Festive Limbo

 8 min. read

As the year draws to a close and I anticipate the luminous transformation of Brussels, I detect a disheartening trend. In an apparent bid to adapt to punishing energy costs, many of the city’s communes -or boroughs/districts - have minimised the decorative festive cheer. Where there are Christmas lights, they are not lit on a daily basis. Some neighbourhoods have delayed installation, reduced or dispensed with decorations altogether. I’m shocked and disappointed to see the Avenue Toison D’Or, near Louise – previously one of my preferred spots in Brussels for a Christmas stroll – is still dim after dark in early December. 

It’s not all in my head. 

Apart from central Brussels – where the Christmas market is concentrated – and sporadic illumination elsewhere, local authorities are making a conscious decision to save on electricity. It’s unsurprising but nonetheless a little depressing. I can’t be the only one who derives a morale boost from such simple pleasures. 

It also strikes me as ironic. I expected these austere measures during the first year of the pandemic. In 2020, I was pleasantly surprised that the City still made a concerted effort to brighten up an otherwise sedate Yuletide under lockdown. After travel restrictions put paid to plans for my mum to visit over Christmas, I found solace wandering the semi-deserted, albeit well-illuminated, streets of Brussels. Similarly, it was a silver lining in December 2021.

I'd argue we need even more reasons to be cheerful in 2022, despite the Pandemic not presently dominating our lives as much as it did. It’s been an arduous 12 months, amidst an already relentless start to a new decade. Energy crisis or not, this is not the time to dim the brightness. 

Light represents hope. God knows, we all could do with a lot of that right now.

As December nears, the weight of disappointment hits me with unexpected force. It’s not as if I am unaware of all that has gone before. It’s just the realisation of its duration sparks a fresh wave of grief for all that could have been. We hear of a bad mental health day or week. How about a Bad Mental Health year. Help me out here, people. I know I’m not the only one. I sense a collective existential heaviness, and I pray every day it will lift somehow.

Whilst I do my best to avail myself of good resources, continue counselling sessions and apply helpful practices, I have often found myself in a dysregulated and/or lachrymose state.

I have a low level dread as Christmas approaches. God willing, my holiday will be split between Belgium and the UK. Yet my budgetary limitations make me nervous. I am never one to spend outlandishly at this time of year but there still needs to be room to manoeuvre.

Brussels' Plaisirs d'Hiver

To not be consumed by the gloom, as usual I stay busy with as many meaningful activities as I can find. I carry on my shifts at the Red Cross. I attend training sessions to become a volunteer for an excellent organisation that supports women and trans-people in the sex trade, providing safe havens for those desiring to leave it. I join a brilliant, season-appropriate webinar about life under occupation in modern Bethlehem, and the long and rich history of Christian Palestinians. 

Clothilde, Agnès and I attempt to meet again for another sing-along. Unfortunately, Clothilde’s hectic schedule makes this impossible in the short-term. 

In the meantime another of Agnès acquaintances, Andrea, is keen to join the fun. 

Alas, it really isn’t the same without Clothilde. Her sunny disposition is missed, as are her notable musical gifts. Andrea gives us a warm welcome at her family home, and I steal a cuddle from her adorable young daughters. It’s nevertheless an underwhelming experience. Andrea doesn’t have much of a voice and poor musical instincts. Bref, it feels more like work than fun. When Agnès seeks to recreate that particular set-up, I politely decline. I’d rather we meet in our original trio, even if that proves sporadic for now.

Meanwhile, I am still debating whether to join the Gospel choir where all three of us first convened. I sit in on yet another rehearsal, thinking if I catch the chorale on a different day with a slightly different constitution, I might be more convinced. I am not. Membership is not free either. Even if it were, I still wouldn’t be that enthused. The group lacks the soulfulness associated with the genre and message. They are a Gospel outfit in name but an average-sounding chamber choir in execution. Not that I have much to choose from. There are so few options for this sort of thing in Brussels.

