Balancing Act

 

(courtesy of Brussels Airlines)

8 min. read

Spring has announced itself in earnest, long before its official start on the day of Equinox (20/21 March). The skies over Brussels have been consistently – suspiciously – clear and blue. It’s the sort of weather where you don’t quite know how to dress; either too hot or too chilly, all possibly within the same day. Before moving to Belgium, I came across a statistic that it rains roughly two-thirds of the year. Leading up to my second anniversary here, I can attest this is not an exaggeration. I wonder if we’re approaching the year’s sunshine quota, only for the rest to be eked out over the coming months.

Still, I can’t complain about an abundance of sun. Yes, it would be great to have a bright and clear summer but, heck, I need to welcome the rays whenever they come.

Most would acknowledge it’s a morale boost. Although it can still be an uphill struggle whilst the sun’s shining, it's at least more scenic en route. It seems the Belgian authorities take advantage of the warmer climes to relax COVID rules. Or rather, more cynically, like many states across the world, they’re experimenting with herd immunity whilst folk are distracted by the war in Ukraine. Since the rule change, masks have all but vanished. Even on public transport where it’s still mandatory, several passengers – especially the young and/or reckless – dispose of them altogether.

I have a follow up visit to the GP at the end of my trial medical leave. She explains there’s not much that can be done for me without a firm diagnosis. She extends my leave until the end of March. Any more would be hard to justify for insurance purposes. She has consulted the recommended counsellor with whom I spoke. He advises more counselling. Apart from that, he claims, there's nothing out of the ordinary. I don’t know how I would have needed to present to be taken more seriously. I’m not about to fake distress. I sense that, because I can get out of bed and hold to some routine, or didn't have a meltdown in his office, the counsellor presumed that I was doing better than I have felt. That I don’t need more emotional and mental respite before returning to the world of work. 

I become overwhelmed in the doctor’s office. She offers some tissues. I have my own.

My sister, as well as my dear friend Karin, both suggest I seek a second opinion. I do wonder if this is one of those instances of medical professionals overestimating the pain threshold of Afrodescendants. The well-known – not to mention harmful – notions that we have a greater capacity to withstand pain; physically or otherwise.

A few days after seeing the doctor, I catch sight of my old job advertised online. It comes with an annual wage uplift of over 15K. I didn't realise TTUO had that much to spare. If my former management weren't such bad faith operators, they could have kept me on for far less money. 

All these considerations are making it hard for me to unload, albeit the objective of the limited leave is for me to rest. Other possible life lines appear remote. After two and half years of not seeing each other in person, Japan’s (still) harsh travel restrictions stand in the way of an imminent offline reunion with sis.

((c) Stocklib.fr)

On a more mundane level, it’s going on a month since my boiler broke down. Depending on what day you catch him, my landlord is either very responsive or completely AWOL. Various workmen come and go, if available at all. I’m given sometimes conflicting information about what can and can’t be done. There are quibbles with the landlord over the price. In the scheme of human suffering, having to boil a kettle to have a wash is a negligible inconvenience. However, the boiler palaver is more needless stress, consuming time that could be better used. Yet even this has its silver lining. It'll result in a needed dip in my electricity bill, all the more appreciated in the midst of a global energy crisis.

The image of a tightrope comes to mind; negotiating the challenges of these peculiar times on one side whilst on the other, not neglecting the small mercies that keep hope alive, in spite of myself. One Saturday evening, for instance, whilst participating in a lengthy cooking workshop at church, I take time out to nurse my painful right foot. Another participant, Anne-Marie, happens to have a qualification in medical pedicures. She gives me an effective foot massage before introducing me to a trainee podiatrist whose mother also happens to be attending the workshop. He in turn puts me in touch with a student podiatry centre round the corner from where I live. They offer supervised treatment at the fraction of the price of a private clinic. Providence. I'm grateful for the minors whilst praying for more interventions in the majors.

Providential blessings aren’t just evident in the one-offs. Whilst some friendships appear to be on the wane, I endeavour to focus on those that are steadier. Friends like Brenda, who isn’t deterred by my morosity. A few days before setting off for her first solo holiday in idyllic Tuscany, we meet up for a walk around the scenic Parc Woluwe.

