Another Long Weekend in London: Part III

A depiction of Pentecost (courtesy of Vecteezy)

5 min. read

The following morning, I plan to visit my old London church. Whilst there’s always an element of nerves when visiting after so long away, I’m particularly full of trepidation this time. On my last trip, I bottled it and went to a different branch. I’m tempted to do so again but that would be cowardly. I believe my apprehension stems from a perceived pressure to present a cheerful front; like all is going swimmingly for me in Europe. Of course, this is nonsense. If I can’t be candid with my church family, then with whom can I be? Still, I have my reservations. The previous evening, I mention my worries to Victor.

But you don’t owe anyone an explanation. You don’t have to tell them anything.

It’s as if I needed someone to give me permission to be discreet.

I arrive at church at the same time as my old cell group leaders, Spencer and Olivia, and their little one, Judah, whom I’m yet to meet. He gives me a big grin. This encounter puts me more at ease. Other familiar faces smile at my unannounced cameo. There are cursory hugs including from Pastor Billy, who’s taking the sermon. He preaches from Hebrews 4: 14-16. Billy is on especially facetious form; part exegesis/part stand-up. It goes down very well. Amidst the merriment however, I’m pensive. Billy tarries on the point of Christ being able to sympathise with our temptation and suffering. I think once more of how lonely Jesus’ earthly mission must have been and my own battles with solitude and alienation these past few years. He would have even felt spiritually isolated from the rest of the Godhead whilst on the cross. Normally, I’m not comforted by the idea of the fellowship with Christ in suffering. For some reason, it resonates today.

After service, I catch up with more of my London church family. I note with wryness how many of them are now parents of small children and don’t have time for lengthy conversation. It’s all good. It means I can make a quicker getaway. I’m still not as relaxed as I'd want to be. I'm beginning to feel the weight of my absences and a tad superannuated.

I spend most of the time talking to someone who claims to be a former acquaintance of mum’s and my almost namesake, Kola who grew up in the same neighbourhood. Although we apparently joined the church around the same period, it’s the first time I recall seeing him in this context. I’m so relieved by this blast from the past, I rabbit on a mile a minute. It’s been long enough since our last exchange to be completely out of the loop about each other’s movements. He’s not aware, for example, that sis has been based in the Far East for well over a decade.

Kola and I part ways at Lee High Road. I head off to treat myself to a gourmet crêpe lunch round the corner from mum’s.

After the meal, it’s a leisurely stroll through the remnants of a Sunday Farmer’s Market back to mum’s flat. She has a pile of old clothes waiting for me; some I thought were lost to the ether, others about which I’d clear forgotten. It’s a demoralising exercise trying them on. Despite my efforts to live fit and healthy, they don’t presently sit on me as well as they once did.

Mum and I have planned an evening at a favourite Turkish restaurant. We beat the rain to enjoy a mellow evening with good customer service and sumptuous but reasonably-priced food. En route, we tut at the ongoing construction of luxury high rise flats, ever distorting the skyline. Probably most, if not all, will remain at least partially unoccupied. Built purely as a speculative investment for non-resident oligarchs, no doubt.

The last full day of my early summer UK visit coincides with a tube strike (solidarity!). It will inevitably curtail some of my meet-up plans. A rendez-vous with Faith from the Morphē Arts collective is postponed, for instance, owing to time and travel constraints. It’s been a lot like that during this trip. My itinerary becomes unintentionally lighter due to extenuating circumstances, or failing that, a lack of uptake. I can’t say it doesn’t affect me.

It is what it is. I committed the trip into God’s hands; that it’ll unfold how it should. I might not have received an answer the way I wanted but it’s worked out as it was supposed to. It's been less frantic. It’s given me pointers about how I should organise future visits. I’ve also had more time with mum. Moving forward, I pray to be as philosophical about any such disappointments I’m currently experiencing; to lower my stress levels, if nothing else.

Lewisham Gateway 'Development' (courtesy of fromthemurkydepths.co.uk)

I take the scenic route to meet my former Chaplain, from the time I worked at Imperial College, for another chat as well as meditation. With the travel disruption, it’s a lot of palaver making it to the Chaplaincy. I arrive just in time for some small talk and the meditation session. It’s in the Ignatius tradition, based on Acts 2 in commemoration of Pentecost. I am perhaps a little too comfortable at these offline sessions. I become drowsy. Afterwards, the Good Reverend and I have time to share in more depth. It’s a safe space to be candid. The Reverend gives me some practical advice on how to engage with the spiritual whilst attending to the physical. In a spontaneous exchange, I share Christian resources by Afrodescendant women for which he’s grateful. He invites me for a quick jaunt around the College’s gardens. I spend a very edifying hour in his company. It’s indicative of this trip, finding contentment and consolation in unexpected forms.