I need to face it. In the absence of a decision, a decision has been made. I feel bad. The choir director is kind and easygoing. The ambiance is friendly and the members welcoming...

...In any case it’s there, on my radar, if the urge to sing in a communal context is compelling enough for me to set aside my reservations.

Speaking of the Gospel, I endeavour to stay connected to my spiritual family in Belgium; in particular the midweek house gatherings. One evening when we’re due to meet at Karin’s, I’m in an especially foul mood; as dark as the cold December night. I am feeling atypically unsociable. I am running late to dine with the family before other guests arrive. Karin says the kids are looking forward to seeing me. I too miss them but fear I don’t have the emotional energy to hide my misery. 

When I arrive at the family home in Schaerbeek, the streets are in a state of happy chaos. Residents of Moroccan extraction shout ecstatically, toot their car horns and set off fireworks. I'm guessing it's to commemorate another successful World Cup match. I've not otherwise paid attention to the international tournament. 

The reaction this time is more wholesome compared to the riots that erupted after Morocco’s victory over Belgium a few weeks prior. I do admire the way Belgo-Moroccans so readily show allegiance to their roots. The few times in my youth that I was caught up in World Cup fever, and prioritised support for African teams over that of the national England team, it was treated as some sort of betrayal. One week later, Morocco's unsuccessful showdown with former colonisers, France will end the dream of an African World Cup victory on this occasion.

(Le Soir)

For now, the mayhem is prolonged. The incessant noise prevents Karin’s oldest, Amos, from falling asleep. At least I am able to wish the little ones goodnight whilst they’re being tucked in by their dad, Felix.

The group bible study is postponed yet again. Too few members are available or are running late, according to Karin. Felix is preoccupied with another World Cup game. 

I have no regrets, however, about surmounting my grouchiness to spend some time with Karin and anybody else who drops by. 

On the way home, a hop and a skip from my front door, a young savage spits on me when I don’t allow him to force his way through the metro turnstile behind me. For days, I self-remonstrate for not having made a speedier getaway.

That weekend, on a bitterly cold Saturday afternoon, the church house group reunite to hand out meals and some festive cheer to rough sleepers and refugees. The sense of teamwork and goodwill abound, if I must say so myself. Out and about doing the distribution at Gare du Nord, I notice a couple of regulars from the Red Cross. Whilst there’s the odd wariness amongst some we approach, the lunches and hot drinks are largely well-received.

Sundays are proving tough on the old emotions. The harder these last months have been, the more difficult I find it to attend main services at Fresh Wine Ministries (FWM). It requires a mental and emotional energy that can be taxing at the best of times. Two Sundays in a row are especially rough. My heart is heavy from relational disappointments, to which I am especially sensitive these days. 

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the few good friends that I’ve found out here. I wouldn’t exchange them for the world. Yet, try as I might, I can’t ignore a relational deficit elsewhere. My modest friendship circle can only provide so much.

I make tentative steps towards befriending an impressive young woman from FWM called Albertine. She's gentle, cultured, well-informed and a dead-ringer for a young Lisa Bonet. Girl-crush time. 

We make plans for a musical outing after church one Sunday. She ghosts me, without so much of a word or an apology.

 Thankfully, my friend Em comes through that evening as planned. We make our way to another free concert at Jazz Station. 

Even whilst appreciating the band, it’s an effort for me to hold it together. My longstanding fears of abandon have been realised too frequently of late. Em can relate. She routinely shares about her disenchantment over some friendship or romance gone wrong. We both have a tendency to go all in too prematurely, and are learning to hold back for the sake of self-preservation. 

That evening, I hope to sing some of the blues away during the post-show jam session. A Jazzy interpretation of my seasonal favourite, God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, would be my first choice. Failing that, a rendition of Donny Hathaway’s This Christmas. Unfortunately, the young cats on duty have too limited a repertoire – or are too unwilling to think outside the box - to comply. Em and I don’t hang around for too long.