Then there’s Karin, a real life superheroine. Sister-in-Christ, activist, wife, mother, PhD student, main breadwinner...and she still carves out quality time for her friends. 

She celebrates her birthday the same week as International Women’s Day. We meet up for lunch a few days before she organises a celebratory dinner at her home. 

Her husband Felix is somewhere in the background, doing his best impression of a facetious curmudgeon. It’s all quite tongue-in-cheek.

They’ve tricked their toddler, Evita, into her usual early bed time. Somehow she sleeps through the noise made by her older brother, Amos, and his adorable chums. Karin's kids and I have mutual soft spots for each other. Entertaining them assuages my broodiness.

I know from experience that Karin has a culturally-rich and diverse social circle. In attendance are some familiar (and less so) faces from church as well as new acquaintances to discover. 

I’m introduced to an Italian disability rights activist, and her Burundian husband. Like Karin’s children, their young ones are growing up trilingual.

Also invited is Cleo; a racial justice activist and photographer of Jewish/African-Caribbean heritage and more besides. She is gamely accompanied by her tribe, ranging in complexion from deep chocolate to butterscotch; a good-natured teenaged stepdaughter, an energetic six-year old (one of Amos’ adorable playmates) and a baby girl with irresistible cheeks. 

 Cleo is convinced we’ve met before. I’m sure I would remember if we had. It continues to bug her all evening until, by chance, we discover we were at the same International Women’s Day/Black History Month event just days before. On that occasion, Cleo’s is only a disembodied voice in the crowd, asking a salient question. From where I’m sitting I can’t get a clear view of her. Having already heard much about Cleo from Karin, Fate has it that our paths inevitably cross later that very week.

Admittedly, at first it’s only my love for Karin that gets me out of the house that evening. So much the better. This evening of stimulating conversation and good, Lent-friendly food is precisely what I need. It’s coming up to the midnight hour before I head home.

((c) Stocklib.fr)

My old nemesis, Rob, has come back on the scene of late, albeit at a safe-ish distance. I’ve been giving his Internations activities a wide berth. There are a couple that are intriguing enough to coax me out of my self-imposed exile. One on Ukraine – previously mentioned on these pages – and a so-called African fine-dining experience. I’ve paid a deposit for the latter. In typical Rob fashion, it’s rescheduled several times within the space of a week. 

One lunch time, I show up at his office for a proper explanation of affairs and half-a-mind to ask for a refund. We end up having a discussion about how to better understand structural racism, in light of some unhelpful -if not downright unsavoury - comments made during and after his Ukraine-related event.

 Rob is also fresh from attending a press conference where Congolese students returning from Ukraine have spoken of facing further discrimination from Belgian universities. These institutions are willing to accept their displaced Eastern European counterparts but not them.

I make my getaway whilst Rob takes yet another work-related call. I confess, it’s good to be on civil terms. So long as I remain circumspect and space out our interactions.

A few days later I meet up again with a mutual friend of both mine and Rob’s, Em. I’ve invited her to an expat soirée near Gare Centrale. I plan to surprise a DJ acquaintance, Thibault -or Thibs – who regularly invites me to his events. It’s yet to work out. 

A few weeks earlier I show up to a private party where Thibs is supposed to be DJ-ing. It’s a wet and windy night. So windy that Em pulls out last minute, fearing it’s too dangerous to drive. The party takes place in a remote room at the top of a high-rise on Avenue Louise. There are scarcely any guests when I arrive. Thibs himself is yet to make an appearance. Three unknown men hover around the entrance. I smell a set-up.

What the…?

The host switches from cordial to defensive. He snaps that I should come back later if I feel so uneasy. I leave to ‘get some air’. By the time I exit the building, I know I’m not going to return.

Fast forward a few weeks later, at the aforementioned expat soirée – in a nice, neutral location – I see the host of the ill-fated party once more.

We’ve already met, no? He asks. 

Yes, briefly, I reply. If he doesn’t remember how or when, I’m not going to remind him.

IDRED Demonstration 20 March 2022 (image RTBF)

Sod’s law, this is the one rare night when Thibs is not on the decks. 