I have plenty of time to make it to my next appointment, even with most of the tube service down. I’m meeting Laura, one of the founders of Morphē Arts. Our interactions have only ever been online. I’m eager to meet her IRL on this trip, before she becomes busier still with forthcoming wedding plans. Like the Good Reverend, Laura is softly spoken and a great listener. In the presence of individuals possessing these traits, I find it too easy to spill my mind. I worry about monopolising the floor. 

Laura and I have a very open and considered discussion regarding gender, faith, sexuality and relationships more generally. It’s rewarding to converse about these sensitive issues with someone so thoughtful and compassionate.

On the way back from our meeting point in Greenwich, I take a stroll across Blackheath, putting into practice some of the meditative walking suggestions made by the Good Reverend. A friend texts to ask how the trip is going. I’m touched. I’ve received several similar messages over the course of my stay.

Back at mum’s, she’s made a start on helping me re-pack for Brussels. As usual, I’m returning with more than I came. We settle down to a delicious supper, watching another episode of Tales of the Unexpected.

My departure date has been hurtling towards me. The morning of my return to Belgium, Mum is teleworking. She sits at her new desk in a summery house dress, speaking into her headset. As is my custom, I’ve booked a mid-afternoon train, should I have a last minute meet-up. None is forthcoming on this occasion. Friends are either indisposed or non-responsive. The advantage is that I have more time to lounge around, eat a leisurely breakfast whilst listening to current affairs updates and repack. Mum says she’s missing me already. Likewise. With the departure of my train still hours away, there’s enough time for fond goodbyes, prayers and a solid hug. 

Part 1, Part 2

Soundtrack: Remastered Hits-Vol. 2 by Toots Thielemans

Another Long Weekend in London: Part II

 5 min. read

Chelsea Flower Show 2022 (courtesy of the RHS website)

Part 1, Part 3

My first proper meet-up is with Letitia, an old friend from my Law School days. As it’s half-term, she’s brought along her tribe of four. The older two girls - in their early teens and close in age- torment the youngest, whom her mother claims is the family informant.

The kids grow restless. Some leave to buy fast-food snacks. Meanwhile, Letitia and I try to summarise all that’s happened in the six months since we last met up, including the latest chapter in the saga of her marital breakdown. As sad as the circumstances are, I can only marvel at how well she seems to be handling it all. Not only the separation itself but it’s aftermath. I’m shocked to learn it’s been going on a decade since her estranged spouse walked out.

By contrast, my meet-up with another friend Dave, proceeds in a cultural direction as is now our habit. It’s not that ours is a superficial friendship or that the conversations are not profound. It’s just of late, we haven't tended to talk in depth about what’s happening on a personal level. He still has no idea of my most recent professional drama and relational struggles.

A photographer by trade, Dave informs me in advance that he’s bringing his camera and would like to take some pictures. Normally, I would veto the proposal but I’m long overdue some new profile shots and have wanted to engage my friend’s services. I just thought I’d have to wait until I was once again gainfully-employed. I warn Dave that the only recompense I can give for now is my gratitude.

At his request, we meet in his neck of the woods in South West London. He wants to show me the vestiges of the Chelsea Flower Show in Sloane Square. We stroll towards Battersea Park. En route, our conversation segues from 90s R&B and Hip-Hop to a recent exposé on DJ Tim Westwood's sexual misconduct, abuse more generally, May to December relationships, public urination (don’t ask) and the various modifications to London Transport (the creation of the Elizabeth Line + the extension of the Northern Line). Dave stops abruptly mid-flow when he spots a good location for the photos.

Have you ever done theatre? he asks. He claims I take pictures like an actor would take headshots; poised and pensive, not jittery like most. I find this ironic, given how uneasy I am. Maybe it helps that I follow his instructions to the letter. 

Whilst hanging out with Dave I realise, and not for the first time, the grating effects of fatigue. I'm having difficulty finding the right turns of phrase; as if English weren't my first language.

I draw Dave's attention to the attractive physique of a woman walking in front of us. I instantly regret it. He wouldn't have noticed. I feel like a traitor.

It’s otherwise a good long walk around an area that I know very little. Dave deposits me at the new Battersea Power Station Underground, where it’s an easy connection to Waterloo and on to Lewisham.

It’ll be another late night for mum and I, as she helps me tidy up my kinky-twists. Tiredness makes her ornery. At the same time, I’m trying not to panic over my laptop keyboard, which has started to malfunction. In my frustration I break off some of the keys trying to clean them. The issue rectifies itself with an update.

