Parting is Such Bitter-Sweet Sorrow...

October begins with the ever-growing awareness that I will soon be leaving The Human Rights Organisation. Never again to darken its doors if I have anything to do with it.

Hmm. 'Never' might be a bit too definitive. It lends to the type of melodrama of which my sister sometimes  accuses me.

Suffice to say, I won’t be in a hurry to visit once I’m gone. That’s not to say there aren’t people I’ll miss. My weekday diary fills up quickly with farewell meet-ups and lunch dates.

I organise one last lunchtime catch-up with Gordon; my guardian angel. He is enthusiastic about staying in contact. As a busy man with a young family, I wouldn’t have expected it. I'm moved by the sentiment. We have a laugh remembering childhood TV. Given that he's six years my senior, there's not that much of an overlap. We do have The Wonder Years and The Littlest Hobo in common though.

As well as established acquaintances, I make time for those who are more recent. German colleague, Josef introduces me to new trainee, Winnie. They attend the same church.

Being two of the few brown faces at THRO, Winnie and I have seen each other around but never spoken. When the three of us meet mid-morning in the Magenta Café, we make up for lost time. Winnie and I do most of the talking, whilst taciturn but amiable Josef looks on. Born in Zambia, her family relocated to the UK whilst she was small. A qualified nurse with a MSc in tropical diseases, Winnie is older than the word trainee connotes. A woman of her expertise shouldn't be doing an unpaid placement. She seems nevertheless content. Despite our different academic paths we have a few experiences and our faith in common. This meeting of minds goes down so well, that we have elevenses again on my last day. Josef is unable to make it so it’s just the two of us; holding it down for African sisterhood.

Planned socials aside, I also bump into a number of colleagues whom I have not yet had the chance to inform of my departure.

During a catch-up with British colleague Ann, I joke that it’s like the finale of a long-running sitcom, in which past guests and fan favourites make cameo appearances. This pleasant happen-stance continues right up until my last day. At least there’ll be no lingering sense of unfinished business.

Those who know the organisation well are suspicious when I casually mention the reason for my leaving.

My contract ends this month.

Which is true. It’s just not the whole messy truth. On further probing, despite myself, I outline the drama of the first half of the year. A few of my colleagues are indignant on my behalf. I’m touched. It’s a better reaction than my trade union reps, who have been mostly AWOL in the past few months.

Mid-October. The inevitable date of disposal has arrived. That week, I’ll cry on and off, trying to save the waterworks for home time on the final day.

The evening of my penultimate day, I attend another stimulating workshop at Temple Neuf on the Far Right’s manipulation of Holy Scripture. The theme that week is on how apocalyptic texts are warped to justify a racially-elite survivalist discourse.

I miss the bus home by seconds. The next on the schedule never arrives. At this time of night they come once every half hour. I wait in the pouring rain for another bus and go to bed later than planned.

No time to be groggy the following morning. My last day is both surreal and mundane, as could be anticipated. Sadly, my main line manager Sophie, is off sick. I blame this latest illness on her recent hectic work-related travel schedule. The only positive angle is that her absence spares us both the embarrassment of me turning into a blubbering mess.  She leaves me a voicemail which I listen to in the evening. Her telephone voice reminds of an old friend with whom I'm no longer in touch, which sets off the tears all the more.

Many in my department are by now aware that I’m leaving, but not all. I'm purposefully vague about the departure date and don't remind those whom I've already informed.


In the meantime, I’ve been preparing a handover ‘survival kit’, including key contact details and a list of outstanding tasks. I’ve also carefully drafted a farewell email to the whole team and a select few other colleagues. I intend to send it just before I step through the door, to avoid any further questions.

Sis emails me to ask how I’m feeling. I shoot her back a response.

"...Yep a very emotional day, ☹. Thanks for the solidarity..."


I have a last-minute meeting scheduled over at Le Chateau. I pass by the security office. One of the team, Yvonne, has just sent me a lovely farewell email. We too have plans to meet up beyond the context of The Organisation. I go to thank her for her kindness. We both start welling up. She pulls herself together, as do I -less successfully- rushing to my next engagement.

