...Evolution Part 2

If the last few months have warped our collective notion of time, it might explain why my imminent departure seems to have come round with lightning speed. Or maybe it’s just age.

Making a head start on my packing allows me the freedom to meet up with as many of my Strasbourg circles as time would allow.

For some, like Nicole from High Rock Gospel Singers, it’ll be the first occasion we’ve had a chance to speak at length. She explains the frustrating conversations she’s had with fellow Caucasians about the latest socio-political unrest over systemic racism. Some whom we both thought would know better. Her little one, Safiya, takes a shining to Gael whilst we drink virgin aperos at Jabiru café. Again.

I want to introduce more of my acquaintances to my friend’s vibrant eaterie before I leave. Gael’s new waiter, his name sake, is also part of the draw. A cross between a Franco brother and a younger Russell Brand, he’s on the dishy side. I alternate between brief, flirty interactions and shy murmured greetings.

A few days later, at the same establishment, I treat Gustavo to tangy-sweet, deep red Bissap juice and my favourite caramelised peanut snack, Kudu. Gustavo is even more wistful and distracted than usual. He doesn’t engage much when Gael addresses him in Portuguese. He’s in between jobs and hoping to secure a scholarship for the expensive private institution he’s due to attend from September. He speaks fondly of the five women in his life (Mum, sister, adorable nieces and girlfriend). He wants to see me married off; a recurring theme, especially with male acquaintances. Gael has also affectionately hinted at my relationship status in the past.

It’ll be the last interaction with both before my move. Gael’s mum has made me a sizeable batch of kudu. I feel myself well up as we say our farewells. The urge nevertheless remains controllable. If I were to begin, it would be the full waterworks. The prolonged exit from Strasbourg- which technically started last year and has been interrupted by the pandemic - has taken the edge off some of the melancholy.

The evening is still very young. My house group from church have organised a goodbye outdoor gathering. I am nervous to the point of reluctance. I don’t like being the centre of attention. It’s one reason why I tend to spend birthdays on my own. On the other hand, I don’t want to be an ingrate. The point of the group is to build community beyond the large and sometimes impersonal main Sunday service (pre-Rona). Better to make an effort than none at all. It’ll also be the first time the group has reunited offline since before lockdown.

At least I get to choose the venue. As the lockdown restrictions have eased further, I opt for the man-made beach at Baggersee.

I have a precious few moments to myself before Raymond and the crew arrive. The beach is busier than I’ve seen it.

There are more bum cheeks of all sizes than I’d care to see. Even tots are in booty-squeezing speedos. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned trunks?

The others slowly arrive with food in tow. There was no mention of a picnic. Thanks to the generosity of Gael’s mother, I have the vat of kudu to save face.

Once we find an agreeable spot, some distance from the maddening crowd, we sit down to break bread. Raymond brings up the wave of uprisings in the wake of George Floyd’s murder. Just your conventional icebreaker, then.  Notwithstanding that this has dominated my thoughts and discussions for the past few weeks, I wouldn’t want to go into depth in this context. I'm still tender from the disappointing, if not offensive, responses I’ve gleaned from both the church and some laypersons in Europe. I nevertheless oblige. The Caucasians in attendance tread with relative caution; at least acknowledging that police violence exists. Rather, it’s an elderly Ivorian woman who insists that Rayshard Brooks was to blame for his death at the hands of the police.

God. Help. Us.

I can’t let it pass. I endeavour to be as respectful as culture dictates. I (just about) keep my sang-froid as I fumble through my second language to talk about systemic racism, a targeting of African-Americans and very briefly referencing state-sanctioned violence in France. 

Mercifully, the rest of the evening is far more propitious. More guests trickle in. I relax, taken in by the picturesque surroundings and delicious pastries. I don’t normally have treats during the week. Something will have to be sacrificed later.

To my pleasant surprise, Catarina shows up on her bike. I didn't expect to see her again before my departure. More food and drink circulates, as does the laughter. A farewell card is indiscreetly passed around. Other guests discuss their own plans to relocate in the near future; to the other end of France or as far flung as French Polynesia.

Raymond becomes philosophical in his light-hearted way. We're always on the move in life, in some form or the other, he posits. Only the dead stand still.

Absolutely.

There are far worse ways to spend my last days in SXB. I can now fully appreciate the gesture. I knew if I let myself, I would have a good time.

After a moment of song, prayer and a group photo, it’s home time. Just beforehand I clear the air with a sister with whom I’ve had unspoken beef. I wouldn’t want to leave with any unfinished business. I had the impression she was mocking me, or rather my imperfect French. I’m self-aware enough to know it could have been me merely projecting. Her ambiguous manner didn’t help. Her presence that evening makes me reconsider. It was gracious of her to attend. I can’t say I would do the same.

The evening is balmy. One of the group spies a family of peacocks parading around the main gate. This incongruous sight within an urban setting is somehow auspicious to me. A strutting male with a bolt blue, iridescent neck refuses to denies us the privilege of seeing his full plumage.

At Etoile Bourse, I purposefully miss two buses for a stroll around the Common that surrounds the canal. It’ll replace the sentimental tram ride I’d planned to take from one end of the city to another but time will not permit.

The next morning, as the final (still fairly modest) tally of boxes and suitcases stack up in my living room, I am struck by the paradoxical banality and significance of relocation. I give the flat one more clean before the removal company arrives. Within half an hour, everything is itemised, labelled and carted off to storage.

In the absence of the boxes, I notice how much their presence changed the acoustics of the living room. An echo returns that I hadn’t had time to miss.

Soundtrack: 3.15.20 by Donald Glover.