The next week, I’m spinning out over some up-in-the-air arrangements to attend a River Jazz Festival gig with Jens. I plan to go with or without him. It’s just frustrating as heck getting a straight answer from him. I don’t know Jens well enough to discern if this is a pattern. I suspect he's also not in the best psycho-emotional state but with only scant communication, I cannot be sure. 

I repeat: I’m still tender. I acknowledge I need to be gracious but again, to muster the energy... 

I want to feel safe in any budding friendship, in order to build trust. Evasiveness and/or poor organisation rattles me. 

Jens drops out last minute, citing ice on the road. I see his text just before the curtain call. I’m not buying it.

I throw myself into the energetic set to defuse my irritation. 

After the show, I take a leisurely walk around the surrounding area – famous for the European institutions. Fortunately, this neighbourhood has not lost its festive vigour. 

The next day I’m still worked up over Jens’ no-show. 

I leave agitated voice messages for sis, explaining my disgruntlement. She’s sympathetic on one hand. Yet she warns that in my current state of mind, I could blow a mere slight completely out of proportion. It has also occurred to me that my perspective is distorted.

That Sunday, after another emotional church service, I walk around Parc Woluwe to calm my nerves. I have my good friend Brenda’s birthday celebrations to attend that afternoon. I must expunge all the killjoy out of me first.

I alternate between listening to my trusty Christmas mix, singing Gospel tunes and weeping. Pale blue skies and watery winter sunshine overlook the vestiges of an autumnal scene. It’s a necessary and cathartic exercise. I’m robust enough to attend Brenda’s low key bash wearing a smile. A cosy environment, classy decorations, a simple but delicious spread and - of course - la chaleur humaine await.

Soundtrack: MLDE by Marxist Love Disco Ensemble, Personal Christmas Mix, California Holiday by Kadhja Bonet.

I'm signing off here for 2022. Wishing you all a peaceful and light-filled Christmas/Festive season.

Across the Channel and Back Again

 

(courtesy of The Bulletin)

8 min. read

Early November sees me back in the UK for another quarterly visit. It couldn’t come a moment too soon. 

(I’m aware that I sound like a broken record by now.)

October has been busy, in a positive way. However, by the end of the month the stark reality of my current "between-jobs" status remains. 

In early October, I had reasons for now what looks like false hope. 

An interview. A potential employer wishing to speak to my references. Said organisation insists I procure phone numbers for all my referees. For some reason, email won’t suffice. Meanwhile, no firm offer of employment is forthcoming.

Much ado about nothing. It’s probably for the best. I heard only bad things about the head of department to whom I would have been subordinate. As much as I want to resume work, I don’t want to be re-traumatised either.

Thus, my one week excursion in Blighty is the pause that I need. I have a comfortable place to stay, at mum’s new flat. After some trial and error on previous trips, I am careful not to overload my itinerary. I limit my meet-ups to one or two a day. There’s the odd cancellation but most go according to plan. I meet with friends I haven’t seen at all so far this year; some not since before COVID-19 hit. Amongst them is Winston, one of my oldest friends (as in length of time, not age). He's recently announced his engagement; some welcome good news. There’s a wonderful origin story to the union – a case of right person, wrong time for years – I don’t have space to go into now.

Winston drives down from the Midlands to meet up with me in central London. His fiancée, Shingai, also happens to be a Londoner. I have the pleasure of spending an afternoon in their invigorating company; talking life, spirituality, music and pop culture references with two fellow older Millennials. Undoubtedly, the highlight of this trip.

Alas, I don’t get to indulge my Guy Fawkes nostalgia as hoped. Many, if not all, of the free Fireworks displays in South London are cancelled- including my local at Blackheath. It seems the pandemic was the perfect pretext to put them on hold. The real reasons appear to be financial, although some boroughs try to green-wash their rationale, citing care for the environment. Please.

As usual, melancholy hits me like a freight train as soon as my UK parenthesis is over, before my feet have had the chance to touch the concourse at Gare du Midi. All the things I allowed myself to push to the periphery whilst I have been away, await my arrival. In addition, I sense my annual bout of S.A.D coming on. Usually bracing myself for it in the first quarter of the year – when winter is at its most stubborn in the Northern Hemisphere – it seems to be making a head start.

