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| (courtesy of FeedsPortal.com) |
The UK’s Mothering Sunday falls half-way through my trip. It’s a happy coincidence.
Alas, the sun vanishes that morning. Just the day before, young women optimistically expose bare arms and legs at the sight of clear skies, defying the intermittent chill. As my older and more circumspect friends observe ‘It’s still only March’.
The steel-coloured sky and unambiguous cold of Mother’s Day morning are a rude awakening.
I make my way to church, although not my ‘home’ branch this time. I don’t have the appetite neither to explain to my London church family all that’s been happening these past months, nor feign that everything is light and carefree. I decide to worship at another one of the sites. There are still familiar faces like Pastor Sammy, with whom I used to serve in youth ministry and Will, a former policeman. I'm privately pleased he's quit the force. When asked why, he explains that one of his goals in life was to grow old and jolly. He hadn't encountered many of those when he was part of the force.
I receive a brief but warm welcome from Sammy before he preaches from John 4, one of my favourite passages in the Gospels. I look out for his wife, Lydia but see no sign of her or their baby girl, Hope. Lydia and Sammy’s wedding way back in 2017 was the last I recall attending, before I relocated to Europe. Those kind of mass celebratory events seem like another lifetime, following COVID and its Great Interruption.
Between Mother’s Day festivities and baby dedications, the service is busy. Guests are dressed up to the nines, particularly the West African contingent. After Will fills me in on his life news, I don’t hang around. My exit is perhaps a little too hasty. There are one or two others with whom I’d have liked to shoot the breeze. I just don’t want to be late for my next appointment with Amelia, around the corner from my AirBnB in Forest Hill.
Amelia has made a special effort to see me today. Between the pandemic and personal schedules, we haven’t been able to connect offline for a few years. She takes me to a local café, where one of the waiting staff is obviously smitten by her. He avails himself of every opportunity to converse. Amelia is polite but circumspect.
She informs me of her hectic programme at a primary school, juggling regular teaching duties with a senior administrative role. She’s also finding time to revive an old love for gymnastics, classical dance and singing. Amelia is a woman with many strings to her bow of which I was previously unaware. As she talks, my head swims with ideas about future collaborative projects.
Once again, I try to summarise almost two years of life season in Belgium so far. She’s horrified, if hardly surprised, when I narrate my former work saga. She hears echoes of my story in some of her professional experience.
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| Greenwich Park (greenwich.gov.uk) |
As we leave the establishment, Amelia is kind enough to foot the bill. For her troubles, she’s accosted again by her admirer and only just manages to escape. By the time we step out, the sun is shining again.
All the better. I’m spending the rest of the day with mum (of course). We've scheduled a walk through Blackheath and Greenwich, as was once our custom. We have just about enough time before sunset. I drop off mum’s card, gift and flowers before we head back out.
En route, outside Blackheath station, a crowd are gathered around what threatens to be a serious physical altercation involving three men and a woman. It appears a couple of the men have tried to intervene in a domestic. As mum and I distance ourselves from the drama, the woman’s bloodcurdling screams follow us. When we loop back around, an ambulance has pulled up on the scene. Yet another example of the tensions I’ve been observing since I arrived.
In stark contrast, mum has a pleasant surprise for me. To be continued...
We beat sundown to make it across the Heath and Greenwich Park before the gates close. We take the bus back to Sydenham where mum has cooked some of my favourites, despite my protestations that she shouldn’t have on Mother’s Day. I marvel at my mum’s youthfulness. I’ve had a whole lifetime to get accustomed but I still can’t. Thank God for her genes.
It ends up being another late night, which naturally has a knock-on effect on my sleep. There has been a notable improvement, compared to the borderline insomnia I experienced a short while ago. I sleep even better away from Brussels, yet it’s still not uninterrupted.
I’m groggy and slow the morning of the penultimate day of my trip. My mind often strays to images of me rattling around my Brussels flat alone when I return. I try and will myself back to the present.
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| (churchsupplier.com) |
I bid a fond goodbye and take a circuitous route from South Kensington to King’s Cross. The Piccadilly line is suspended at South Ken. It’s not a good day for public transport. There’s also a partial bus strike.
I’m due to meet with Nneoma from my Morphē Arts Collective family at King's Place. The hope is that others will join us later but alas, timetables and transport disruption do not allow.
It’s a blessing in disguise.
Nneoma and I have apparently moved in similar circles, long before our interactions with Morphē. However, prior to my visit we were yet to meet IRL. We have instead compensated with video calls that last several hours. It’s therefore fortuitous that we have this extended one-to-one time. Nneoma’s babyface belies long and rich life experience, albeit often painful. A multifaceted artist, she has rubbed shoulders with some of the biggest names of our generation. Nneoma’s is an honest, sometimes even cantankerous faith; rugged to the core. If she’s had to develop a tough skin to survive, by the grace of God, she maintains some tenderness of heart. I blush and gush at her generosity when she presents me with a gift package.
Our conversation covers the profound and the trivial; from pathos to bathos. It’s through her that I learn of Will Smith’s shameless display of toxic masculinity at the Academy Awards, for example. The discussion can just as quickly switch to a reflection on the hypocritical reactions to the Ukraine crisis or the frailties of the contemporary church. We meet mid-afternoon and part ways at sunset.
It’s one last stop off to see mum, before I depart the following afternoon. She has an Easter Egg and various other nick-nacks waiting for me; items that I’ve ordered and am yet to collect. Whilst tucking into her fried yam, tomato stew and black-eyed beans, I fill mum in on the Oscar fiasco.
She’s scandalised.
Goodness! Whatever happened to decorum? There could be children watching.
It’s another very late night as I do some last minute packing, with YouTube Shorts keeping me company.
Before checking out, I have the opportunity to converse with my host Erika once more. We’ve hardly seen each other during my stay. For that reason she considers me the ideal guest; independent and unobtrusive. I discover that much of the artwork and photography on the premises are all her originals.
I say farewell and head straight to St. Pancras station, several hours before my train. I have one more tête-à-tête with former colleague and now long time friend, Diana. I deflect when she asks me what’s going on in my world. She’s up-to-speed give or take the odd details. It does me more good to hear about her latest adventures; travel, concerts and recovering from injury.
Way back when I booked this trip, I wouldn’t have anticipated what a timely respite it would be. It’s been low-key and intimate. I only planned to meet with a select few over a long weekend. It paid off not to be too prescriptive. I've had lovely, understated break.
Soundtrack: Close to Your Heart by Ed Mount.
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