Assuming it’s just another human resource formality, the meeting proves to be a lot more useful than I expect. My helpful HR colleague assists me in filling out various forms and arranging important municipal appointments.

Since her office is around the corner from that of my former heartache, I pass by. Our relationship these days amounts to no more than cursory greetings around the premises; something that happens a lot less than it once did. For whatever reason, our paths have hardly crossed this year. I both dread and hope for an interaction. I do not feel for him with the intensity I once did but a small and stubborn flame intermittently flickers.

As I round the corner I catch sight of his reflection on the door of his office, hunched over his desk comme d’hab. He is alone. I used to joke that he must have murdered his colleague. She’s never around.

He seems pleasantly surprised to see me. I look him straight in his sky blues and he appears to make the most of admiring me in his understated way. (I take care to look decent. It's only later on I discover my eyes are bloodshot).

His cordiality will continue even as I tell him that I’m leaving. On hearing this news-of which he'd have been totally unaware- I assumed he'd default to his usual austerity. It could be that he’s responding to my apparent insouciance. I didn’t want to break down in front of him. Mercifully, that doesn’t occur. I’m even taken aback by how light and breezy our interaction is. I ask after his three adult children, one of whom is studying chemical engineering. I forget to ask if it is one of his daughters. I hope so. 

I ask after his mother, to whom he’s especially close. He speaks of her health deteriorating after what was otherwise a pleasant summer trip to the French Caribbean, just the two of them (ironically, without his Caribbean father). I murmur my commiserations. It’s to be expected, he says with his typical forced-pragmatism. She’s in her 80s.

He keeps scoffing when I use the French word for farewell (Adieu) instead of a regular goodbye (Au revoir). Perhaps like sis, he thinks it's melodramatic. Yet no plans are made to meet up or stay in touch.

Despite my lingering, it's a brief but organic conversation. So much so that afterwards, I can only think of all the things I wish I said but didn’t. We never properly discuss the circumstances around which I’m leaving. I don’t tell him in detail why I don’t envisage staying in Strasbourg long-term. I don’t take him to task for how disingenuous he is with himself and with me, unintentional as no doubt it is. I do have the presence of mind to say something I’ve imagined telling him a thousand times.

You’re finally rid of me, to your relief. I quip, only half-joking. You won’t have to keep avoiding me anymore.

He makes the usual excuses.

...The only time he has for himself is when I see him kicking it with the homies in the Magenta building's in-house cafe. 

But I was working in the same building, I reply, as light-hearted as I can muster. We could have met up anytime if you wanted…

When I leave his office we don't exchange les bises, embrace nor shake hands. We never did. An underwhelming but befitting end. We didn't truly connect beyond the superficial, they way I'd have wanted.

After the exchange, I will be morose. This final conversation is not the resolution for which I hoped. I still care too much what he thinks. I want to share aspects of my life he has not earned the right to know. His easygoing response to my news gives weight to my theory that deep down he's glad to see me go. I have sensed that any fleeting sense of loss would soon give way to relief. I just didn’t expect it to manifest before my very eyes.

The biggest problem remains with me. I shouldn’t give a damn. If the last few weeks have shown me anything is that there are people in Strasbourg who genuinely care and enjoy my company. I shouldn’t have any emotional room for someone who can’t make the time to see me for a few minutes, even when he’s in the vicinity on a regular basis. Time and time again, he’s demonstrated he’s not nearly as wonderful as I first gave him credit. As my sister has oft reminded me, the only thing I’ve really lost is an illusion (ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh...ah-ha!). And yet...

And yet...

It gets to me in spite of myself. A part of me can't reconcile having once emotionally invested in someone who cares so little in return. And not for the first time.

I give him one more chance to let me down before I leave, masochist that I am. I send a humorous email about him bumping off his female colleagues and then ask if I can pose a personal question. After some delay, he replies; denying accusations of murder and breezily inviting me to ask away.

