A Different Lens

 

Allaboutvision.com

8 min. read

Late June marks exactly two years since I relocated to Belgium. Earlier that month, I return from my latest UK excursion with a deepened resolve to improve my morale. If my circumstances haven’t materially changed, there’s been a notable shift in my perspective. I still feel low and am wont to tearful interludes. My melancholy has nonetheless taken on a different flavour. I come to realise how much despondency had camped outside my door. That’s no longer the case. I feel less spiritually adrift. I endeavour to be even more conscientious about my well-being. My visits to the gym are now as much about the mental benefits as the physical. By chance – or AI interference – I stumble across an incredibly helpful YouTube channel on psychological health and start putting into action some of the practical pointers. God has been at work in the algorithm, I joke to loved ones. These tutorials are not however, a replacement for my therapy sessions, which I continue with renewed energy.

In addition, there are several external boosts to my morale. The longer days and (mostly) good weather are always a plus. The Brussels cultural calendar continues to be full to overflowing. Great for staying busy, not so good for early nights and solid rest; another important factor for well-being. I’ll eventually have to revise the density of activity. Easier said than done, especially when I don’t have to be in the office first thing. 

 My job hunt is ongoing. It becomes apparent that I’m unlikely to find a role that starts before September. I make my peace with this development and I’m all the better for it. 

I have another interview in late June at the same trade union organisation that has previously invited me on a number of occasions. Fourth-time-not-so-lucky. It’s disappointing news in the short-term but overall a positive experience. As usual, they provide detailed and constructive feedback. I nevertheless don’t plan to make a fifth application. At least not any time soon.

In mid-June, I am pleasantly surprised by the return of my honorary Jamaican auntie, Carol, for a fortnight’s visit to Belgium. It’s all touch-and-go, I’ll later find out, after the Belgian embassy in Jamaica messed up her application. Owing to the delay, she just about reaches the airport in time to catch her flight. I learn of her visit through Internations and email her straight away. Little do I know we’re destined to attend the same early summer cocktail party the following evening. 

When I arrive, the DJ is playing some enticing 80s soul, auguring well for the night’s proceedings. I approach a group with whom I’m familiar only to take my leave – politely, if hurriedly – when I see Carol in the distance. She’s already surrounded by a posse of acquaintances old and new, one of whom is an ethnically-ambiguous gentleman who aims a vaguely seductive grin in my direction. I pay him little mind until it becomes overtly discourteous not to make conversation with him. 

(courtesy of Pickpic)

My interest perks up when I discover he’s from Brazil. I couldn’t tell from his very English sounding name – Roger – or the Anglo-Caribbean inflection when he speaks English. We switch to French and Portuguese, for which I’m glad for the practice. Roger is very affirming of my linguistic skills, although I’m suspicious of his motives. He makes an early - not to mention tactile - exit. Carol and I continue to work the room; or rather the terrace. It feels as if the whole of Internations Brussels is in attendance – or close enough. There are few known faces that I don’t see that evening. Internations regular Aurélien introduces me to Annabelle, a young Nigerian woman settled in the Low-Countries with a Flemish husband. She's decked out in a gold lamé dress, with bling hanging off her very eyelashes. She’ll spend much of the night streaming her activities to her Instagram followers. 

Whilst much of the sizeable crowd are content to remain on the veranda, Auntie Carol and I are itching to hit the dancefloor. We like what we’ve heard from the DJ so far. In the end, his latter selection isn’t as classy as his initial repertoire but it’ll suffice. Mostly. Some 90s Pop-R&B and Europop, guilty-pleasures, a little Afrobeats and a healthy dollop of salsa. Carol and I hold the fort for much of the time with some synchronised fail-safe moves. At last, I properly learn the steps to Jerusalema. Aurélien angles for a dance but I'm not having it.

