Sign of the Times: Part 1

‘...Come now, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we will go to such and such a city, spend a year there, buy and sell, and make a profit”; whereas you do not know what will happen tomorrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapour that appears for a little time and then vanishes away. Instead you ought to say, “If the Lord wills, we shall live and do this or that.”…But as it is, you boast [falsely] in your presumption and your self-conceit. All such boasting is wrong. ’

James 4:13-16 (NKJV + AMP)


‘God willing’...’By God’s grace’...’Par la grâce de Dieu’...’Se Deus quiser’. Anyone with whom I’m reasonably acquainted would have heard me utter some variation of the above or sign off a text. It’s become a running joke with one friend in particular. He often responds ‘God does want it, so it will happen’.

It’s akin to a verbal tick. Africans and Caribbeans who have grown up within a Judaeo-Christian context would not be strangers to the habit. Some cultures are more familiar with the precarity of life than others. Similar to the Inshallah of Arabic/Islamic cultures, it’s a recognition that even the simplest plans aren’t guaranteed realisation. It’s not supposed to be an act of superstition “just say these words and nothing bad will happen” (although sometimes it unwittingly veers towards that.) It’s meant instead to be a humble acknowledgement that life is fragile. Every day a gift.

These utterances have greater salience now during the existential crisis humanity is currently facing.

In the wake of the COVID-19 or Coronavirus pandemic, the collocation of the words ‘unprecedented’, ‘crazy’, ‘mad’,'extraordinary', ‘strange’,’bizarre’,’frightening’… and ‘times’ have become grim clichés.

As I write these words, I am sitting in a quiet residential corner of Eastern France, close to the German border. Like the other 64 million-odd inhabitants of the country, I am on heavy lockdown. Following a recent national address by President Emmanuel Macron, we are under strict orders to only leave our homes for ‘essentials’; necessary food shopping, medical appointments and limited physical exercise for example. Visiting family and friends is prohibited bar a few exceptions. We are to venture outdoors with a signed and dated government-issued form or face a fine of up to €135. These measures are projected to be in place until at least the end of March. Places of worship, libraries, cafés, restaurants and most shops had already been obligated to close their doors until further notice. Weddings, baptisms and other rites are suspended, funerals restricted to brief grave yard ceremonies.

Like some of its other European neighbours, France has closed its borders for a month, with possibility of extension. The country is surrounded by the states most affected by the crisis on the Continent, alternating positions with Germany as the third worst hit after Italy and Spain. A planned visit to the UK was indefinitely postponed as a result. A blessing in disguise. By all accounts, cities across the Channel are turning into ghost towns. In the face of the Johnson government’s comparatively sluggish, apparently economically-motivated response, organisations and individuals have been using their discretion. Even if I’d somehow made it over to the UK before the borders shut, it would have been nigh on impossible to do anything or see anyone.

Globally, things have escalated so rapidly that it's enough for an Oscar-winning actor , returning from a fortnight's remote retreat, to be out of the loop.

At the start of the COVID-19 outbreak and for the ensuing months I maintained what I thought was a healthy scepticism. Bad news sells, I reasoned. It was in the interest of media outlets to sensationalise. After all, the flu can claim up to well over half a million lives a year. If I paid any mind, I too would succumb to panic and paranoia. Having mostly afflicted the Far East, it was somewhat abstracted; even with my sister living in Japan-not trusting the statistics put out by Shinzo Abe's government.

 I didn’t remain glued to the numerous news updates on the evolution of the disease, even as the confirmed cases soared and moved geographically closer. For a time, I paid more attention to the twists and turns of the hopeful, then ultimately frustrating, US Democrat race to select a presidential candidate.

I tried to ignore the ominous, ever-spiralling statistics. For weeks, I drew guilty and perverse comfort from knowing that most victims were elderly and/or already of fragile health.

I am inevitably drawn out of this self-imposed bubble after the ramifications spread closer to home. I am at a gathering of street outreach volunteers when I hear that a church in Greater Alsace has experienced a major COVID-19 outbreak. My own church starts to take precautionary measures. Public health posters near the entrance and a compulsory squirt of hand sanitiser at the door. I still maintain it is all a bit too much.