The blues I thought I temporarily left behind in Brussels creep up on me the following morning. Although usually transparent, by reflex I am somehow able to conceal my downturn in mood from my mother, or at least I believe. The hustle and bustle of preparing for the day must help. Before I leave, I watch a Catholic devotional video. It centres on the distressing true story of a couple blighted by a succession of tragedies, with the wife eventually losing her life to terminal illness. Theologically, I wrestle with this narrative and the apparent absence of God’s mercy. The message of the video is nevertheless salient. You can’t always ‘choose’ to be joyful during hardships. It's a gift to be received through God’s grace.

The night before, another friend sends me a profusely apologetic message, having to cancel our appointment last minute. She’s feeling poorly. Can’t be helped.

I’m hoping there’ll be no more of these cancellations for the remainder of the trip.

I have a catch-up scheduled in central London with spiritual mentor, Vinoth Ramachandran. We have some sort of travel telepathy. Despite practically living on opposite ends of the globe, our UK visits sometimes overlap by fluke. Or rather, by providence. I appreciate the insights of an older, seasoned saint.

He asks about my work situation and I enquire about his insider’s perspective on the brimming political and economic turbulence in his native Sri Lanka. As usual, we discuss our hopes and frustrations about society, the Church and the Church within society. A lengthy conversation about Vinoth’s concerns over how social media has impoverished public discourse, leads to another epic discussion concerning one of our theological divergences. We put each other through our paces. It’s always a vigorous intellectual workout with Vinoth. Sometimes, I can’t tell if he’s playing devil’s advocate. He says he’s becoming less attached to certainties with age. Even when we disagree, I respect his well-considered arguments (for which I don’t always have ready answers) and above all, his good faith. Being challenged on core beliefs is

(c) David Mensah

helpful for my personal journey, as well as to better understand those with an opposing worldview. I nonetheless find the conversation emotionally exhausting.

Of course, I get carried away and am tardy for my next appointment with Victor. It’s the first time I’ll be meeting with him offline for several years. Even before the arrival of COVID-19 we had grown apart. We’ve had a couple of video calls since the start of the pandemic. It’s been on my mind to reach out to him but I would bottle it. Circumstances lead me to stop procrastinating. When I contact him to arrange a catch-up, he says I also came to mind lately. It’s a sign, I think.

Some friendships need breathing space. The interval might be long but can be ultimately restorative.

 Victor is in a great place; about to start a new job and one year into his second bachelor's degree. He’s reinvigorated. His calmness is reassuring as I synopsise the last year or so since we previously spoke. 

I’m late back for dinner with mum. She’s preparing one of my favourite traditional dishes; a spinach-based stew for which the Efiks of South-East Nigeria are known. It’ll be the first time we’re eating dinner together at mum’s splendid new dining table. We revive a pre-COVID habit of watching the kitsch 70/80’s TV adaptations of Roald Dahl’s Tales of the Unexpected. Far better than the disturbing true crime documentaries of which she’s usually fond.

Soundtrack: Remastered Hits-Vol. 2 by Toots Thielemans

Another Long Weekend in London: Part I

 

(freedesignfile)

6 min. read

The day before I catch the Eurostar to London in early June, I hear back about a job for which I’ve been interviewed the week before. It went well. Or so I think. One of the panellists is a middle-aged goth with sleeve tattoos. I’ve never seen a potential employer so casually dressed for an interview.

I try to be philosophical about the outcome, whatever it might be. Nonetheless, it still hits hard when the ‘thanks, but no thanks’ comes. It’s the third time I’ve been interviewed by this organisation. Somewhat ironically, I find these experiences constructive. The organisation is always willing to give encouraging feedback and I can indirectly credit them for helping me obtain my previous job.

All this to say that by the time I make this UK trip, I’m shattered on several levels. I think back to this time last year and wonder if anything has moved forward. It feels to the contrary.

My London visits tend to be unconsciously timed when I need them most. I’d already long decided to go in early June, to coincide with the Pentecost long weekend in Belgium. I figured if I were back in work, I wouldn’t require as much annual leave. I didn’t take into account the possible overlap with the Queen’s 70^th Jubilee celebrations the same weekend. The staunch anti-monarchist that I am, I find all that jingoistic and royalist fervour highly disagreeable. However, the extra public holidays mean that, in theory, family and friends should be more available.

If only it were that straightforward.

Adding to my existing neuroses is the sluggish response to my meet-up invitations, if I receive a reply at all.  A looser-than-loose acquaintance randomly contacts me out of the blue, for example. She’s glad to hear I’ll be in the country soon and apparently keen to catch-up. The same individual evaporates when I attempt to make concrete plans, only to re-emerge after my return to Belgium. (A number of other potential meet-ups go the same way.)