Mindful to put all that’s necessary in place during this psycho-emotionally fragile time, it’s best for me to stay active. I grab moments of joy where I can or try to create them otherwise. I attend a Jazz gig the evening I return from the UK. I catch up with friends when schedules permit. It helps to take my mind off myself as well as warding off a creeping sense of isolation. 

I continue to volunteer at the Red Cross PSA Centre, more or less once a week. The demand seems as high as it’s ever been in the one and a half years since I joined the team. I see a lot more women passing through. A shift at the Centre never fails to lift my spirits, even if the systemic degradation of undocumented migrants is nothing to smile about.

On the cultural front, I waste no time in catching the laudable latest instalment of the Black Panther series.

I still regularly log-in to Morphē Arts morning prayer sessions and I’m still plugged into my Belgian Church. The midweek home group is my main lifeline.

In mid-November, a group of Native American missionaries take over for a special Sunday evening service. Frequently frustrated by the hegemony of White Western ways of ‘doing’ church, I’m elated that Fresh Wine Ministries have arranged this guest appearance. I make it a priority to attend. I am fascinated by a cultural expression of Christian worship about which I would otherwise remain ignorant. The group hail from many different tribes across what is now the US and Canada, and are conversant in their indigenous languages. They perform a mix of traditional Native American and Grunge-Rock/Heavy Metal worship songs. It makes a change from the often insipid, diluted-Coldplay fare that characterises much of modern Western P&W. Despite my malaise, I throw myself enthusiastically into the service.

The following evening, I head once again to La Tricoterie for their variegated open mic night. I’m flying solo this time. I notice many of the same faces I saw during my first outing over a month ago. 

A group of older hippy folk – including an excitable gentleman with a long silver ponytail and reeking of Mary Jane – come to sit at my table. His female friend/companion shoots him daggers when he gets a little too animated. Wariness on my part soon thaws. I practise Portuguese with the woman and discover that the two men are flamenco guitarists from Spain.

It’s the usual mixed-bag of performances. There’s a surfeit of Rock acts of varying quality; an arresting spoken word artist; a young black man with Little Richard hair, promoting his Trap-influenced single and a talented songwriter accompanying herself on ukulele. I’m squeezed in after one of the poets and do a brief acappella rendition of one of my go-to Jazz standards, Stella by Starlight. Apart from the spontaneous conversations with fellow punters, the peak of the evening is a male/female duo and their Simon & Garfunkel-esque folk interpretation. The song is not familiar but I’m swiftly humming along with a third harmony. As I sneak out before the (potentially cacophonous) jam begins, I stop to praise their all too-short set. It’s a warm exchange. We are mutually appreciative of each others’ performances.

Later that week, I find myself at another open mic night, this time more local. I want to leave almost as soon as I walk in. The event is new and, whilst in theory it’s supposed to be eclectic, it’s completely dominated by Blues-Rock. By some irritating irony, I've passed up a monthly Brazilian-flavoured jam in central Brussels to support this local effort.

C’est pas ma came, as I tell the host. His warm welcome aside, I feel I’ve wasted my time. 

Not completely. 

As I’m making an early exit, I bump into a few other would-be performers similarly disappointed with what’s on offer. By coincidence, we’re all partial to Jazz and Latin styles. We swap musical tips. 

The Jean-Luc Pappi trio (image courtesy of Jazz04) 

I am buoyed by the conversation with these fellow travellers and return home more upbeat. The evening would have been salvageable, if it weren’t for some creep following me off the Metro. I have to take a detour and hop the train in the opposite direction so he won’t know exactly where I live.

The following night’s musical excursion is a lot more propitious. I join some Internations acquaintances to see a Latin Jazz trio (pictured right) performing at the Art Base Gallery. The ensemble is led by an outstanding pianist who plays from the depths of his soul.