There remains some morbid humour about it; perhaps as a means of staving off the dread. I hear jokes about having Coronavirus when someone coughs or closes in to give the bise. Eventually, the more physical contact is discouraged, the jokes centre around fist-bumps and finally, not making contact at all.

My church takes the pre-emptive step of suspending all gatherings within its four walls and moving services online. Members are informed that there have been dozens of cases in our midst, some hospitalised. As the French government’s measures become more severe, the pastoral team put a halt to even small group meetings at home.

I notice music venues are emptier. That is, if the gigs happen at all. At one of the last events I attend before the total lockdown, the bandleader thanks the audience for showing up. Life has become very hard for musicians, he explains.

=
Still, I am determined to hold onto a semblance of normality. When a friend cancels a meet-up because of her COVID-19 related fears, I am irate. It is the latest in a long list of flimsy excuses for being a no-show. She’s a former colleague. She still works at the large-scale international NGO where we met. I hear that the Organisation has all but ceased activity in light of the health crisis. You have more chance of catching it at the office than a café, I tersely remind her.

An evening out with an acquaintance becomes awkward as soon as I mention I have a cold. He eyes me as if I were a suicide bomber. I attempt unsuccessfully to move the conversation away from the virus. He is stockpiling for Armageddon, he tells me, with only a little irony. 

I, on the other hand, have not been stockpiling. Currently in between jobs, I have a tighter budget to consider. Neither do I observe the shopping frenzy this side of the Channel that I’ve been hearing about in the UK. With the exception of less hand sanitiser and wipes on both sides of the Franco-German border; even with buying quotas imposed. My local chemist sells sanitiser at exorbitant prices. I discover this whilst on the hunt for masks which, I am promptly told, have been requisitioned by the French government for front-line medical staff.

As the situation in neighbouring Italy continues to rapidly deteriorate, I contact my acquaintances with a link to the country to ask after their families.

Meanwhile, I have been struggling with cabin fever, long before the lockdown. Months of uncertainty over my employment status have taken chunks out of my morale. I have had a head start on the post-COVID-19 economic instability that sadly now confronts many.

I enjoy my own company but I am a social animal. I fill my days with as much activity as possible but miss the consistent interaction of the workplace. The light depression I’ve experienced a number of times since relocating, begins to creep around the edges once again. I’m tearful for days at a time. The task of job hunting starts to overwhelm me.

I have outlets at least, like a community Gospel choir, church, volunteering, occasionally meeting up with friends. The Médiathèque in central Strasbourg is a sunlit sanctum; an alternative space to write and study.

One by one, these lifelines disappear within a couple of weeks. The virus’ impact on the French Grand Est region has been especially hard. The Prefecture clamps down before Central government does. Libraries are closed, as are arts and culture venues. The choir's administration team decide to indefinitely postpone rehearsals. I stay connected with church through Sunday morning livestreams.

At that moment, my planned trip to the UK becomes a distant beacon of respite from the solitude. I am even more preoccupied than usual about the details of the visit. If friends are slow to respond, it makes me disproportionately anxious.


The night before I am due to leave, I receive a cancellation email from the coach company. Another journey is suggested which I am unable to reserve. The system is in freefall. I have a mini meltdown. For the past week, this trip has been the one thing to keep the melancholy at bay. I have to escape.

It’s around midnight. I call my mum, shaking and crying. She keeps her sang-froid, calmly telling me to persist. If I can’t re-book now, I can try later. Suddenly, there’s a system breakthrough. I manage to reserve a journey a day after the original. Less reassuring, I am sent two tickets for two different itineraries.

The next morning I break out of self-isolation to print my ticket at the Post Office; one of the few places still operational. Whilst getting ready, I listen to reports on BBC World Service Africa.

It’s been encouraging to hear of so few confirmed cases on the African Continent so far. I had hoped citizens had not capitulated to the hysteria. But no. Panic buying occurs in countries whose confirmed cases are still only in the single digits. Ethiopia, Tanzania and Ghana close schools days before the more-at-risk UK population are instructed to do the same. Kenya’s Catholic churches no longer use holy water. Holy Communion is adapted to avoid contamination. South Africa, the hardest hit on the Continent, instates a wide-ranging travel ban. 

