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.
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| nieuwsblad.be |
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.
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.
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| 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
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