Sunday afternoon, I assemble a posse for (the not so exclusively) all-female DJ set at Soulful Sundays in Café Metteko. The group is comprised of some recent Brazilian acquaintances, Clara and Loïs, as well as my new favourite muso, Jens. 

Whilst half Franco-Belgian Loïs is a polyglot with a facility in both French and English, Clara has only some of the former and very little of the latter.

I didn’t realise. I’m used to speaking to her in my B1 Portuguese.

She and Jens have barely a language in common. It’s not such a problem when Loïs is around. I also interpret where I can. My oral Portuguese is nevertheless somewhat limited. Jens slips in and out of his third language (French). He and I are used to communicating to each other in English. It’s been a little while since we hung out and have lots to catch up on. I try to include Clara but my attention lapses.

Jens is his usual conscientious self, routinely offering to buy drinks. Whilst he orders food, I catch him staring with fascination as the light hits a wine glass at a certain angle. He can be adorable in his own facetious way.

The music selection is hit and miss. I dance with one of the friendly regulars to Funkin’ for Jamaica but not much else. By some miracle, Clara enjoys herself. The set is over by 8pm. Jens, as always, wants to continue the party elsewhere. 

 I spot one of the DJ’s I befriended the last time I was at Metteko. He jokes that I shouldn’t trust Jens.

Clara is feeling the chill and heads home. I also would prefer to take advantage of the early finish. Most of Jens’ haunts are closed in any case. I convince him to walk me to Arts-Loi station, so I can take the train directly home. He obliges, like a gent. He is not aware of how long the walk will be.

According to Jens’ whimsy, we make several stops en route, to indulge the aesthetics of store front galleries, or tourist-bait selling over-priced tat, or admire the view of a drizzly Brussels from the top of Mont des Arts.

Soundtrack: Ticket to Shangri-La by Young Gun Silver Fox; Motherland Journey by Blue Lab Beats; Nightfever compilation feat. various artists; The Anchorman Mixtape by K-Os

Autumn Reprisals

7 min. read

Grounds of the Africa Museum, Belgium (image courtesy of Vestiaire Ouvert)

October ushers in a new season with a flurry of activity. Chief amongst these is another visit from mum. It’ll be her second in six weeks and slightly longer than the last.

When these plans were initially made, I’d banked on being back in full time employment. As it happens, I am still a free agent and thus have more time to dedicate to her visit. With her staying a full week this occasion, it also feels less time-pressured. I still draft an itinerary adapted according to my now even more modest budget and the less temperate weather. Mum’s first visit was at the height of an unusually warm and consistent summer. The drop in temperature and more frequent rains certainly shifts the mood, for me at least. There remain a number of Brussels attractive green spaces I’m yet to show mum. I’m less inclined to do so in the damp. 

Mother is far less fussed. This flexibility is a saving grace. Moreover, there are a few decent weather days – or spells, at least – than anticipated. Enough for us to ramble the grounds of the Africa Museum one afternoon, for example, which mum enjoys as much as I’d hoped. In that regards, she is a low maintenance guest. I don’t have to plan the extraordinary in order for mum to have a fine time. She’s more than content with trips to local and not-so-local markets for some good old fashioned bargain-hunting. A quick jaunt around Parc George Henri after the rains is also appreciated. 

In between we have a nostalgic giggle over wry retrospectives on BBC’s infamous Halloween hoax, Ghostwatch. She canerows my hair whilst watching the highly addictive Dr. Pimple-Popper (mum’s corrupting influence). We bicker over personal boundaries and miscellaneous misunderstandings. One evening, I leave mum to her devices whilst I attend a mostly underwhelming 80s Party in Auderghem. I remember it for touchy-feely Frenchmen and a clueless DJ playing bastardised versions of classics. One of the sole advantages is that I get to hang out with Em, after not seeing her for a little bit.

Mum’s visit ends with a swing by one of her new favourite markets in Schaerbeek and a quick meet-up with one of my Brussels besties, Sylvia. They hit it off easily.