It's an agreeable evening, although I hoped to do more dancing than networking. Em, on the other hand, is very enthused about it all.

That Sunday, I reunite with Karin after church to join an anti-racism demo in commemoration of the International Day for the Elimination of Racial Discrimination (IDRED). Karin is keen, if a little apprehensive. It’s her first demo. Felix has vetoed the children accompanying her, lest things turn violent. I strongly doubt it. 

The original plan is to organise a bigger, socially-conscious posse to go down to the march. Cleo has familial obligations. Davina, a Ghanaian-Brit I met at Rob’s Ukraine event, is also indisposed.

That leaves just the two of us. Karin and I have a good two hours before the demo to catch up, even if it’s only been a few days since we last met up. I’m acutely aware of how easily during this season I steer the conversation to my own circumstances. I'm trying to combat the urge. It’s not as if Karin doesn’t have a lot on her own plate. It occurs to me to be more explicit with how much I value her. It’s the least I can do. She’s sat through enough of my whining about being estranged from Lorenzo. I don’t want to be so preoccupied with a closing door that I no longer see those that are wide open before me.

Karen and I link up with hundreds of other demonstrators a few minutes before the crowd sets off. It’s sunny but nippy. I’m not adequately dressed for the chill. I link arms with Karin most of the way. There are Batacuda-style percussionists – of all ages - providing the soundtrack to our marching. They are occasionally drowned out by chants and alternative, ahem, sources of music. We aim to stay close to the drummers. Various Leftist political parties, trade unions, CSOs and cultural groups are amongst the crowd. We stop to glean information from a couple of the civil society groups.

We note that no church groups seem to have made an appearance, at least in an official capacity. There are folk at my church who are said to have attended Anti-COVID restriction marches, protesting  policies that are meant to protect. Yet these same people don't seem to muster the same energy for anti-racist solidarity.

Karin takes pictures of several children at the march, to reassure Felix that it’s a family-friendly gathering.

We end up walking the entire route, as well as staying for (mercifully brief) closing speeches and entertainment. If Karin weren’t present, I’d probably already be making my way home. By the time we are ready to leave, most of the 3000 reported participants have dispersed.

Soundtrack: Corinne Bailey Rae (self-titled debut), Bookends + Bridge Over Troubled Water by Simon & Garfunkel.

Starry-Eyed and Gravely Discontented

8 min. read

There are troubles without and troubles within.

Following the circumstances surrounding the end of my previous contract, I continue to feel the effects on my well-being. In late February I see a GP, who in turn refers me to a therapist. Both listen with compassion and neither dismisses my concerns. The doctor signs me off on medical leave for a limited period. The therapist, Gerard, practising just a stone’s throw from my flat, happens to be a Man of Faith. He encourages me to lean on mine. Our session is in French. I can get my point across well enough. However, if I want to speak with more nuance and from the heart about my emotional state, I function much better in English. Gerard is sympathetic, as he is to me wanting to find a more culturally-appropriate therapist. I nevertheless don’t rule out seeing him again. Empathy is key to effective therapy and Gerard has plenty.

It’s on Lorenzo’s advice that I see the doctor in the first instance. It didn’t occur to me that I could obtain help for work-related problems whilst I’m in between jobs. I therefore have my Italian friend to thank for this intervention.

blackhistorymonth.be

Alas, things are otherwise not so simple for us. There are more misunderstandings, including a sharp disagreement by email. I am especially fragile these days and it’s likely I’ve overreacted. Lorenzo and I patch up our differences enough to agree to meet for one of Brussels' inaugural March 2022 Black History Month events in the City Centre.

The theme of the discussion turns around the Ecological crisis from various points of view, including Black Ecofeminism. The event is marred by an obnoxious moderator. Priding themselves on their non-binary gender identity, they are a self-obsessed walking identity politics Gen-Z cliché. They make it very clear that White participants are not welcome in the space. This puts Lorenzo on edge. He’s not the only one. 

