A Springtime Parenthesis in London Part I

 

(courtesy of London Perfect)

6 min read.

Back in deep winter, I make the most of Eurostar’s seasonal sales to book a short early Spring trip to the UK.  A lot has happened since I first made my reservation, making the break all the more timely.

The combination of minimal travel restrictions (zero on the UK side) and commuting by train spares me the drama of recent cross-Channel visits.

When I arrive at St. Pancras, the outpouring of support for Ukrainian arrivals is as zealous as ever. I continue to be very divided about the issue; not whether help should be given but rather how selective this goodwill has been on the part of European nations. During my visit, I'll discover that these sentiments will be shared by other Afrodescendant relatives and friends.

As usual, I’ve secured accommodation in South East London, this time even closer to my mum. I’ll be staying with Erika; an Austrian working in the arts whose made London her adopted home. The experience is a world away from my first post-Lockdown trip to the UK last November. 

Firstly, Erika’s home is pristine. The reviews haven’t done it justice. I am yet to meet an Austrian, German or Swiss who doesn’t live in spotless conditions. Erika is easy-going. No strenuous house-rules, apart from keeping an eye on the whereabouts of her errant cat.

It’s exactly the kind of environment I need for a restful, hassle-free trip. Plus, after one month of my boiler being out-of-action, I can finally enjoy a hot shower over these few days.

I assume Erika comes from money. There’s no other way that a young, jobbing artist from overseas could afford a sizeable house in London that she didn’t inherit. Prior to living in Lewisham, she had a flat in London Bridge. ‘Nuff said. In any case, Erika is welcoming and down-to-earth.

The UK is enjoying the same clement weather that has blessed Belgium and its neighbours lately. Whilst I welcome the sunshine in usually grey Brussels, it’s been tinged with melancholy. Perhaps it’s too much rattling around alone in my flat, despite my efforts to get out and be active. The main advantage of having a live-in AirBnB host is knowing one is never completely isolated.

More generally, I didn’t expect to enjoy sunny London as much I am. It feels different. I grew up here, after all. Sun is sun. And yet this temporary scene switch – being physically away from the little dramas that have characterised my Belgian experience – is very refreshing. A change is as good as a rest, they say.

I make my peace with the extremely lax Corona-precautions. Brussels isn’t too far behind these days. I must quickly readjust to longer commutes; spending up to three-quarters of an hour in transit without even leaving the borough. If I hadn’t been raised in a megapolis like London, it would swallow me alive. I don’t know how small town boys and girls manage the transition.

(courtesy of Vox)

Going about my business, it’s not long before I’m reminded of the tensions that accompany life in a mega-city. Within a short window I come across a number of heated verbal altercations, one of which ends up in a truculent customer being escorted out of a shop by security. Inner City Blues.

Aggressive exchanges notwithstanding, my holiday is off to a laidback start. I stock up on the usual bargains that I can’t take for granted in Belgium. (I will end up returning with more luggage than with which I came.) 

I have my eyebrows done expertly courtesy of my old beautician, Nab. It’s been years since we've seen each other, although I’ve stayed abreast of her news thanks to mum. Nab looks well, finally recovering from the blight that COVID has been on her business. For some reason, she's trying to convince me to relocate to the Gulf. She knows from experience that there’s a lot of money to be made, claiming that educated ‘native’ English speakers are sought after. I’m not at all enthused by the idea, especially in light of the region's terrible employment rights’ record for Asian and African migrant workers. I listen politely as Nab’s suggestion goes in one ear and out the other.

She does persuade me to dye my eyebrows. I’m in such a rush, the colour doesn’t have long enough to take. I am already late for my hair appointment in Peckham. 

 I keep my answers courteous but vague when Auntie Femi (as I call her affectionately) asks how life is in Brussels. As I have my kinky twists refreshed, she entertains an exasperated mixed Yoruba/English conversation with her facetious youngest son.

I have enough time after doing my hair to squeeze in a lastminute.com meet up with my auntie. J. She always has an endless supply of weird and wonderful anecdotes at her disposal, the magnet for colourful characters that she is. She regales me with a story about a funeral of a good friend. It has enough plot and tension to make a soap scriptwriter’s mouth water. As one of her latest ventures takes an unanticipated and rather disappointing turn, J is already bouncing back and making it work to her favour. Her uniquely customised self-portraits are garnering attention, enough for her to have some exhibited in a local library. She has various literary projects on the go, as well as travel plans. She is full of more verve and vision than folk half her age.

That same evening, I pass by to see mum. Hot food and more hair care awaits. Mum says she’s relieved to see me in a mellow mood. I’ve been tense during our latest phone conversations. I attribute this breeziness to positive effects of the trip so far.

The following day I’m set to meet my baby cousin, Israel. I say ‘baby’. He’s 22 and with his ‘Fro and Beatnik beard, he looks quite the hipster. He catches me up on his Uni and work news, before we move on to politics. I never cease to be amazed by how well-versed my half-Scottish, UK born and bred cousin is in West African linguistics, geography and history. He’s yet to step foot on African soil but has a knowledge so extensive it would put many in the diaspora to shame. I’m not a complete ignoramus myself but he’s always teaching me something new. I take literal notes for further research.

Later that afternoon, I meet with Olivia whom I've known the longest of all my friends. We met in primary school. This link-up is something of a small miracle. When you’ve been acquainted for so long, the relationship inevitably goes through various phases. This time two years ago, we were barely on speaking terms.

(courtesy of Open Table)

She’s looking well. We have a couple of hours together, yet it’s not enough to bring each other up to speed. A medical doctor, she’s recently switched specialities. I ask after her extended family. I try and synopsise the last two years but it’s still over too quickly. Olivia is based in the Midlands. It’s just by chance we’re both in town at the same time.  I pray this is the first of many bridge-building encounters.

The evening is crowned by a one-to-one in the Victoria area with Faith from my Morphē Arts family.  Half-Ghanaian, half-German, she is one of the few other Afrodescendant women in the group.

Connecting with this Christian Arts collective has been a saving grace over the pandemic period and my relocation to Belgium. I dread to think how I’d have coped – if at all - with all the ups and downs otherwise. 

Faith is talented, attractive, sharp and dynamic. One of many impressive women I know, still inexplicably single. The last time we met in November, I remarked that we’re priced out of the market. Grace’s hazle-green eyes lit up, before throwing her head back in hearty laughter.

On this occasion, she introduces me to a lively establishment with a versatile menu round the corner from Victoria station. We catch up over  healthy(ish), delicious, and reasonably-priced delicacies.

As her name suggests she is a powerhouse of faith and prayer. Her vibrancy and goodwill washes over me like a warm shower. I’m reinvigorated by the evening’s end. Whilst I head home, Faith makes her way to Soho for the DJ set of a mutual acquaintance’s husband. I'd be tempted to join her, if the clock’s weren't going forward and we weren't already foregoing an hour’s sleep.

Soundtrack: 1982 by Cabu.