I say farewell to mum later that afternoon at Gare du Midi, where awaits a hassle-free Eurostar ride back to Blighty. Meanwhile, I’m leading another home group bible study on Justice that same evening.

During her visit, mum remarks on how busy I remain between jobs. As well as drafting applications and receiving my autumn COVID booster shot, my cultural calendar is buoyant as always.

 Brussels autumn theatre season has much to offer on the cheap, if not completely pro-gratis. I see a poignant one-man show about parenting teenagers in middle-age and an arresting Get Out-esque psychological thriller (pictured below). 

Je Te Promets @ Varia Theatre (image courtesy of L'Echo)

I attend a matinee for another one-man piece; this time, extremely interactive. A young-ish Belgian of North African descent opines about his generation’s justifiable mistrust of the police, whilst cooking a chicken tagine live on stage. I have the dubious honour of being called on at random to be a jury member for a fictitious hearing on the death of a Belgo-Arab man in police custody. I let my co-jurors do most of the talking, pointing out that French is not my first language (although I participate in the post-show discussion once my tired brain is a bit more alert). The actor offers us some tagine for our trouble, albeit whilst we’re still on stage. I barely touch it. 

I can’t wait to rush back to the safety of my seat. After the performance, I inform the production team that I wasn't best pleased about this unscripted cameo.

In a couple of weeks I’ll be back at the same venue, the Senghor culture centre in Etterbeek, for an enriching all day conference on Afropeanism at the intersections of Faith and Gender.

I’m also increasingly preoccupied with my musical exploits. I am introduced to an evening of dance, Samba de Gafieira-style, by new Brazilian acquaintance, Ana-Carolina. We first connect at the Afro-European conference I attend in September. She's a visiting professor in Brussels, although hopes to make the move to Europe long term. We hang out at a couple of musically-based events before she returns to Brazil.  She helps me with Portuguese and we agonise over the forthcoming second round of Brazilian elections.  

My inchoate friendships with Clotilde and Agnès gets a boost when we meet in early October to harmonise at Parc Royale.  (In an ideal world, I could spend all day harmonising with like-minded folk.) After a hesitant start, the trio hits its stride. Our voices start to make a pleasant blend. Agnès has come equipped with song sheets. We swap musical tips and anecdotes. I’m horrified to learn that the girls are both unfamiliar with En Vogue and Boyz II Men. I’m the oldest of the bunch by quite a margin. Clotilde is in her early 20s - a whole generational difference - whilst Agnès, although in her 30s, is nonetheless the best part of 10 years my junior. But still, Boyz II Men and En Vogue people! Indispensable to the canon of anyone serious about harmonising. Or so I thought. There’s nothing left to do but educate the young ‘uns.

We grab a rich hot chocolate before home time. Alas, whilst we’ll reconnect separately, our conflicting schedules won’t allow all three of us to resume our harmonising whimsy for several weeks to come.

The following evening, Clotilde and I are joined by Jens at an open mic night in the St Gilles vicinity. Once again, I plan to take to the stage. I am told the crowd at this establishment are friendly. That is indeed the case. Clotilde opens the night with a couple of improvised piano solos. She is the woman of the moment, known to regulars and respected for her facility with multiple instruments. My rendition of a negro spiritual sans accompagnement is warmly received. Overall however, the night is something of a menagerie. 

There are skilled MCs rapping acapella, alongside mediocre singers (much to my disappointment), alongside arresting young actors performing expressive monologues, alongside singer/songwriters of varying ability. A flamboyantly camp South American poet insists on gatecrashing others’ sets, flashing his tight stomach and equally tight-fitting white underwear at every opportunity. 

Despite mine and Clotilde's plans for an early night, we remain for the chaotic after-show jam. Jens turns beetroot red trying to suppress laughter, as a tone deaf young woman butchers her way through an Eagles’ hit. He tries to catch my eye. I turn my back to him. It’s all I can do not to dissolve into hysterics myself. 

