It's back to reality, the day after the Brussels Jazz weekend festival. Another Monday, another morning bombshell. A few weeks earlier I received an email from my joint Labour International “BAME” officer that she was leaving the party, just after I’d come on board. This time, it’s the news of another significant departure. Amongst various emails, one jumps out from the Gen. Sec of TTUO. The subject line bids adieu to my manager, Ama. A few emails on, she’s sent a private message to the team, apologising that we found out this way.
She’ll later explain that she planned to make the announcement the previous week but life interrupted. She’s not only leaving the organisation but Belgium itself, having landed a choice role elsewhere on the Continent. My own reaction to the news is rather self-centred and emotional, which comes as a surprise even to myself. Of course, this is great news for her. It’s obvious someone with Ama’s credentials would be snapped up once back on the job market. It's better that she's moving on. She seemed increasingly jaded by the TTUO. A change is as good as a rest, they say. Yet from a personal perspective, in the immediate term, it symbolises another upheaval in a season full of them.
After a rocky start, it felt like Ama and I had finally started to find our rhythm. She hasn’t been the best manager I’ve had but far from the worst. Our personalities diverged even if our politics overlapped. Highly competent as she is, there are aspects of her management style I won’t miss. Nevertheless, she was also the person who gave me this amazing opportunity. She could be relied upon to make an executive decision when needed. It has been reassuring to that extent. When I discover that Ama will log off for the final time, one week shy of my first anniversary in the job, this adds to the bitter-sweet flavour.
Beyond work, my circle continues to widen gradually. Karin, A young Swiss-German woman from church, also relatively new to Belgium, has been trying very hard to connect since we first (e-)met. My preconceptions make me initially sluggish to respond. She’s married to Felix, a Nigerian, ‘straight off the boat’. Or so I assume. It looks like a stereotypical immigration marriage from afar. Life humbles me, however. With my (so far) mixed record of friend-making in Brussels, I can’t afford to turn up my nose at someone making an earnest effort. A mother of three small children, it takes a few weeks for us to settle on a meet-up date. We eventually agree to drinks at Place Jourdan, one night of torrential summer rain.
En route to our meeting point, a young man has a seizure after sipping some cola at Joséphine-Charlotte metro. Some passengers coldly step over him. The rest of us look on, stunned or incredulous. Others have phones at the ready. Thankfully, a first aider steps in. The young man slowly stirs to life whilst waiting for the paramedics. Despite only just emerging from his fit, he’s extremely reluctant to wait for the authorities to come. He makes several fatigued attempts to rise and leave.
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| lesoir.be |
Karin meets me on the platform. I recount all the drama en route to Schuman station. Braving the showers to eventually find a spot outside a Beer specialists (not my thing), she starts to tell me the epic story of hers and Felix’ relationship. My dismissive first appraisal couldn’t have been further off. These two are in it for life. They met as volunteers in Zambia in the mid-2000s. Their love has traversed oceans and continents; spanned academic pursuits and career trajectories.
At each turn, Felix’ Nigerian passport has thrown up red tape. The authorities across various states are as suspicious of their union as I was at first glance. All through these trials, she’s desperately tried to make sure their children have as much of a cultural balance as possible. Karin is blessed with all too rare character traits. Self-awareness and a readiness to learn. She grew up in a mono-cultural Swiss canton. If understanding structural racism has only come of late, she’s doing all she can to catch up. And not in that clichéd, condescending, over-zealous manner. Her sincerity allows me to be honest about my own presumptions on her part. We enjoy our time together so much we plan to meet up on successive weekends.
The day after this auspicious rendez-vous, I have another with a former colleague. Stephanos left the TTUO to work at the European Commission in the spring. We’ve stayed in touch over the months. He was one of the few colleagues I had a chance to meet before everything shut down again last autumn. He’s promised me a tour of St. Gilles and beyond. After a busy day at the Red Cross, I meet him at Hôtel des Monnaies for our city tour.
During our walk-and-talk, Stephanos let's slip that he has a long-term girlfriend and a baby on the way. I was not aware of either. Although my intentions have never been romantic, I don't like the idea of his heavily pregnant significant other, alone on her own on a Saturday night. Stephanos assures me she's perfectly fine.
By now a veteran of Brussels, he has an astounding knowledge of the city. Probably better than many locals.
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| Neighbourhood of Marolles (courtesy of Visit Brussels) |
I like reading up on history, he claims.
You should do this for a living, I suggest.
We spend the hours strolling from St. Gilles to Central Brussels via Marolles, Stephanos pointing out landmarks and relics along the way. Some are familiar, others are not, to my shame. Clearly, I don’t look up enough on my own rambles. It’s my first time (at least of which I remember) visiting the infamous Manneken Pis and his (vulgar) sisterly equivalent.
Stephanos also has useful knowledge of the City’s culinary map; pointing out reputable Middle-Eastern, traditional Belgian and, of course, Greek establishments. I make a mental note for a time when, God willing, I can finally welcome overseas guests.
Soundtrack: Be Right Back by Jorja Smith
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