The question concerns the colour of his luscious hair. It’s been bothering me forever wondering whether he dyes it. It’s always an even shade of chestnut. I use the opportunity to also admit that I wish we could have been better friends. Our human frailty got in the way, I posit. I wish him well and add I’ll be praying for him. He doesn’t respond.

I long deleted his number and have no intention of initiating contact in future. I've been bracing myself. It saddens me nonetheless. He personifies every disappointment of these past two years; not just at THRO but in Strasbourg. I keep thinking of what I could have done differently to have had a better outcome, instead of just accepting that this is how it’s happened and maybe is supposed to happen.

After leaving my heartache behind literally and metaphorically, I go to the prayer/meditation room for one last time of contemplation. It's unfortunate I am a bit distracted from my previous interaction.

On the way back from Le Chateau, I pass by my office briefly. My new senior manager, Celeste calls out to me. She's on half-day's leave. She bids farewell before she goes. She’s a self-effacing woman. The volume of her voice barely rises above a whisper. Her goodbye gesture therefore takes me aback. I manage to hold it down and rush off before the sobs get the better of me. Later, I’ll apologising by email for my distracted air. I’m just very emotional, I explain.

I head downstairs to the basement classrooms to do some reading. On my way to the kitchen to warm my brunch, I hear a classical choir rehearsing Beethoven’s Ode to Joy. I laugh and cry over this touch of the sublime. The tears fall freely before I can stop them. Not for the first time in my life, I moan at God off for having a strange sense of humour.

That afternoon, I’m due at a conference over at the EU Parliament about the lob-sided relationship between the EU and the African continent. My new and rather persistent library acquaintance Mamadou texts to ask where I am. I beg off. I had every intention of attending, even if briefly. Alas, last minute work demands make it impossible. Mamadou doesn’t respond. I suspect he’s ticked off at one too many failed attempts to see me on an extra-curricular basis.

Finishing off my tasks will cost me another seminar I plan to attend that evening on the Istanbul Convention.

I clear out what’s left of my desk and tidy up. I remove anything with my name on it. It’s as if I want to leave no physical trace. I send the farewell email I’ve been working on for the past fortnight.

By the time I’ve wrapped everything up, only my new-ish colleague, Oslo is still about. We swap numbers.

I rush to Le Chateau to hand in my ID badge. I can technically keep it to the end of the month when my contract ends, but I want rid of it.

It’s a clear Autumn evening at the tail end of dusk. Twilight. An end and a beginning. Both/And. An apt and poignantly poetic end to my misadventure at THRO.

Much to my consternation, I’ve missed the security office by minutes.

You can come back another time, suggests the sole security guard on duty.

I give the same response I gave to my HR colleague earlier that afternoon, fighting back tears this time.

No. I won’t want to come back. It’s done.

I’ll have to ask someone to return the badge on my behalf, as much as I hate to be an inconvenience.

My evening plans now scuppered, I head home. En route I see one more colleague I’d not yet had the chance to inform. She responds warmly. You’ll be missed. It’s very sweet of her, given I have a tendency to forget her name. Privately, I refer to her as The Sexy Moroccan. Now I’m leaving, there’ll be one less big-batty girl to keep her company.

Finally, I can go home to have a good cry.

If it only it were that simple.

If only the tears would come all at once.

Soundtrack: Birds by Da Lata.

Musical Interlude

One weekday in early October, I pass by one of the main performance venues in central Strasbourg. It’s a good one stop-shop for finding out what’s on the musical calendar each season. One flyer catches my attention. It promises a night of vibraphone and vocals, the following Saturday evening. I imagine an intimate acoustic set of jazz standards, accompanied by one of the most underrated but enchanting instruments. I am forever in awe of the immense coordination it requires to master the vibes. (Partly because I know my own hand-to-eye is rather pitiful.)

The event is free and in my neck of the woods. An all round win.