Later that morning, there’s a queue when I arrive at the Post Office. Only five customers allowed at a time. A staff member stands by the door, controlling it with a remote. It reminds me of the ‘two schoolchildren’ in some British newsagents.

As usual, the PO's printer doesn’t recognise my USB (although still takes my money). It would have been a wasted trip except for bumping into a former colleague en route. It’s through him that I hear the rumour of a heavier lockdown.

Earlier that morning, I had another meltdown over my forthcoming UK trip. Slowly but surely however, I start to make my peace about not going. I’ve had a stubborn cough for nearly a couple of weeks. An older friend with a history of heart problems asks me if it’s safe to visit. I reassure him as much as I can but I too have my doubts.

I pray the final decision is taken out of my hands. I don’t trust myself to make the right choice.

On the way back from the Post Office I take a detour to a local Catholic church. I don’t care about the denomination. I just need tranquillity. It might be the last time I have the opportunity before the major lockdown. The building is calm; modern and inviting.  I notice the holy water fonts are inaccessible, as in other parts of the world. It’s blissful inside, even if my thoughts are not.

I pass a woman on the way out. It turns into a spontaneous moment of solidarity; both of us admitting our initial incredulity, since turning into anxiety over the unknown.

We don’t properly introduce ourselves. I’m terrible at that sort of thing. I leave without knowing her name. I do thank her for the warm interaction. It helps me come to terms with this new reality. Thank God for faith.

(This post also features on my I Was Just Thinking blog)

Part 2

Cabin Fever

(courtesy of Houstonia magazine)

I routinely daydream about smashing things up. Throwing objects against walls and letting out a blood-curdling scream.

It could well be fatigue. I’ve developed an unconscious habit of waking up between 4 and 6am, pumped with adrenaline and unable to fall back asleep properly. (It would help if I could also discipline myself to go to bed earlier.)

Oddly enough it’s the days and not the nights that get to me. Perhaps because I’m more alert.

I persevere, continuing the job hunt despite my reluctance. I don't have the luxury of doing otherwise. I attend a workshop on working overseas. I continue my monthly meetings with my careers adviser. She asks me how I am doing. 'Not very well', I confess. It's all I can do not to weep in her office.

The isolation has begun to eat away at me. Light depression stalks at the edges.
I’ve been here before during unemployment. My soundness of mind has survived. Just. By the grace of God.

All I can do is wait it out. Lent is upon us. A time for spiritual recalibration and stillness. I’m in my own wilderness. It probably feels bigger than it is because I’m in the thick of it; in between calling out to God in frustrated prayer and waiting for a response.

I’ve started de facto small group therapy sessions at church, led by Chantelle.

She tells us not to deny our reality. We must acknowledge it, she advises, but framed in the light of God’s truth.

Easier said than done but salient nonetheless. By the time that session has come round, I’m emotionally spent.

Time to take the attention off myself.

I pop round to see fellow chorister and friend, Michelle, who’s recovering from an operation. She and her sister Karine give me a warm welcome. Of a similar political persuasion, I spend a lively hour in their company discussing the latest twists and turns in the UK and France.

After leaving Michelle's I make a well-needed spiritual pit stop at Temple Neuf for the weekly Respire meditation session.

Later that evening, it's the first choir rehearsal since that meeting. A few of the newer members have stayed away. I wouldn’t blame them for feeling dejected. It's a respectable turn out otherwise, considering. Nicole has asked me to revisit May The Lord God Bless You Real Good.

I focus on the general structure of the song, for those who are not yet familiar. The fine-tuning of the details will be for another time. It’s a task trying to get the fellows to keep their harmonies, especially not being a male vocalist myself. I encourage where I can and endeavour to keep it stimulating. I swap around harmonies and ask the choristers to switch places to help them develop some musical autonomy. The feedback is really positive. I'm chuffed.

(SNUipp)

Out in the real world, as the media hysteria ramps up, there's a lot of gallows humour amongst the Strasbourgeois about Coronavirus. I guess it’s all that cheek-kissing. And the relative proximity of Italy, which has seen a spike in cases.