I’ve tried to be laissez-faire but don’t pull it off as well as I did during March’s visit. I have been more ambitious with my itinerary this time. Whereas at one moment it looked as if I’d struggle to see everyone within the five-day window, I end up having a number of gaps in my diary. I already feel relationally insecure in Europe. The last thing I need is to confront the idea that several of my UK-based circle are no longer invested.

One major upturn on this holiday – and it is a big one – is that my mum’s accommodation situation is finally stable. I’m no longer reliant on friends or Airbnb for digs. Mum’s new pad isn’t just suitable, it’s lovely. Luminous, good layout and with pristine communal areas, it’s also strategically-situated near a railway station with direct trains into central London. It’s in a part of the City mum has always liked and a stone’s throw from my UK church.

Mum can at last seriously indulge her inner-interior designer. The flat is transformed from the last time I saw it in its bare, if still impressive state. The décor is tastefully coordinated and my house-proud mother has everything systematically arranged and neatly stored away. With a mix of admiration and intimidation I learn that she assembled most of the furniture all on her jones, including the book shelf where much of my formerly scattered collection has now found a home. 

I’m both relieved and apprehensive to once again in close quarters with mum. I’ve been in a particularly lachrymose state. I don’t want to infect her with my melancholy. She’s feeling upbeat. Plus, she's still a mother and prone to worry. I also know in her eagerness to help, she’s wont to be hyper-pragmatic. It’s well-intentioned but not always helpful. I fear tension and bickering.

Yet, once we reconnect at the train station and head towards her serene new accommodation, the trepidation begins to dissipate. If I ignore all the union-jacks, as well as commerce using over-stretched royal puns to cash in on the Jubilee, there's a relief that comes with being back on this side of the Channel. One of the reasons I wanted to leave London was the cost of living and the frenetic pace. None of these have changed. If not they’ve intensified. I spend more on a week’s commute than I would during a month in Europe. Yet, I’m reminded of other advantages. There’s by and large a greater civility in the UK than I experience on the Continent. I’d never considered Londoners to be especially polite. Quite the opposite in fact. Now, I appreciate better those basic courtesies I once took for granted.

I’m also proud to see so many of my fellow Afrodescendants walking boldly in their melanated-glory. I spot more black couples than I recall seeing in times past. My heart does a little jig at the sight of groups of chocolate goddesses (as it does anywhere in the world). I notice several folk walking around in broad daylight with their protective night bonnets, unabashed. It's gangster. A new fashion statement, mum says. Or just us being unashamed about our non-European hair routines. The UK is also streets ahead (as usual) than its mainland European counterparts when it comes to representation. As on other recent visits, I see a number of deep brown faces fronting various ad campaigns on and off screen. There are also notably more black staff working at Eurostar.

(visitgreenwich.org.uk)

Back at mum’s, I unpack at leisure ahead of a trip to a nearby retail park. I have more spare time than I anticipated. A friend contacts me last minute to pull out of our evening social. He’s unwell and apologetic. I feel for him but am also a bit crushed. This disappointment does nevertheless mean more quality time with mum. My trip coincides with her first proper stay in her new home. The furniture and electronics are all set up but the food cupboards are bare. Our shopping trip allows me to pick up bargain-priced essentials and indulgences not available in Belgium. The weather is splendid; even better than forecast. I’m too warm in my short sleeved jumper, tights and boots. Wandering round the vast Aldi’s at Greenwich Peninsula’s all-encompassing retail park, I spy an old classmate from secondary school. I hesitate over whether to catch her attention. I take the high road. She gives me a rictus grin and less-than-sincere pleasantries, reminding me of why I was hesitant in the first instance. I derive more pleasure than I probably should from telling her I currently live in Brussels.

The afternoon and early evening vanish. Mum and I divvy up the remainder of the flat-related tasks. I lumber home with a new ironing board. That evening we rustle up a late dinner in front of Kramer vs Kramer. All day, I’ve been vocal about how self-conscious I am regarding my yet-to-manifest weight loss. My even more-regimented eating hasn’t gone unnoticed. Where mum once would be amongst the first to comment on any weight-related matters, she’s become much more discreet with the years. When not encouraging me to be patient, she prefers to change the subject. She’s definitely on to something when she tells me that current stress levels might be counter-productive to my goals. The evidence appears to back her up. I can trace this current impasse to the time things really started to go South for me at work in Strasbourg, three years ago. There's an unburdening that comes with making this connection. I knew something wasn't right. Beyond wanting a trimmer silhouette, I’m more determined than ever to take care of my mental well-being.

Mum and I have heart-to-hearts about any number of things. She asks if I miss the UK. I’m not sure how to respond. I certainly missed seeing family and friends when I was at my loneliest in Strasbourg or Brussels and travel restrictions didn’t permit. There are things I value a lot more now that I’m not based in the UK (see above). Yet I’m not homesick for the country itself. The overall political climate and rocketing cost of living – even before the current crisis – don’t entice me to return in the immediate future. If these key factors weren’t at play, as well as certain career considerations, I’d be a lot more inclined to return for the long term.