Saturday rolls around. I’ve made plans to meet Catarina that afternoon. We haven’t seen each other since the summer. We catch up on our news. She’s less surprised than I expected when I inform her I'll be leaving THRO the coming week. Like several of my friends, she sees the end of my contract as a blessing in disguise.

Look, she reasons, it's for the best if you weren't flourishing there...

Catarina fills me in on some of her own work drama. One of her colleagues lost all his belongings in the same fire that killed the little boy at whose memorial service my choir performed. She says the racially-motivated allegations have been discredited, according to the local press. I’m not convinced.

Early evening. I bid à bientôt to Catarina and head home to freshen up before the event.

It’s night fall. I decide to take the bus to avoid a long, solitary walk through my quiet neighbourhood. En route, I bump into my colleague Daphnia; also local. My affection for her has grown this year, having been a well-needed source of moral support during discouraging moments in the office. She asks where I’m off to. I show her the flyer, rabbiting on about a jazz gig. For the first time I notice that the publicity doesn’t actually mention the musical genre. I dismiss any misgivings. The organisers probably didn’t want to alienate a certain demographic. Some people find jazz intimidating and might not otherwise give the gig a chance. 

Daphnia kindly volunteers to walk me to the venue which, it transpires, she knows a lot better than I.  She doesn't hang around once we arrive, leaving to prepare for her son’s camping trip that weekend.

The show is to take place in an old barn now converted into a gallery.

I'm a little early.  Presciently, I choose a seat in the back row. You never know. I might wish to make a premature exit. 

The show doesn’t begin on time. Strange, considering the Alsatians' Germanic adherence to time-keeping. The audience drifts in at a fashion. I spot a highly apprehensive-looking little girl of about 8 or 9. She has translucent skin and lank blonde hair cut into a bob. Her accompanying adults usher her to the front of the room.

20 minutes or so after the advertised start time, a hush slowly descends. The room goes dark. The vibraphonist takes his place behind the instrument. The gamine female vocalist stands at the far end of the gallery. She shifts her head to the right and holds the position. 

Now, it’s my turn to feel apprehensive.

The show begins with a monologue; alternating between French and a Germanic-sounding language that could be Alsatian. She slowly steps forward. The vibraphonist plays a desultory rhythm of the Phillip Glass variety.

Wait a minute. I wasn’t preparing my mind for Francophone theatre. It requires a deeper level of concentration.

Calme-toi, I tell myself, don’t panic. Yes, it's an unusual start to a jazz concert but perhaps this is just to wake us up.

Any illusion of a relaxing night of the Great American Songbook or interpretations of Bossa Nova ballads is soon shattered. The vocalist proceeds to make the first of many disconcerting movements. She repeatedly joins her fingertips together and draws them away again -as if straightening an invisible piece of string-whilst shaking her head from side to side. 

After the strange soliloquy, her bell clear voice soars towards something resembling a melody (to her credit, she has good pitch and great vocal control). If this weren't disorientating enough, she starts to emit a series of peculiar, non-articulated noises; another ‘theme’ to which she’ll frequently return.

She intersperses these non-songs with jerky movements and more odd vocal emissions. I can only describe the ensemble as equivalent to a particularly musical form of Tourette's.

I see heads turning with polite trepidation. I imagine these are friends and family who, invested in this freak show, can't leave before the end without causing offence. 

I laugh at their misfortune and mine; stuck in a parody of experimental theatre. Loufoque, the French would charitably call it. My heart goes to the timid little girl at the front; the only minor in the room. This is more punitive than entertaining, even for adults. Poor, innocent child. What harrowing memories will she retain well into adulthood of this mind-numbing evening?

I too look around, to see how feasible it would be to leave. A man stands at the back, possibly the owner of the premises or an employee. He crosses his hands behind him. Something about this stance seems intent on intimidation. 

I feel a mix of incredulity, bemusement and anger. The young duo apparently don't care about connecting with the audience. This is not an evening of comforting jazz. No moment of transcendence. It’s artistic self-indulgence of the highest order. You have to have a certain contempt for your public to make them sit through this.