As I become better acquainted with the Brussels live circuit, I am confronted with a familiar dilemma. The Jazz jams are generally snobbish and less welcoming but high quality performances are a constant.  The regular open mic nights are comparatively laidback but the quality is more unreliable.

Open Mic night @La Tricoterie (c) @PGAV

By the end of the month, I’ll have spent quite a lot of time in the company of my new chums, especially Jens. He he is my plus-one at a performance by the Gospel choir I’m interested in joining. We are both left somewhat underwhelmed. I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s certainly the most diverse chorale I’ve come across so far in this context (albeit the bar is set pretty low here). Yet it lacks soulfulness. There are no stand out soloists either. 

Still, it’s not terrible. I wonder if the purpose of attending that fateful choir rehearsal in September was just to bring Clotilde, Agnès and I into each others’ orbit. (Both of them have also incidentally cooled to the idea of joining). Time will tell…

As it will for my incipient friendship with Jens the Dandy. He is easy company; inhabiting his own quirky, neuro-divergent planet. Then again, in some ways, so am I. We are on a similar wavelength, and not just musically. I have my first all-nighter in Brussels at a DJ set, thanks to Jens. Our conversations quickly go deep and candid, even amidst this sort of party atmosphere. Romance is not on the table and it’s a relief. Jens nonetheless remains present and generous with his time. He is pensive, frank, has surprisingly good manners (apart from the expletives), is smartly-turned out and gives great hugs. Nothing is perfect (he doesn't regard the oeuvre of Boyz II Men, for instance). Nevertheless, I find our interactions invigorating.

Bref, I am excited about this burgeoning friendship and it terrifies me. I’m like a kid fixated with a new toy, at risk of breaking it from over-use. It's already too intense. I need to slow the heck down.

I note familiar unhelpful habits and thought patterns that I believe have contributed to the implosion of previous relationships. Then there are all the hang-ups and hurts from recent disappointments. I’m still figuring out how to navigate these relational waters; how to turn past mistakes into lessons learned. I wouldn’t want this potentially good friendship to be a casualty of my neuroses. I'm unsure if I’m yet ready to invest in new relationships of any kind. 

I explain to Jens that a recent high friendship turnover has put me on guard. I've already been misled by too many seemingly sweet-natured camp men in the past couple of years. I stay vigilant. Maybe hyper-vigilant. I swing the pendulum to the other end, emphasising my purely platonic intentions to an insensitive extent. Jens is gracious about it. I’m keen to get it all under control. If not now, then when? There’ll always be new and intriguing people to meet.

I’ll have a lot to catch my therapist up on next session.

Ready or Not...Part II

 6 min. read

Part I

A day after catching R&B singer/songwriter Amber Mark live at Botanique, I spend a windy Sunday in Ostend, at the annual Manifiesta political festival. It's the first since the onset of the pandemic and therefore my first occasion to attend. As is almost uniformly the case with this sort of event, there are numerous great things going on at the same time. If only I could clone myself. I go to sessions about successful union organising at Starbucks in the US and Ibis Hotel in France’s capital, both led by Afrodescendant women. I rub shoulders with gifted young socialist economist from the UK, Grace Blakeley and the extended family of celebrated Palestinian activist, Ahed Tamimi. Former UK Labour Party leader, Jeremy Corbyn is also supposed to be a guest of honour. Alas, he pulls out. It's the eve of the late Queen Elizabeth II's funeral. A fellow socialist-republican, JC decides it's better to lay low lest his presence at Manifiesta be wilfully misconstrued by the cynical British press. 

I come across various comrades and those I wouldn’t consider amongst them, such as my old nemesis, Rob.

Before hopping on the coach for the traffic-heavy ride back to Brussels, I enjoy an ecstatic set by the dynamic Ivorian musical outfit, Magic System.

A few days later there’s further intellectual and cultural invigoration at the Afro-European conference held in VUB university, Etterbeek. It is another first for me. As suspected, I bump into representatives from the anti-racist organisation that interviewed me a few weeks prior. It’s initially a little awkward but there’s no beef. 