 Before the panel discussion and during the break, Renzo and I catch up on each other’s news. He’s getting back on his feet, ready to return to work. Just a month ago that wasn’t the case. The conversation inevitably turns to the recent problems we’ve been experiencing. For me, nothing fundamental has changed. I am not blind to a rather drastic dip in our rapport but any close friendship will have its issues. It's not insurmountable. I still love my friend and am invested in our relationship. 

Our chat nevertheless takes an unexpected turn. Or maybe not so unexpected. A week before this fateful encounter, I presciently watch a sermon on knowing when to let someone go.

The writing has been on the wall for some time. I just didn’t really believe– or want to believe- that the sharp decline in relations was that serious. Lorenzo confirms my suspicions that he’s been keeping me at arm’s length. It's felt like hard work maintaining his interest, because it is. He says I'm too demanding of his time and emotional energy of late. It’s not unconnected to my recent work troubles. He’s tried to be supportive but finds it increasingly difficult to be present. He claims I am angrier these days and it's made him uneasy...

There’s no point rehearsing the whole back-and-forth here.  Suffice to say it feels like a break-up. In the days to come, I’ll mourn it as such. I’ve had good friendships come to a formal end before, but not quite like this. I've experienced a Big Drift over time but not overnight.

It's less than a year since Lorenzo and I became acquainted thanks to a mutual friend. After a good run, maybe too good, he is visibly now less enthusiastic about the friendship. I almost don’t recognise this person. I remember the conscientious and attentive friend. The same friend who wasn’t in such a hurry to leave when we’d spend even more time together than we have recently. The one who would send thoughtful text messages when either of us went on holiday. Renzo, the sensitive soul, so caring and self-aware that he would pick up on supposed slights before I did – if at all. Who would seem genuinely pleased to see me, regard me with tenderness and be regularly affirming without being asked...

...Of course, we’ll stay in touch... This is just a beautiful challenge, navigating a new phase of our friendship…

(dreamstime.com)

No doubt, Renzo wants to believe in what he’s saying. I, on the other hand, am not so certain. He’s moved on. If in theory we’re still friends, in practice it feels as if something has been irretrievably lost.

Of course, there are two sides to a story. Lorenzo will have his own take. Mine is filtered through the lens of my hurt.

By the time Renzo is ready to go home, frustrated by  the arc of the conversation as well as the BHM event itself, he's brittle and impatient. He stands abruptly to leave, not before glancing down to see me looking crestfallen. For the first time, he says he loves me too. I give a rueful smile. Incredulous, even. His actions have never been further from these words.

In any other circumstance they would be reassuring to hear. I can't truly know his motives but presently, it comes across as one of only two things. Either: acknowledging I'm upset, in a last ditch attempt to salvage the situation, he tells me something he thinks I want to hear. Or, more cynically, it's an ace to be played by the emotionally-withholding.

Distraught? It's not the word. Everywhere, across Brussels there are sudden and unwanted reminders of our friendship. The beautiful Italian language, heard often in this international city, is now sad to my ears. I think of how well things were going until a few short months ago and I'm perplexed.

I understand there's no malice aforethought on Renzo’s part. I value the honesty. It's a conversation we needed to have. His intent wasn’t to be unkind or abandon the friendship at a moment when it means all the more. Yet if the outcome is the same, it might as well not matter. My legal training taught me that the only thing distinguishing murder from manslaughter is the mens rea. The actus reus remains a cold hard fact. A perpetrator and a lifeless body.

Mine and Renzo’s friendship, much like my former job, was symbolic of so much. Fresh beginnings and new chapters. Auspicious signs of a turnaround in what was a rocky start to my Belgian adventure. Such a pure friendship - particularly with a man -is a rare find in my experience, not to be taken lightly.  I believed - maybe naively- that being close friends with a gay man, we were sheltered from the usual gendered power dynamics and unnecessary drama.

I’m confused and question everything.

As much as I endeavour to avoid finding a meaning or reason for what has happened, my mind strays there. It’s instinctive to want to draw a lesson to avoid a ‘same script, different cast’ scenario in future.

My sister warns against vilifying Renzo. People change their minds, she says, we have that right. Nobody is necessarily to blame. I appreciate the wisdom in this, even if it doesn’t always ring true.