A moment of respite comes when the vocalist deigns to sing a discernable tune. She and her musician sit in front of the vibraphone. He strikes the ‘wrong’ end of the instrument with his batons.

My first impressions of her voice are on point. It’s clear, melodious and has a very attractive tone. Alas, she swiftly reverts to self-administered slaps, other frenetic movements and vocal ticks.

I’ve had enough. I’ve been in two minds about leaving mid-show.  As much as they’ve tried our patience, I wouldn't like to distract the performers. But life is short. I'm suddenly exhausted. I want to redeem what’s left of my Saturday night. As discreetly as possible I move my seat back. I notice my choker has slipped. I can readjust it on the way out, I reassure myself.

It would be a smooth exit if my stupid accessory doesn’t choose that moment to slip off, clattering against the wooden seat. I’m apologetic but resolute. I head to the door. The man at the back doesn’t stop me, nodding politely instead.

I am tempted to recount this musical theatre misadventure to Daphnia when I’m back at the office the following week. I change my mind however when, in the light of day, the kooky event fades into insignificance.

The best of times…sort of

The day after the memorial service, I’ve arranged to meet with newest acquaintance, Gabriela. She has just celebrated her 23rd birthday the day before. I owe her a celebratory beverage. 

I invite Gabbie to the annual music and food festival, Street Bouche. 

I momentarily reconsider the appropriateness in light of the previous night’s events. Yet life, rather uncaring, goes on. Arrangements have already been made. Knowing how lonely Strasbourg life can get, I’d want Gabriela to feel welcome.

I wasn’t wholly impressed by the staid atmosphere of Street Bouche last year. Perhaps its 2019 iteration will be different. It’s in the heart of the student district this year, scheduled on a weekend that sees the last of the real summer sunshine.  Gabbie informs me by text she’s inviting a friend. I'm not over the moon about this last minute addition-I never am-but have no choice.

I arrive earlier than Gabriela and her guest to scope out the festival. Admittedly, the venue is better suited to the event than the previous year. On the food front, it’s less impressive. There are too many hamburger joints and not enough grub from the MENA region. There are a few African fusion pop-ups but I’m not in the mood to experiment. The one stall that really grabs my eye is selling enormous  bubble waffles stuffed with ice cream and enticing toppings. My waistline will be glad I’ve just eaten as I stare down temptation.  Instead I’ll enjoy these treats vicariously, when I buy some for Gabriela and her mate, Crystal later on.

For the moment, they're running late. The music policy is less ambient electro than last year and more hardcore hip-hop. I sit near the speakers with a book whilst I wait for my guests.  My reading is pleasantly interrupted a couple of times when the DJ drops some veritable 90s jams (a remix of Nonchalant’s 5 O’Clock and perennial favourite, Runnin’ by the Pharcyde). I indulge in a solo boogie both times, returning to my novel when I lose interest in the next tune.

 As much as I pride myself on being able to hang out at culture events on my own, Strasbourg isn’t the best city for it. I’m therefore relieved when Gabriela and Crystal arrive. We circle the premises sampling some of the wares and engaging in deep discussion; notably about the writing process. A homeless man approaches us. The interaction turns out to be one of those fleeting yet transcendent moments.

We head out at dusk, just as the festival is getting really busy. Whilst accompanying me to my bus stop, Gabbie makes some affirmative comments about my physique. I return the compliment. She wants to fill out more. Having grown up in a West African context, her mind hasn’t been as warped by Western beauty standards as mine. Just as my bus approaches she asks if I’m single and what the dating scene is like. I give her a preview of my near-misses but…

That’s for another conversation…I promise.

That week at work is chaotic. A number of missions taking place around the Continent are thrown off schedule by numerous travel woes; a domino effect from the collapse of Thomas Cooke and Adria Airways. I spend most of the week fighting fires. The following week, the Head of State will pass by to mark THRO's anniversary. The city's transport is temporarily thrown into disarray. Most of the proceedings are taking place at Le Chateau. I'm not especially interested in what Macron has to say.  I shove in my earphones to stop my head from exploding when I overhear a colleague say he's the best president France has had since the recently deceased Jacques Chirac.