(courtesy of Depositphotos.com)

Mum also has some sage nuggets about my relational frustrations. She’s seen it from both sides; as the under-valued friend and the one poor at communicating.

You’re not the norm, she claims, you make a consistent effort to chase people up. Many – herself included – have good intentions but aren’t the best at follow through. She implores me not to change. It’ll stand you in good stead.

I'm not entirely convinced. Decades of this lark and I’m still waiting for it to pay off properly. It’s nonetheless a relief to be reminded that I shouldn’t take these lapses in communication too personally.

As some sort of cosmic confirmation of mum's wisdom, I run into Keisha, an old church acquaintance. She has come to mind from time to time but, contrary to habit, I haven’t reached out for a while. Partly because I’m not sure how well she’d remember me. Perhaps subconsciously in fear of of being rebuffed.

Nah, you’ve forgotten us, she jokes. Keisha looks well. Still into fitness and having shed recent pregnancy pounds. Baby number two is nearly a year old and she’s just started a new job. We discuss how society and internal pressures make it hard for women to ‘have it all’, whilst men escape the same levels of scrutiny, judgment and guilt. It’s a good if intense catch-up in the five minutes it takes for my bus to arrive. We promise to chat properly at church on Sunday. Alas, our paths won’t cross again that weekend.

Soundtrack: Remastered Hits-Vol. 2 by Toots Thielemans

Part 2  Part 3

Musical Solace: Part II

 

10 min. read

My weekends are up for grabs and easy enough to fill as Brussels resumes its pre-pandemic programme. One Saturday, en route to L’Archiduc, I’m unexpectedly caught up in a carnival I knew nothing about. The following week, crowds will gather once more in central Brussels for the annual Pride parade. I stick to the side streets as much as possible, to avoid being gridlocked again.

I’m on my way to a ‘speed friending’ event in the upper room of a bar in the heart of Brussels. As the name implies, it's the platonic alternative to the dating version. It’s such a simple concept, I don’t know why I haven’t come across it sooner. The cost ranges from five to 15 euros, locking in any commitment from those who have signed up. After so many false starts in the friendship game, I have no illusions about making any long-lasting connections that evening. It's a matter of sheer curiosity. 

The organiser, Rebecca still has a discernible South African cadence, despite leaving for good at the age of 10. Having lived in Brussels for well over a decade, she confesses it’s still difficult to make durable social ties. So it’s not just me then, or the poor timing of relocating during a pandemic. I’ve come across that sentiment elsewhere. Some blame Brussels' high turnover of expats. Yet having grown up in an international city myself, I don’t think that can wholly explain this fragmented phenomenon.

Once most of the guests finally arrive, we’re off. It’s a culturally diverse, mixed-gender group. We have 3-5 minutes to converse before moving along, with the aim of speaking to most, if not everybody, in attendance. It’s intense. The room swiftly becomes stuffy as more guests arrive. It’s nonetheless thoroughly enjoyable. The hours fly by. 

 I wouldn’t do speed 'friending' on a regular basis – there’s something about the novelty of it -yet neither would I rule it out in future. In spite of myself, numbers are swapped; one with a young man from an ex-Portuguese colony. I have the strong impression that he's fluid about the dating and ‘friending’ distinction and I'm wary. Perhaps he senses that. There's been no follow-up by either party since.

Whilst a few others head off for some late night entertainment, I go home for dinner. As fate will have it, I bump into a couple of these new acquaintances at one of my usual Meet-up events the following week.

nieuwsblad.be

Elsewhere, my cultural excursions continue to be dominated by music. I make my way to an exhibition about Belgian Jazz legend, Jean-Baptiste ‘Toots’ Thielemans. I have a good old time learning more about this national treasure and his intoxicating music. After the visit I hurry to Evere – coincidentally to a venue bearing Thielemans’ name - where dear friend Karin’s son, Amos has a recital. He spots me in the audience and gives a furtive wave. He’s coy in front of his friends. When the performance is over, a coax low-key high five out of him. 

My presence is a pleasant surprise for all the family.  Any excuse to hang out with Karin and the tribe. I’m aware of how much it meant to Amos who, the previous week, had pleaded with me to attend. Out of earshot of the kids, Karin and I remark, bemused, on how experimental the recital has been. The kooky music teacher has the children roaming the stage making animalistic shapes and noises, before improvising rhythms on various handheld percussion instruments.

I’m off again later that evening for more Jazz-related fun at the packed out Sounds bar in Ixelles. 