It’s an intense three days. The theme this year is intersectionality, with the aim of understanding its complexities beyond just being a buzzword. 

Like Manifiesta, I’m torn between myriad presentations and discussions that overlap. I attend multilingual sessions covering topics such as Black Feminisms, the role of race in healthcare in Europe, racialisation in policymaking and knowledge construction by Afro-Brazilian women filmmakers. 

Other highlights include all three keynote speeches. On Day One the honour goes to the first Afrodescendant female professor in the UK, Olivette Otele. The following day it's the turn of fellow academic, the provocative Kehinde Andrews and to close, the fearlessly candid activist, Mireille-Tsheusi Robert. 

There's also a chance to visit the infamous Africa Museum in Tervuren. The museum has rightly come under fire in the past for completely effacing Belgium’s sanguineous track record in its former colonies, notably Congo. Whilst I’ve been to the Museum’s sprawling grounds many times, I wouldn’t have ventured inside unless it were for a more historically honest guided visit. This is my opportunity. 

We divide into two groups. Most are keen to follow the Belgo-Congolese guide, Frédéric (who, I’m later told, gives an unfiltered tour of the premises). The rest of us, perhaps out of sympathy, join the Flemish guide, Marieke, who is beginning to feel left out. She does her best to be culturally sensitive and acknowledges the remaining controversies but naturally, she wouldn't bring the same perspective as Frédéric. 

On the way back from the Museum by tram, our group analyses the visit; both its strengths and oversights. One African-American participant raises the salient point that without the guide or foreknowledge of Belgium’s colonial past, the museum's coverage of this historical violence remains muted.

After the Conference closing ceremony, a posse of us heads to Flagey for drinks and food. I’m exhausted but sad it’s all over. I’ve made several more new acquaintances, spread throughout Continental Europe and the UK.

The day after, I make my way to a new Jam at the Jazz Station bar in St. Josse. I’ve passed the venue many times, my curiosity yet to be satiated. I am accompanied by a couple of very recent acquaintances, Clothilde and Agnès. We meet for the first time a few weeks earlier, sitting in on a rehearsal for a Gospel choir that we're all interested in joining. Clothilde and Agnès are such fast friends, I assume they’re already well-acquainted. Once I let down my guard, we’re all chatting away easily about harmonies and previous singing experience.

The ladies follow through on their promise to stay in touch and reconnect for musical excursions, hence my proposal to head to Jazz Station.

I’ve also invited for the ride another kindred spirit in music, Jens. It’s a been a while since we hung out. I am a bit paranoid he’s avoiding me. On the contrary. He’s just been busy. Jens accepts my last minute invitation with alacrity.

The Jazz Station event comes recommended by a flirty French musician I meet at an open mic night in Laiterie café, where I’ve performed a few weeks prior. 

Alas, the set-up at the Jazz Station is more stereotypically uptight than the easygoing Laiterie gang. We still have a great time, albeit Agnès finds the house band too esoteric. I see her point.

The event does seem more welcoming of singers compared to others I’ve attended. I give it a go. The feedback is positive. I’m relieved to have gone through it, even if I’m not wholly satisfied with my performance.

Jazz Station (c) Visit Brussels

The best part of the evening is seeing my guests all get along, as well as meeting other musically-inclined folk. Like the producer, Bémol and his wife, Alessa. The couple have only just moved to Brussels after several years spent in Southern Europe and North Africa. Agnès mentions that Bémol is looking for vocalists to provide BGVs on a forthcoming project. Whilst open to the idea, privately I maintain a healthy scepticism about its likelihood. On verra.

By the end of the night, numbers have been exchanged, as well as information on similar events.

Before Jens drops us off home in his pristine, upmarket car, multi-instrumentalist Clothilde avails herself of the chance to perform the improvised piano piece that she was denied before. (Only Jazz standards can be performed during the jam). She’s more accomplished than I assumed. 

Clothilde radiates a childlike exuberance; one of those rare beings yet untainted by the world. It moves me to tears. Never change, I tell her.