The hectic work schedule takes my mind off other matters. My feelings about my looming departure are conflicted. On one hand, I’ll be glad for the psychological respite from working in my department. On the other, I will miss several colleagues. I’ve started to notify the security team and those with whom I have brief but positive interactions. The process makes me maudlin. My work diary fills up with elevenses and lunch time meet-ups. Over the coming weeks I'll be moved by the supportive responses from those who seem genuinely sad to see me go.

I discover that one such lovely colleague, Josef, attends a church I used to visit on moving to Strasbourg. He informs me of a THRO trainee, Winnie, who is part of the same fellowship. Great. All this time praying to meet fellow Christians at The Organisation, and now they show up al once? God has a sense of humour, I quip. Better late than never. All three of us make arrangements to meet up for elevenses before I leave.

I’m beginning to have an affection for Strasbourg that eluded me during my first year. Maybe it's because I’ve ironically just found my feet. Maybe the fondness is engendered by only having a finite time left in the region. I suspect I wouldn’t be as favourable if I were staying indefinitely in the same unfulfilling job.

One Friday night I skip choir rehearsal to join the street outreach team; supporting the homeless and women who sell sex. It will be one of my last outings with them. For once we have an equal male: female ratio. 

A difficult ministry on both the emotional and psychological front, it's nonetheless rewarding and an eye-opener. We come across some of the regulars as well as those less familiar. One woman's faith in God is heavily mixed with superstition. She refuses to touch crosses or bibles claiming she’s “ not clean”. No one is, we counter. The universal need for redemption is the heart of the Gospel message.

It’s more church-related activity the following afternoon. For a change, I’m able to make one of the meetings for single women.

It’s an informal affair at Oh My Goodness café.  Founding member Patrice outlines her plan for the coming term and year.  If we're a little nervous at first, by the end the atmosphere is convivial. I end up sticking around longer than planned and leave in good spirits. André Malraux Médiathèque awaits.

Just as I’m in the throes of short story inspiration, I spot a striking young man with deep chocolate skin and an impressive bone structure. We mutually acknowledge one another.  Well aware of an age gap and the futility of any romantic engagement when I have one foot out of the door, I have no designs on him. I thus feel more liberated- maybe a little too free- to compliment him.

Beau visage !

On exiting he stops to tell me I remind him of his cousin (hence the initial eye-contact). Thus begins a half hour or so of impromptu dialogue. He introduces himself as Mamadou; born in Benin to parents from Niger and Congo Brazzaville. We talk about cultural liminality, the Alsatian reserve and his interest in graphic design amongst other things. He informs me of a conference taking place a stone’s throw away from work. Genuinely enthused, I ask for him to forward me the information. At the same time, I'm hesitant to share my details not wanting him read too much into it.

Over the next few days, my initial apprehension appears to be well-founded. Mamadou finds various pretexts to contact me. My responses are polite but brief. I’ll wait it out. Too often I’ve been in a position where my platonic intentions are a mismatch with that of my interlocutor. I don’t like to send mixed signals. They bugger off once it becomes clear I am not interested in romance. I hope this time I’m just overreacting and history won’t repeat itself.

Hmm. Ce n’est pas demain, la veille. 

Another potential misadventure to report to Gabriela.

Soundtrack: Remix Boy by Suff Daddy, Collections Vol. 1 by Simbad. The Scope by Manu Katché.

The worst of times…

A few weeks after La Rentrée my choir, the High Rock Gospel Singers, has its first performance of the term. Under the circumstances however, it’s an invitation we’d rather have not received.

A little boy has perished in a fire early September. We have been asked to sing at his memorial service in an isolated corner of Strasbourg, around the Hoenheim vicinity. 

On the night, there’s a mix-up with venues. The family decide to relocate the ceremony at the last minute. I find out by chance from some helpful parishioners, gathered at the old address in another isolated corner of Robertsau. I call Soprano and HRGS administrator Elisabeth. She sends her husband, Gilles round to pick me up when she realises her mistake.