Over time, the intense shock and sorrow over the perceived rupture subsides to a dull, if persistent, ache. There is a bitter-sweet relief to knowing I wasn’t simply being paranoid. Renzo has been pulling away. I can now liberate some of the headspace and free time I’d become accustomed to reserving for him and spread them more evenly amongst other friendships; present and future.

Just over a week after our fraught conversation, Renzo sends me an unexpected email. He's saddened by the state of affairs. He hopes we can find a healthy new equilibrium, although neither of us knows what that looks like right now. 

Meanwhile, I need to take each day as it comes. The continuous early Spring sunshine -atypical for this part of the world - certainly helps. After a few false starts, I join a local gym and throw myself into  fitness classes. 

 I sign up for a number of other BHM activities. On World Women’s Day I attend an international panel discussion on black women’s experiences in the music industry. 

Malcom Ferdinand (courtesy of Outremer le 1ere)

The day after the infamous meet-up with Renzo, I am in the audience for a conversation with academic and author of Decolonial Ecology-Perspectives on Ecology from the Caribbean World, Malcom Ferdinand. I am already impressed by Ferdinand based on his contributions at the event the previous evening; one of the few highlights amongst a mixed bag. A graduate of UCL, he’s equally eloquent in French and English. 

He speaks for instance, of how the Maroons weren't just revolutionary in their resistance to slavery, but in their relationship with the land once they took back their freedom. It was a far cry from the exploitative practices on the plantations they'd escaped.

I intend to add the original French language version of his book to my wishlist. 

Sitting in that intimate Afro-bookshop space in Matongé, sunlight streaming through and surrounded by stimulating discourse, I can temporarily park my emotional woes. And yes, it doesn’t hurt that Malcom is a stunning specimen of a man. A tall, athletic Martinican Malcolm X with dreads. I admire his intellect and beauty from a safe distance.

A few days later I attend the final performance of a play riffing off my old A-level study text; Edward Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolfe? Some of the French dialogue and witticisms are too rapid fire for me but I catch much of the gist. There are thought-provoking and controversial polemics around privilege, race, migration and gender relations. 

Earlier that afternoon, I join the fun and frolics organised for the 35+ singles at FWM. It’s supposed to be a celebratory multicultural event but I’m one of the few who makes an effort. From memory, I prepare some specially-seasoned gizzard based on a recipe my mum and her mother before her would make. It goes down a treat, even if I don’t get to enjoy it. This Lent I’ve given up meat, amongst other things.

The following day, after church, I spend a substantial part of my afternoon and evening watching Ryûsuke Hamaguchi’s wistful epic Drive My Car; based on Haruki Murakami’s short story of the same name. Its gentle melancholia is apt for my mood, livening up what would have otherwise been another lonely Sunday night.

Soundtrack: Starfruit by Moonchild, So Far to Go by Cabu, Cure the Jones by Mamas Gun.

Pause for Thought

  

African and Asian migrants stranded on Ukrainian border
(courtesy of bbc.com)

5 min. read

At the time of writing, it’s been over a fortnight since Vladimir Putin ordered Russian troops to invade Ukraine. In the European context, at least, it is in the backdrop of the everyday. Further afield, my West Africa-based father sends me a panicked email, asking how I am and worrying about the threat of nuclear Armageddon. 

Hearts understandably go out to the millions of refugees fleeing the war-torn region. 

An Ukrainian technician comes round to inspect my broken down boiler, on the behest of my landlord. I ask how he is and about his family back home. He’s preparing to welcome his ex-wife and their daughter. He eventually has to forego the works, his time taken up with hosting his newly-arrived relatives.

It’s good to see the Church rising to the occasion. Numerous prayer meetings are called in various nations. Pope Francis proposes a global day of prayer for peace on Ash Wednesday. 

Closer to home, a predominantly Nigerian Belgium-based church organises an emergency Zoom prayer call. My own church in Brussels arranges for members to donate urgent medical supplies. 

It’s right for there to be such an outpouring of solidarity for people dragged into war, for reasons over which they have no control; the ethno-nationalist whims of a mercurial autocrat and the imperialist expansion of NATO.  War is inhumane. If it's not injury and death in Ukraine, it's ordinary Russian citizens suffering under gruelling sanctions.