The following day is the Ascension bank holiday. I make good on a promise to visit my friend Em in the peripheries of Brussels. When we arrive at her home, her cat flees at the sight of me.  I perceive she's been modest about its size. It's luminous and spacious enough for it to pose a cleaning challenge; at least on her own. 

 Unprompted, Em explains at great length and with much emotion about why she spends less and less time in Brussels. She’s recovering from several relational disappointments. The hurt is fresh, something to which I can readily relate. 

Before I return to Brussels, Em shows me around her small town. Most establishments are closed because of the public holiday. Even the vast neighbourhood park isn’t as busy as I’d expect.

Bear in mind, it’s a suburb, says Em.

Indeed. I don’t know how she’s managed it for almost 10 years. I doubt I’d last 10 hours before boredom drove me cuckoo.

I’m back in Brussels in plenty of time for a reading group, co-moderated by Bruno. This month’s Mixed Conversation Circle has been postponed to an inconvenient date. I decide last minute to give the book group a go instead. I thus don’t have time to read the set text by Pauline Harmange, translated into English as I Hate Men (the original French meaning, Moi, les hommes, je les déteste is not as loaded as the translation). I do crib thanks to a helpful interview/review of the essay. It’s a wilfully provocative title that speaks to the author’s deep angst and frustration. Although I chafe at all the word ‘hate’ implies, the reasons for the author’s ire and exasperation strongly resonate. The turnout for the discussion is good - considering it’s a holiday - with a surprising number of men amongst us. I make conversation with Marcello, a sweet-natured, camp Italian fellow I met at the previous Mixed Conversation Circle. (Never fear, dear reader. I’m not looking for any Lorenzo substitutes. No new friends. At least for the time being).

The reading group is led by Bruno and his partner-in-gender-deconstruction,Miguel (a hot Dutchman with confusingly Iberian features and name). The discussion around the book is candid, dynamic and thoughtful.  I let rip, waxing lyrical about my own frustrations and resentments over men -regardless of sexual orientation – and their tendency towards power-play, self-interest and emotional unavailability. The men present are committed to examining their own complicity in the current social order, some even embracing the dubious misandry label. 

I’m intellectually invigorated by it all.

Afterwards, Bruno and I contrast my volubility with the unease I felt at the inaugural Mixed Conversation Circle. 

You were really in your waters. Watch you swim, girl. He quips.

Of course, the difference is that I’m not as caught off guard this time as I was the previous occasion. A certain somebody is absent. A part of me wishes he had heard my impassioned interventions for their pertinence to our friendship's impasse.

After an extra short shift at the Red Cross the following morning, I meet Sylvia in town for a long overdue catch-up. Conflicting schedules, travel and COVID-related illness on her end have stood in the way. We spend an afternoon at Point Culture in Botanique; one of my favourite haunts since I relocated to Brussels and sadly, soon to be no more. 

Sylvia keeps me abreast of a recent whistlestop trip to the UK – her first since 2020 and not for the happiest of reasons. I let her in on my post-work and personal related dramas. Sylvia is pleased to hear I’ve started counselling sessions again. I admit to a reluctance to engage with new relationships. Whilst I feel I’m very in touch with my emotions – I’m not one to suppress or dissimulate – Sylvia believes I would do well to make time to consciously sit with them. I’m too afraid of wallowing and giving into bitterness. Sylvia counters that carving out space to indulge them once in a while would help recovery.

It’s more therapy of the musical kind that evening. The Brussels Jazz weekend has begun in earnest. Star of Jazz guitar, Philip Catherine and his quartet (bass, piano, drums) headline the main stage at Grand Place. Somehow, I underestimated the scale of the event. Thousands are gathered for the free concert, in honour of none other than Thielemans, with whom Catherine regularly collaborated. Once I can wrangle a seat, I’m a lot more relaxed. 

 Alas, I’m dressed too optimistically for the weather in a cardigan, summer skirt and sandals. It’s sunny but windy. I’m tempted to stay after the Quartet’s two hour set but I need to keep moving and warm up. After the rousing encore, I spot an ex-colleague from TTUO in the crowd with her boyfriend. She’s delighted to see me, even if her significant other is in a hurry. Normally polite and friendly when we’ve met before, he pulls her away and bids me a hasty goodnight.

With a crowd that size, I’m bound to run into more people I know. On exiting, to my pleasant surprise, I stumble across some of the Red Cross crew in their civilian gear. 

After some pleasantries, I amble towards a number of temporary stages in central Brussels. I stop at Bourse to listen to Persian Rugs; an impressive young R&B-funk outfit from the South of France. All live instruments and solid songwriting -sung in fluid English, no accent. The good vibes make me forget the cold. Too bad about the sketchy-looking characters around. Or that so many men treat the surrounding area like a public toilet. 