En route, I try to find out more about the victim. I learn he was only 11.

What’s 11? Gilles ruminates You’ve barely started life.

We arrive in Hoenheim. Most of the choir are already on site. They’ve made a good showing (except for the males, of course). I’m feeling a little sheepish about my tardiness, even though I’m not at fault.  Elisabeth gives me an update. The choir has just been informed that the service is to take the form of an all-night vigil. We were expected on stage at 11pm. This is not feasible. Getting home at that time of night by public transport will be tough. Some members have work in the morning. A compromise of 9pm-ish has been reached. 

The sterile white interior of the venue is in contrast to its inviting peach-coloured exterior. The hall is virtually empty. So be it say Elisabeth and choir director, Kiasi. If we’re singing to a handful of people, we’re singing to a handful of people.

9pm comes and goes. Whilst waiting, I catch up with star soprano Nicole and ask after her baby. Kiasi takes me aside to give me hug and tell me I’ll be missed. I’m touched. He’s responding in person to the email I sent to the admin team, notifying them that my days in Strasbourg are numbered. I thought it went unanswered. 

Kiasi speaks at his normal machine-gun speed in English and French. Something about a missing or stolen bike. I think.  In any case, he’s been distracted- hence the radio silence. He asks about my future plans. I tell him of my reluctance to return to the UK straightaway. He suggests we meet up sometime before I go. I’m unbelievably chuffed, although a part of me suspects it might never happen.

A few more guests trickle in. Some well-mannered lads give all the ladies a bise on entering. I suspect this courtesy isn't totally motivated by politeness. We're an attractive choir. I oblige anyway.

A woman arrives in a wheelchair, silently weeping. An extended family member or neighbour, I assume.

It’s a fairly diverse crowd; the majority being Francophone African. Fellow soprano, Claire attempts to accurately guess the ethnicity of most of those in attendance. Ivorian she ventures. How do you know? I ask.

I’ve dated a few…Wait. Look at her, the one bleaching. Definitely Congolese!...

Shooting the breeze some more, I casually ask her to remind me of what she does for a living. I regret it. It becomes a pity-party about all the things she’s yet to achieve. Her career has stalled. She’s already writing herself off as an old maid at just 30. 

What's the point of starting a family at 40? she opines, looking sullen. 

Hold on. I’m 38.

Alas, this doesn’t stem the tide of insensitive comments. I'm not bloody well in the mood to be comforting a woman nearly a decade younger than me who she believes she's over the hill. Sitting to our left is Michelle-in her 50s, never married nor with any children. She listens patiently, not interjecting. I wonder what she makes of the discussion. I feel apologetic.

Claire wishes she started a family at 20. I reply that my mum had me at 19. It wasn’t a walk in the park by any stretch.

But at least by the time she was 40, you were grown.

It’s not as simple as that, I counter. Besides, I add, it’s different for our generation (well, mine kind of overlaps with hers). We have different economic challenges to the previous. It’s not as stable for us. People are having children later anyway. Look at Janet Jackson (admittedly, not ideal to have your first child at 50). There’s no point marrying for the sake of it…

Claire agrees begrudgingly but won’t be consoled. The conversation leaves me in a funk that weekend.

At around half-9, Kiasi speaks to one of the organisers. We perform our stirring rendition of Kum Bah Yah. We sit back down. From our seats we sing another one of my favourites from the repertoire; Hosanna, with a solo by Nicole I’ve never heard before. For the next hour or so, we’ll perform in this ad hoc fashion; intermittently preparing to leave with coats in hand, only to be asked to minister again. 

In between performances sweet, oil-saturated dumplings are passed around; akin to the Nigerian Poff-Poff to which I’m accustomed. I’m not a fan of doughnuts nor their international variations. I limit my intake to one and only because of genuine hunger.