The City's carnival, scheduled at the start of March, is cancelled once more. A combination of Coronavirus panic and ominous weather forecasts.  It makes no sense to hold it in late winter in any case. It's the second consecutive year the event has been pulled. I feel bad for the young uns involved.

On the way into my church building, I spot a poster imploring citizens to take necessary precautions. A member of the Welcome Team stands at the entrance. No-one is getting past without a squirt of hand sanitiser first. The senior pastor raises a prayer at the end of the service for anyone affected by the virus.

I give the evil eye to anyone coughing without covering their mouth. My racist streak surfaces when I witness an Oriental man doing just that on the bus home from church.

The following week, our normal Sunday service will be cancelled altogether after news of a COVID19 outbreak at a megachurch in the Greater Alsace area. During the alternative livestream service via Youtube, the pastoral team inform us that there have been a few congregants diagnosed with the virus. They're all confined but otherwise in relatively good shape, except for one who has been hospitalised. As an added precaution, the team announces that church will be closed all week at least and activities suspended.

Other events follow suit. A jobseekers' event I was supposed to attend is cancelled. As is a concert at which my choir were meant to perform.

I attend a midweek Jazz event that is only half as full as it was the previous fortnight. That same weekend, at another Jazz concert, the bandleader thanks the audience profusely. It's a difficult time to be a musician, he says with so many cancelled engagements. Heads swivel round whenever I cough or sneeze.

An acquaintance with whom I meet up later refuses to attend any shows during the COVID19 crisis. When I mention I have a cold, he looks at me as if I had a bomb strapped to my person. He later informs me he's stockpiling food. 'For Armageddon'. He's only half-joking.

Coronavirus is one of the many topics of conversation at the official opening of my friend Gael’s Afropean restaurant.

I could kick myself for not having worn something more traditional for the event, especially when I notice one of Gael’s guests representing the Motherland.

I feel a little intimidated by all the unfamiliar faces. Gael instantly welcomes me into the fold, introducing me to his crew who in turn take me under the wing.

How did you meet? they ask.

Oh she’s my ex. We slept together. I cheated on my boyfriend with a woman.

Cheeky monkey.

Phew. I say, It’s suddenly hot in here.

Delicious hors d’oeuvres circulate. Having gone vegetarian for Lent I fear I might miss out. Gael has me covered with his Tofu pastries. Used to it tasting like cardboard, I never knew the bean snack could be this good.

Gael's childhood friends, Claudine and Kéké are spontaneously complimentary about my French. God knows I need the encouragement. It relaxes me. We discuss topics such as language acquisition, their experience of Berlin (they don’t recommend it, at least in winter), our mutual distrust of Emmanuel Macron and disdain for his policies.

If I lived in the UK or US, I’d be a socialist too observes Claudine. In France, we don’t need to be socialist to protect what we already have.

In a shockingly underhanded move, the Prime Minister Édouard Phillippe has sneaked through the controversial retirement bill without a parliamentary vote. A legal loop hole has been used under the pretext of an emergency weekend sitting to discuss Coronavirus measures.

Prepare for war, says Claudine.

Vive la revolution, I reply.

The flamboyant Gerard introduces himself by voguing and seductively kissing my hand. Kéké starts ironically singing ABBA's Dancing Queen and Gael decides to put it on. I do a shimmy and work the room a bit more. I hold court with Gael’s newest (and dishiest) waiter whilst ordering my favourite sweet snack, Kudu. Gael offers to hook me up with a date but I demure on account of age. I’m happy just to admire from a distance.

I chat with another waitress; an Afrobeat and Hip-Hop dancer like sis. I pass on her Gram details.

(c) Olivier Galleano

At the end of the night, I bid a fond farewell to newly made acquaintances.

Gael’s crew will return to Paris the following day. His friends are a credit to him. I hope to see them again. Not knowing when my Strasbourg adventure will end, alas that might be wishful thinking.