I watch in awe the artful salsa steps executed by Diego - a very recent acquaintance - and his most graceful female dance partner. She's a natural mover whose effortless groove has caught my attention earlier that evening. Another recent acquaintance, Ludwig – a German hyper-polyglot I meet at a previous Internations shin-dig - miraculously throws aside his habitual crutches to join the salsa fun. He puts more able-bodied men to shame, like erstwhile suitor and errant ‘friend’, Simon-Pierre, who makes an appearance towards the end of the night. I’d planned to leave before 10pm. Famous last words. Carol and I are having such a blast, it’s close enough to midnight before we make earnest attempts to exit. Thankfully, I am assured a lift by kindly Ludwig, who lives in the same neighbourhood.

I’ll bump into Ludwig, Diego, Carol, Aurélien and co again that weekend at the O Melhor de Portugal (Best of Portugal) festival in Parc Cinquantenaire. The month is chock-full with festivals. That weekend, the annual Fête de la Musique celebrations also take place.

It’ll be my first O Melhor de Portugal experience. It was postponed twice because of the unstable pandemic conditions. There are numerous stalls flogging food or membership to Lusophone associations. A fully-clothed man commandeers the stage, flanked by two scantily-dressed brunettes in tangas doing mirrored choreography. I’m not impressed.

Our contingent of Internations guests move to a pop-up bar for refreshments to take the edge off the heatwave. Annabelle will join us later, sporting the colours of the Nigerian flag, including bright green box braids. En route, Diego comments on how well I speak English.

I grew up in the UK, I reply I had no choice.

It’s not the first time someone has made this observation in Belgium.  It strikes me as odd. As if there’s some dissonance between my accent and my ethnicity. Diego has visited the UK. He’d be aware that there are Afrodescendants who’ve grown up with English as a first language. Not to mention the migration engendered after the British Empire colonised a substantial part of the African continent.

I can’t hold it against Diego too much. He generously offers me a drink. Plus, his is not the worst cultural gaff of the afternoon, believe it or not. That dubious honour goes to another Caucasian acquaintance, who is shocked to learn that Nigeria and Niger are not one and the same country. Good grief.

After a tasty virgin, strawberry-laced Mojito and some light conversation, I head to a Fête de la Musique concert around the corner. The yearly music festival will dominate my weekend plans, with me traversing the city to catch various shows. The night before I head to Anderlecht for a gig. On arriving, I discover there are two venues in the area with exactly the same name. I am at the wrong one. It’s only down to the kindly intervention of a local resident that I locate the correct venue. I manage to catch the best part of a lively set by Belgian MC Onha, whom I’ve seen on stage before. For the rest of the weekend, I’ll stay local for some Bossa Nova covers of Brazilian classics and pop hits – some more credible than others. That Sunday, I also become familiar with the Funk/Soul/Hip-Hop influenced oeuvre of bassist and producer Gabriel Massa in my own neighbourhood. The only thing to mar proceedings is the creepy presence of one of Simon-Pierre’s friends, whom I run into far more than I’d appreciate. 

The same could be said for another mutual acquaintance - Rob. Our paths cross again on my way back from a concert in Merode. He’s keen as ever to pick my brain about politics. I humour him, albeit with my usual air of exasperation. It’s the same ol’ dynamic. He’s prone to making excuses and gaslight and I’m prone to calling him out on his crap, if a little readily. The current fits-and-bursts nature of our interactions is thus for the best. I don’t miss the frustration of our past, more regular exchanges.

The following week my activities will be more cerebral in nature. I attend an excellent Saturday morning training session on Belgian asylum law and the geopolitical crises - in which the country is also complicit - that provoke refugee flows. It’s a grim but eye-opening event. I learn of the fragrantly callous methods employed by the Belgian state to circumnavigate its duties under international law. (It takes a lot to compete with the UK's dreadful immigration track record.) It helps me understand much better why I meet so many migrants stuck in a merciless bureaucratic limbo, whilst volunteering at the Red Cross. The second session is taken by Nabil Boukili, a member of parliament for the Workers’ Party of Belgium (PTB) who co-organised the event with Amitié Sans Frontières (Friendship without Borders). I’ve recently joined the PTB as a basic member, after some convincing by Augustin, also part of Rob’s wider circle.