Half-past ten. We’re hovering near the door ready to leave. We’re asked to wait around for some eulogies and prayers.  The first is theologically correct but rather clinical in the face of such suffering. Sometimes words fail where ordinary empathy would be best. Even Jesus wept. Rather than preach to the bereaved, weep with those who weep.

Be strong, my sister. The speaker addresses the woman in the wheelchair. 

I notice the framed picture of the victim. It breaks my heart all the more to see he was of African descent. Tragedy is tragedy. I have previously criticised ethnocentric approaches to collective mourning. And yet, I feel this loss more personally. My sentiments are encapsulated in the next address by Pastor Richard; one of the founders of HRGS. It is more lament than eulogy. His gravelly bass bellows about the loss to the community, the country of France (La Marianne!), as well as the African continent which, he reminds us, has already suffered so much.

He beseeches us not to give into the forces of hate; not to respond in kind to the rise of Right-wing extremism. The more he speaks, the more my stomach turns. The inference terrifies me. This story is tragic enough.

It’s finally time to go home. A kindly stranger is heading in my direction. She offers me a lift. Whilst she pops to the lavatory, I make conversation with the only other passenger.

Are you a friend of the family?

You could say that. I’m the ex-wife of the boy’s father.

I briefly assess this unassuming brunette. Uncharitably, I wonder if it was an immigration-related marriage of convenience.  

During the long-ish drive home, I seek more details from the ex, Sandrine. There’s so much of the story that doesn’t make sense. 

My dreaded suspicions are confirmed.  Arson.  The suspect was caught on CCTV, Sandrine explains. He’s well known in the neighbourhood for his affiliation with the Far Right. The driver, Laure, objects. Just because the victim happened to be brown, she quibbles, it doesn’t mean it’s a racist attack. She draws a dubious parallel with false accusations of Antisemitism. Sandrine insists to the contrary. The suspect's supremacist views were an open secret. Neither is it the first time that building has been subject to arson attempts. The cameras were installed for that purpose.

I ask if the child was left unattended and if not, how the rest of the family managed to escape.

Sandrine expounds. The boy's father, her ex-husband, was working an evening shift. His older son was away at university. The little boy slept on a fold-out bed in the lounge. The other children and their mother were asleep in adjacent rooms. The fire was started directly under where the child slept. The room was swiftly consumed due to the wooden flooring. By the time the rest of the family realised what was happening, there was only time to leap out of their first floor window to safety. His mother sustained severe injuries as a result of the jump.

Sorrow upon sorrow.

The fire occurred only days after the boy had celebrated his birthday, Sandrine adds. The same as Michael Jackson, I note, unsure if it's inappropriate. Sandrine confirms, apparently pleased I'm aware of this bit of trivia. Her own birthday happens to fall on the same date.

The boy had made a point of having a big party, to the initial disgruntlement of his parents. As a sickle cell sufferer, each birthday was a triumph to be commemorated. His mother and father worked hard to give him what he wanted. Sandrine was invited round. Her ex-husband’s new wife had bought her a cake especially. Normally, it would be Sandrine who’d extend an invitation to the family. On this occasion however, she was too preoccupied with moving house.  

I comment on the peculiarity of these relations.  It’s not typical for an ex to be on such good terms with her former husband and his new family; particularly when they had no children together.

Nothing about this story is of the every-day variety. It only compounds my immigration theory. I reason the family must be grateful to Sandrine for the part she played in helping the patriarch remain in France.

I’m finally deposited in front of my flat but not before the two women ask what I’m doing in Strasbourg. Sandrine mentions that she’s a French tutor. A few of her students also work for The Human Rights Organisation. Laure makes what’s supposedly a good-natured jibe about taking advantage of Sandrine’s services. It’s not the first time she’ll reference my wobbly French (even less reliable at that time of night, the height of fatigue).  From the little I hear, she speaks what sounds like fluid English.

In light of all that’s transpired that evening, I shouldn’t even notice Laure's slight. It stays with me nevertheless.

Indoors, I’m shaken by all that Sandrine has recounted. I pour my thoughts into a long, blow-by-blow voicemail to sis.