A couple of revellers try to hit on me. One of them is especially persistent. I make sure I’m not followed on the way towards St. Catherine station.

It’s a crazy weekend for activity; Festivals, Parties as well as a 20K marathon. I don’t know why the many tempting cultural events couldn’t be spaced out over Spring and Summer. It’s a pity I can't  teleport. In the absence of that superpower, I cover as much ground as I can.

The Afropolitan Festival takes place at the famous Bozar culture centre. The spotlight this year is on the Continent's women. 

I attend the second half of a documentary screening on young African creatives: The Ones Who Keep Walking. 

The film is followed by a Q&A with the Nigerian-American director, Amarachi Nwosu, only 27 herself. Despite our similar heritage, I contemplate how much we diverge culturally, having been raised on different sides of the Atlantic. The audience lap up Nwosu's every word. For me, she spouts the rather twee kind of aphorisms of which some Americans seem to be fond. Even the more sagacious elements are saccharine-coated. 

Nwosu places emphasis on individual Africans providing solutions to the Continent’s challenges, such as underdeveloped refining processes; from natural resources to chocolate. 

I don't believe the problem is a shortage of ideas. There’s no mention of systemic obstacles such as lack of infrastructure. Or that, due to scale, some responses can only be carried out by an effective state. An absence of decent political analysis is at times missing from artistic discourses on Africa. There should also be room to consider collective grassroots political action - the kind that could lead to the structural changes required - and its intersection with art, where evident.

Afropolitan 2022 @ Bozar

I sneak away during a fashion homage to Chimamanda Adichie’s We Should All be Feminists. A refreshingly voluptuous African sister recites lines from the essay whilst modelling accessories.

Before leaving Bozar, I pass by the Afropolitan stalls. As much as I’d like to patronise certain vendors, prices are exorbitant, considering I'm currently out of work. I imagine a lot of time and energy goes into the craft but still. 50 euros for a tote bag, I think not. Even on a good day. Cost of living crisis, anybody?

For all the talk of solidarity, it’s not very inclusive if the target audience for these wares is a middle class elite. Perhaps it’s assumed to be the only demographic that would be interested in such an event. Whilst Afrodescendants might well be amongst those in the upper percentile, structural inequalities mean there would be proportionally fewer. Heck, such prices would lock out many working people, regardless of background. The creators might reason that these are indulgences rather than essentials. Let those who can afford it fork out the cash. Thus continuing socio-economic stratification. 

I speak to a Belgian vendor, married to a woman from Niger. They're surrounded by their vivacious small daughters, of whom the youngest – an impossibly cute one-year old - takes almost as much of a shining to me as I do her. I ask why none of his children have African names. I’m disappointed to hear that his wife was against it. I comment, as diplomatically as I can in my second language, that Africans born on the Continent can be more reluctant to embrace aspects of their heritage, than those of us in the Diaspora.

Elsewhere, Internations’ superhost Gloria has organised Brussels’ Jazz Weekend group outings. It's back to L’Archiduc and it’s the busiest I’ve seen it. Standing room only, at least for the first half. 

The Internations guests are scattered across the venue. I improvise a seat on the balcony, on the floor far from the stage. I don’t need to see the talent – The Fabrizio Graceffo Quartet- to appreciate them. The guitar, piano, drums and bass combo play expansive yet mellow Jazz. With so much to see and hear over the weekend and having to streamline my choices, I’ve not been disappointed thus far. I manage to connect with some of the fellow Jazz travellers from Internations before they move off on en masse to yet another event.

The night is still young. After the gig, I traverse the Bourse and St. Catherine square, soaking in more live music. My reverie is interrupted by the sight of a homeless black man self-harming. He cradles a beer in one hand, and viciously punches himself with the other. I wouldn't know where to start intervening.

Back at home, a wave of melancholia crashes over me. As Sylvia suggested, I consciously make room for it, not distracted or caught off guard as sometimes occurs. I cry and pray – or rather lament – using the Psalms to articulate some of my anguish. Other remedies, of the terrestrial sort, come in the form of the new series of Stranger Things and of course, more Jazz. I’m extremely grateful for the privilege of free and easy access to this musical solace. After church on Sunday, I return to the eponymous venue (the very same where Amos’ quirky performance took place) for further tributes to Toots. The last day of the Brussels’ Jazz festival weekend in his honour will be the first time I’m hearing bona-fide harmonica-based homages. 

Some of the performances are sublime; from Toots’ early career and his collaborations with Bill Evans and Jaco Pastorius to his Brazilian repertoire -with a reprise of Velas on my request. If the sparse, mainly elderly audience are too subdued, my own enthusiasm isn’t muted. 

I need this.