For now, the evening has given my morale a well-needed if temporary boost. I could complain about my lot; my frustrations about being caught up in limbo once again and not exactly knowing how I'll continue to pay rent in the meantime. All those things are genuine challenges. To be grateful is not to pretend.

I would also do well to savour the fact that, thank God, I'm in good health in spite of the viral panic. I have the freedom and independence during this life season to come and go as I please. I can spend an evening eating good food and having stimulating conversation with a diverse and cultured crowd in a chic corner of the world.

Perspective my dear, perspective.

Soundtrack: Kamakiriad & The Nightfly by Donald Fagen, Letter from Home by the Pat Metheny Group and AmerElo by Emicida

Trouble in Paradise

Fierce late winter winds. Biblical hail storms. This is the wintry Alsatian weather I’ve come to know and, well, if not love find a form of habitual comfort.

Despite the crazy wind and rain, spring is apparently peeping over the horizon. Actually, this is pretty spring-like weather round these parts.

I didn’t expect to see out another winter in Strasbourg. There you go. If I should have learned anything by now, it's that things don’t tend to go to plan.

But plans I do still make. My sister comments on how busy I am during one of our weekly Skype chats. It’s a matter of survival. If I don't leave the confines of my flat at least once a day, I’ll go stir crazy.

One thing I anticipated -with trepidation- when my contract ended in autumn, was the lack of regular interaction. As psychologically exhausting as it could be working at The Organisation, I didn’t want for human contact. Now, outside of my regular extra-curricular activities, I have to make concerted efforts not to feel alienated by spending time in cafés or libraries. There’s no guarantee even then that I’ll have much in the way of meaningful conversation. I chat with the security guards at the Malraux Médiathèque. I might bump into someone I know or meet up with an acquaintance. Otherwise, I’ll spend several hours a day in my own company. Something I usually appreciate can at times feel like a mixed blessing.

By late February, my morale takes a major hit. It sometimes takes monumental psychological effort to will myself to apply for work. In nearly a year of job hunting, I’ve had one interview and that was only in January.

At least the choir is a sanctum.

One week in mid-late February we receive an email (or rather a summons) to an important meeting that Friday. The message is concise. Nothing particularly dramatic. Yet something between the lines suggests it’s not going to be cheerful news.

The mild urgency of the tone has the required effect. It’s a good turnout. Some members who haven’t shown their faces for many moons make an appearance. Choir director, Kiasi, is running late, having recently returned from an East African mission.

After waiting for half an hour, chief soprano and occasional director Nicole, decides to get things under way. She circulates the results of an online survey recently carried out amongst members. The results are mixed. A number of choristers claim the atmosphere has been tense of late. Whilst some (like myself) felt the recording session in December went well overall, others believe we were ill-prepared. A few minutes into Nicole’s overview, Kiasi waltzes in. He’s on edge about the meeting beginning without him. He and Nicole have a terse exchange.

The agenda moves to the real business of the day.  There's an important announcement. Flanked by Elisabeth and other members of the choir’s administrative team, Nicole explains they have taken the difficult decision to no longer collaborate with Kiasi.

Problems have not just materialised overnight. There have been numerous slights. Poor timekeeping. Not following up on engagements that he himself proposed. Divergent opinions on how the choir can or should move forward...

Recriminations fly back and forth. Kiasi is hyper-defensive.  He cuts off members of Le Bureau mid-flow. They in turn ask him to allow them to finish their sentences. He cites problems with his work schedule and examples where he believes he gave sufficient notice. He speaks of being bombarded with no-show messages minutes before rehearsal.  The choir has peaked below its potential, he states, and there doesn't seem to be a willingness to move forward.

Awkward isn’t the word. It’s like watching parents argue.

To complicate matters further, Johnny-Come-Lately, Marlène recites a litany of all that, according to her, has gone wrong with the choir. She blames a deterioration in quality for her own lack of attendance.

I just don’t get the chills anymore when I come.

She emphasises the spiritual aspect of singing in a Gospel choir, even if one does not believe.  She speaks of halcyon days when the choir's vocal performances not only gave her goosebumps but they members were also tight like a family.

Things start to get personal. Marlène critiques recent concerts that she has attended. She then makes a veiled reference to the last solo she heard me sing.