Earlier that week, I attend a couple of summer farewells. My church home group organise a bring-and-share before what is likely to be a 3-4 month aestival hiatus. Monica regales us with her adventures as an extra on the set of the popular US-based bible adaptation, The Chosen. Karin formally announces her third pregnancy to the group, having let a handful of us already in on the news. She’ll be away for a number of weeks, the thought of which fills me at first with mild panic. Thankfully, I’ve been doing a lot better at reclaiming time spent in my own company. I’m therefore not out to sea whilst Karin is indisposed.

A few days later, I’m delighted to be re-joining Bruno and Miguel at the RoSa feminist library for their gender-deconstructing book club. That week, the focus of discussion is Sam Mills’ Chauvo-Feminism. I come to adore this set text -enough to blog about it - and I happily wax-lyrical. Given the learned constitution of the Book Group, it’s another buoyant and enriching conversation. This time, Lorenzo is also about. Before the session starts, he says hello and asks how I am. His tone and demeanour are so quiet and solemn, he could be offering me condolences. There’s a delayed reaction as I realise it’s a simple greeting. I’m also still very ambiguous about our relationship. We’re so far from the easy rapport we once had, it’s as if it never existed. 

We have been in touch by text a handful of times in the few months since things disintegrated. Mostly, I've been the one to initiate contact, usually on special occasions (although after a while, even that starts to feel like too much.) I send him a heartfelt message on his birthday. He responds with gratitude and kindness.

I still care deeply for my one-time friend but feel irate about the current state of affairs. We are where we are because of his inexplicable decisions. Trust has been broken that I can't see being restored any time soon. Neither has he been very proactive in making amends.

Instinctively, I reply to Lorenzo’s question with a whispered ‘hot’, fanning myself and walking past him rather imperiously to find a seat. His compatriot, Marcello sits between us, unaware of any tension. I relent, speaking across Cello to ask Lorenzo how work is going.

There is no job, he responds. It shows how little we know about each other’s lives nowadays. What I thought was a steady new role, turned out to be only freelance and intermittent.

It’s a brief interaction and the sole time we’ll talk for the whole evening. At least I feel less of a hypocrite when I extol Sam Mills for her generosity of spirit towards those who have hurt her.

It’ll be my last time with the book group before the Summer holidays. I won’t be able to make the final session. I do stumble upon Miguel once again that weekend, whilst meandering through Bois de la Cambre with Brenda. Compared to aforementioned surprise encounters, it's definitely one of the more pleasing. Once Miguel is out of earshot, I gush about how handsome and genuinely sweet he seems to be. A far too rare combination. Men don't need beauty as an excuse to misbehave. It's admirable that, rather than exploit both his male and pretty privilege, Miguel is actively resisting the poisoned perks of patriarchy. I can’t hardcore crush on him, however. He's too young for me. So much the better. I can save my emotional energy for worthier pursuits. Brenda is tickled by my reaction. She’s in a good place. On the spiritual, professional and personal front she’s found a healthy equilibrium. I’m glad for my younger friend.

In the distance some bass lines are calling me. Brenda is wary of the crowds (and, I suspect, anything that could be classified as 'urban' music). She makes her way home. My curiosity leads me to discover the sounds are emanating from the Afrodisiac festival. It's been poorly publicised. If I'd known, I'd have made more time for it over an already busy weekend. I stay for a bit of live entertainment -partly out of sympathy for the act trying to liven up a tepid crowd - before heading home for some dinner and Sunday night rest.

Soundtrack: Mahel by Toro Y Moi, Three Dimensions Deep by Amber Mark