Soundtrack: Fingerpickin’ by Wes Montgomery, The Best of Ivan Lins by Ivan Lins & Voyage by Tapioca

Musical Solace: Part I

 

4 min. read

My quest continues to make the most of post-lockdown life in Brussels. It’s been a year since the second, more arduous lockdown started to gradually come to an end. And yet, I’m still discovering many activities that have only properly bounced back to life now that the pandemic appears to be in remission (albeit not over, even if the government and much of the public choose to forget. Whilst people still fall ill, masks are no longer a requirement anywhere in Belgium, even on public transport).

More and more of my outings centre around Jazz. I attend a musically-accompanied Sardinian buffet in Etterbeek, organised by Internations' Girl About Town, Gloria. Although having spent almost three decades in the City, Gloria is a newcomer to Internations. A veteran amateur events organiser, the platform is her ideal outlet. She's more than making up for lost time.

That evening, entertainment is provided by an Italian duo; a vocalist and pianist from Tuscany. The spread is delicious and the group put on a very good show. I ask the singer if she knows where I can find more of her tribe. As much as I enjoy being a spectator, I sorely miss performing music. No, she replies, apologetic. She's not lived in Belgium much longer than I. Her experience thus far has also been heavily defined by the pandemic.

It’s more Italian, Jazz-related delight at Brussels’ famous L'Archiduc bar that Saturday. I’ve heard much about its live events since I moved here. Like so much else, any opportunity to sample the goodness has been put on hold because of the 'Rona. Live music has been one of the last aspects to recover. 

As if to compensate, every weekend the L’Archiduc welcomes punters to enjoy free afternoon performances. For the rest of the month, I make it a point to pass by each week. 

That Saturday, the Enrico Le Noci trio are headlining; a new discovery for me. It’s not your archetypical bass, drums and piano combo. Enrico is joined on guitar by an Aussie pianist alternating between the Hammond organ and Rhodes and one of his compatriots on drums. I love me some Guitar Jazz. (As if in preparation, I’ve been immersing myself in Wes Montgomery for days.) The trio’s musical texture is gorgeous. That’s not something to be taken for granted with Jazz ensembles, where the ‘wrong’ combination of instruments can have the effect of cancelling each other out. 

Enrico’s trio takes me back to the beloved guitar Jazz and 70s fusion joints of which my uncle was fond when I was growing up. It's still an ever-present part of my musical palate till this day. 

Le Noci’s vocals occasionally interweave with the melody lines of his guitar, à la George Benson. The choice repertoire is a mix of Jazz standards and soul-influenced originals. I’m in my element. During the break I converse with the band, indulging my starved-would-be muso side. I effuse about all the amazing acts – classic and contemporary, that will be passing through the region during the summer and autumn; Herbie Hancock, Gilberto Gil, Robert Glasper...I mention to the Aussie that his countryfolk, Hiatus Kaiyote will be coming to Holland, where the trio is based. 

Small world. He’s familiar with Nai Palm and co from the Melbourne scene. They're good mates, in fact. He went to conservatoire with the bassist and pianist and has the pictorial evidence. A compliment about his organ playing segues into a lively discussion about faith – my interlocutor being rather cynical having played as a musician-for-hire at various churches. Our conversation is only interrupted by the resumption of the second half of the set.

I share this buoyant experience with Fredricka the next evening, whilst taking a stroll in Bois de la Cambre. The weather is still on our side. It will take a chilly turn within days.

Our friendship is in the embryonic stage but with a clear eagerness on both sides. We've socialised a fair bit since first meeting a few weeks earlier. 

Unconsciously, our discussions tend to veer towards the emotive and profound. Fredricka describes me as intense, as is she. 

A few days later she sends me a measured but frank text that she wishes to take an indefinite break. She feels she’s rushed the friendship and it's become overwhelming. I receive the text with mixed emotions. On one hand, I see her point. I’ve also had doubts about the velocity of our relationship, amongst other reservations.  Fredricka’s message is polite, mature and sensitive (unlike the somewhat careless approach of others). I’m nevertheless re-traumatised to a degree, in light of recent relational disappointments. Fredricka is not unaware and takes this into account. It’s the right decision, I agree. That doesn’t make it altogether painless.

Now, more so than ever, I decide to ‘own’ my alone time. I’ve long been self-sufficient and content in my own company. I’ve never stopped attending events for fear of being on my J’s. Lately, however, it’s often felt like a last resort. Lockdowns -as necessary as they became - have deepened a feeling of solitude. That's not unique to me. Yet add to that a very mixed experience trying to find community in Brussels – again, greatly affected by the pandemic- and any time spent alone can feel like too much. As an antidote, I’m determined to regain my sense of agency.

Soundtrack: Fingerpickin’ by Wes Montgomery & The Best of Ivan Lins by Ivan Lins