him one morning.

Hello pretty. I've been thinking of you.

I'd rather he weren't. Not to be a cynic, but I fear what that might mean.

During one birthday-related text, Benoit brags that he knows all about me, including my age. I call his bluff, knowing that my internet footprint doesn’t give much away. Unbeknownst to me he takes it as a challenge.

The next day there's another chance encounter on the way to the local supermarket after work. We discuss a novel he's lent me by French bestselling author Pierre LeMaitre. To Benoit's credit, it's a good recommendation. Thrillers aren't usually my thing but it's a highly intriguing and original escapade; albeit involving abduction, torture, sexual abuse, incest and gruesome murders.

At some point in the conversation, Benoit proceeds to tell me my date of birth and the pictures he found of me and my sister. I’m horrified and react accordingly. Meanwhile, he seems quite pleased with his presumed resourcefulness. I rush home to find out how accessible this personal information is. Not very. He would have had to do some serious digging to find my DOB, on an obscure poetry site from a decade ago. Flip-ping heck.

We are due to meet up for a language exchange the following week but I’m having my doubts. I draft a stern-ish email and wait to send it based on sis’ level-headed advice. Good thing. It goes through some revisions. It's another bi-lingual effort. I explain why I was so agitated the other day; that I have no intentions of being his girlfriend (as I’ve made clear in the past) and he won’t convince me otherwise. Although I am willing to continue with the language exchange, I ask that he be more mindful in future. He demurs, with an apology. He’d rather scrap the planned meet-ups. However, he affirms, he’ll retain pleasant memories of our interactions.

My relief is mixed with profound disappointment. I once respected Benoit for what I thought was a mature attitude about his unrequited affection. Now my suspicions have been confirmed he was merely biding his time. It feels like a betrayal. He was one of the first acquaintances I made and in one of the most organic circumstances. It used to be so simple.

This contributes to the isolation-related mild depression threatening to re-surface after summer, despite my busyness. 

 I’m often asked how I’m settling in. I have neither the energy nor the inclination to give anything but an honest reply. I’ll tell anyone who’ll listen about the maddening insularity of Strasbourg.

Whilst my heartache believes I’ll eventually be ‘adopted’ into the Strasbourg family, I have my doubts. Those with experience living elsewhere –or who simply have an international outlook- feel my pain. Multilingual David, whom I meet at an Internations event, has lived and worked across Europe. He’s half-Alsatian, has lived in Strasbourg for a few years and still finds his local connections are yet to deepen. He says Alsace natives are content with just seeing the same small circle of friends. Besides, he adds, it’s the stage of life in which we find ourselves.  In this corner of the world, unlike the varied landscape say in London, 30-somethings have all settled down and are focused on family. But, he reassures, all you need is  a couple of good connections to turn the experience around.

Italian colleague, Alessandra whom I meet at the in-house French class, is an honorary Londoner. It was her home for a decade before relocating to Strasbourg.  She understands my plight as a solitary female living in the city. As does my Cypriot colleague, single mum Daphnia. She takes the words out of my mouth. I find another sympathetic ear speaking to Evan, the linguistically-talented co-director of the community Gospel choir I’ve just joined (a thoroughly therapeutic way to forget my troubles).  He explains it’s hard to hang out with folks in this region, even on the weekend. Since most of them are local, they tend to go back to their home towns... 

And so it continues. I am made ever-conscious of the unintentionally self-involved and parochial Alsace mindset. If they’re not hanging around in groups, they’re part of a couple. It’s all I can do not to sneer. Those under 50-women in particular-hardly seem to go out alone. On one hand I can understand why singleness would seem an unappealing option in this lonely neck of the woods (which might partly account for Benoit’s desperation). Then again, I imagine it’s not the healthiest place to be in a relationship. Co-dependency would be inevitable.

On a chilly Saturday afternoon, I make my way to food and music festival Street Bouche au Jardin des Deux Rives.  It’s a far more organised and sedate affair than I envisage. Perhaps the sudden drop in temperature has dissuaded revellers. It’ll be much worse the following day, when an unexpected storm hits. 

I purchase an impressive-looking Chawarma from a Lebanese vendor (which I save for my ‘cheat’ day) and take a seat near the DJ corner. The music policy of soulful electronica is pleasing to my ears. I’d like to dance but it’s impossible without appearing to be an exhibitionist. Dance like nobody’s watching? I wish. I daydream of a good old jam with friends and family. 

Looking around the park, a few moves are made here and there in jest. A group of gamely friends snatch a boogie in between what looks like a twist on crochet. I observe a family of Malagasy women; three generations. The grandmother is the most enthusiastic dancer. She approaches the group of sort-of crochet players, apparently inciting them to move more. Elsewhere, the male component of a pretty-looking African-Caribbean couple seated next to me jiggles his hips, apparently for my benefit. It seems important to him that I notice.

I wriggle rhythmically in my seat. Not sure if it’s even worth the two euro entry fee but that’s as good as it gets round these parts.

This Week's Soundtrack- Inspiration Information by Shuggie Otis, Soniquete: The Sensational Sound of Gecko Turner.