I felt nothing. Maybe she was just nervous that day...

Elisabeth’s daughter, Lorraine comes to my defence.

Hang on. That’s not very nice for the soloist, is it?

Marlène tries to back-pedal.

Oh, I wasn’t talking about her recorded solo. I really felt something then...

(For the record, I’m not overly-pleased with my studio vocal. It’s pitchy as heck).

I was already peeved by Marlène’s intervention. I’m aware of the choir’s shortfalls. As someone who enjoys clean and consistent harmonies I know we have a long way to go. I’ve noticed that many of the more innately musical members have left; either relocated to other parts of the country or simply can no longer be bothered to come.  There are too few male voices. Either their attendance fluctuates or their vocals do or both.

On the other hand, I’m also aware of the time and energy invested by certain members; new and old. I feel offended on theirs not to mention my own behalf. I also know that Marlène has a romanticised view of the past. By all accounts from more truthful veterans, schisms and fall outs have been part and parcel of the HRGS experience.

I wish I had said what was on my mind before Marlène dragged me into it. Now it will look as if I’m piping up because of ego. I can’t rule out that possibility but it’s not my main motivation.

With all due respect, I venture, you no longer come to rehearsals. You haven’t for a long time. You are not in the position to criticise us. Your feedback isn’t constructive and you’re doing nothing to improve the situation…

At this moment alto, Mia decides to add her two pence. She’s like a playground stirrer, egging on the mouthy kid in a fight. Both her and Marlène invoke the need to be honest. It's funny how for some, that means a licence to be insensitive. Mia too speaks of the choir’s mythical glory days; the need to recognise the spiritual significance of singing Gospel music etc etc...

How rich.

Her remarks infuriate me more than Marlène’s.

We should take the Good News message seriously, no doubt. But neither we should use the spiritual as an excuse to ignore the practical. Mia attends practices on a regular basis but contributes next to nothing. She’s been part of the group longer than most but still hasn’t mastered the required skills. She relies on the graft of more innately musical choristers. She thus has no right to indirectly undermine those who put in the work.

This is how it is all evening. An unedifying mess. Nicole and Le Bureau do their best to fight our corner; contextualise any perceived ‘decline’, point out that each new wave of members will bring a different sound and energy.

Soprano, Melissa speaks of how hurtful it is, as a comparatively newer chorister, to receive such negative commentary from veterans.

Kiasi spends most of the evening lamenting how much the group has been a disappointment lately. He says we always need a ‘carrot’ to motivate us. It’s not a wholly unjustified observation but lacks nuance.

His diva antics can be alternately entertaining and needlessly catty. No guesses which category he falls into that night.

Maybe it’s his bruised pride. I've sensed a disenchantment in him for some time. Things intimated in private. I believe it's deepened since Evan stepped down as co-director. I am trying to be even-handed but I'm too emotional; angry, tired, deflated...

So, does this mean you're leaving us?

Of course not, he reassures. He may no longer be director but he's still part of the family.

Hmm. On verra.

In the meantime, we'll have to muddle through. Evan will step in from time to time to direct our concerts. Nicole will do what she can. The rest of us will have to show more initiative, more often.

A couple of demoralising hours later, with no singing to compensate, the meeting starts to draw to a close. I have a bus to catch. I stand up abruptly whilst Kiasi is holding court. I say my goodbyes, ignoring his forced-cheery farewell.

The following morning, I’m bombarded with texts and emails of support from other choristers; some of whom weren’t at the meeting.

In the scheme of climate disaster, war and epidemic it’s really a non-event. Still, I’m seething. The messages of solidarity nevertheless take the edge off my annoyance.

Some offer a listening ear. I demur. Not now. It’ll only come out as a rant. At some point I’ll endeavour to have a conversation with those who put my nose out of joint, if time and opportunity allow. I need to calm down first.

That afternoon, whilst in the library I feel the prolonged vibration of my phone. Incoming from Kiasi. I press the ‘end call’ icon.

Soundtrack: Night Dreamer by Seu Jorge & Rogê,  Topaz Jones - various, Sweet by Pho Queue, Walkie Talkie by Brijean.