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.