And yet I’m increasingly uneasy over the seeming partiality of this support and news coverage. This is not about playing Oppression Bingo. I'm just not about to customise anything with Blue & Yellow, if I wasn't previously conscientious about showing affinity with other populations suffering under warfare. It would be disingenuous and selective.

I don’t recall such a widespread groundswell of support for devastating conflicts in Yemen, the Sahel region or Ethiopia (where civil war has seen a similar number of inhabitants displaced as Ukraine). Nor at the start of disastrous NATO-led expeditions in Libya and Afghanistan. That aforementioned Nigerian church group have not, to my knowledge, organised similar intercessory meetings for wars taking place in the Motherland. Maybe their focus has narrowed since moving to Europe.

I can't remember PayPal or WeTransfer fundraising for various other geopolitical crises. Or Soundcloud changing their logo to the ban-the-bomb sign for the numerous conflict zones around the globe.

Don’t even get me started on the hierarchical treatment of refugees. In the lead up to another significant French election, Right-wing politicians in the country actively promote discriminating between which refugees to accept, based on nationality, ethnicity and/or religion.

I’m both impressed and relieved when an English member of my church house group points out the appalling treatment of darker-skinned refugees escaping the war in Ukraine. There are reports of African and Asian students being insulted, harassed, even hauled off vehicles to let indigenous Ukrainians board and flee, only to be left stranded. 

On the second week anniversary itself of the invasion, I attend a discussion which three guests with a connection to Ukraine join via Zoom. One is a Nigerian who settled in Ukraine over 30 years ago. After the outbreak of war, he crossed the Hungarian border with his family.  He claims that Western media has exaggerated the extent of discrimination against non-European refugees. Ukraine isn't racist compared to Russia, he asserts. According to those he's spoken to, these 'misunderstandings' come down to administrative errors or foreign students not having enough of the language to navigate the system. He insists it's not a systematic problem and that these 'isolated' incidents of racism have mainly happened on the Polish border. 

Another panellist - a Russian-speaking Ukrainian pastor who previously ministered to foreign students - reiterates that those who experienced hostility weren't singled out because of their ethnicity. Everyone was stressed given the circumstances, he argues. 

This exchange frustrates me. Whilst their comments provide an alternative perspective -and from the ground-I remain sceptical and for good reason. Wilfully or not, both speakers have a naïve understanding of how racism works. The Nigerian guest appears to have spent so much time assimilating, he's forgotten - or not aware - that racism doesn't have to be overt to be systematic. And just because one nation is less flagrantly racist than another, that doesn't mean it doesn't also have a problem. Like the rest of the world, Ukraine would not be inured to White Supremacy.

Elsewhere, there's suddenly much indignation over the bureaucracy that Ukrainian refugees are facing in European states, including the UK.  Tell that to the hundreds and thousands of mainly African migrants I meet at the Red Cross Centre near central Brussels, some of whom have been stuck in the quagmire of the dehumanising migration system for years. Where is the outrage in the mainstream on their behalf? There is none. Brown bodies are naturally more dispensable.

Then there’s the frankly racist media characterisation of this conflict as being somehow more tragic because it’s not taking place in a ‘third world country’ and that those being killed have ‘blond hair and blue eyes’. 

God help us. 

White Supremacy manages to taint humanitarian endeavour. When it underpins so much of the current world system, how could it not. The Church has sadly, if unconsciously, been at times complicit in this prejudice. We can't simply be swayed by Western mainstream media's whimsy. Situations don't cease to be concerning just because they're no longer top of the news agenda (cross-reference Afghanistan roughly six months ago), if part of the agenda at all.

All this is depressingly familiar, as are the arguments that justify the biases. "...Ukraine is geographically closer..." " ‘We’ have more in common culturally..." 

I once commented on similar responses to other incidents of violence taking place on European soil. These justifications were not convincing then and they still aren’t. Anything that tries to rationalise that some lives are more valuable than others never could be. 

One of the potential blessings in disguise of this horrifying situation is that it is already the impetus for well-needed dialogue. The hope -albeit tentative - is that long-term lessons will be learned and implemented, not conveniently forgotten.