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A day after catching R&B singer/songwriter Amber Mark live at Botanique, I spend a windy Sunday in Ostend, at the annual Manifiesta political festival. It's the first since the onset of the pandemic and therefore my first occasion to attend. As is almost uniformly the case with this sort of event, there are numerous great things going on at the same time. If only I could clone myself. I go to sessions about successful union organising at Starbucks in the US and Ibis Hotel in France’s capital, both led by Afrodescendant women. I rub shoulders with gifted young socialist economist from the UK, Grace Blakeley and the extended family of celebrated Palestinian activist, Ahed Tamimi. Former UK Labour Party leader, Jeremy Corbyn is also supposed to be a guest of honour. Alas, he pulls out. It's the eve of the late Queen Elizabeth II's funeral. A fellow socialist-republican, JC decides it's better to lay low lest his presence at Manifiesta be wilfully misconstrued by the cynical British press.
I come across various comrades and those I wouldn’t consider amongst them, such as my old nemesis, Rob.
Before hopping on the coach for the traffic-heavy ride back to Brussels, I enjoy an ecstatic set by the dynamic Ivorian musical outfit, Magic System.
A few days later there’s further intellectual and cultural invigoration at the Afro-European conference held in VUB university, Etterbeek. It is another first for me. As suspected, I bump into representatives from the anti-racist organisation that interviewed me a few weeks prior. It’s initially a little awkward but there’s no beef.
It’s an intense three days. The theme this year is intersectionality, with the aim of understanding its complexities beyond just being a buzzword.
Like Manifiesta, I’m torn between myriad presentations and discussions that overlap. I attend multilingual sessions covering topics such as Black Feminisms, the role of race in healthcare in Europe, racialisation in policymaking and knowledge construction by Afro-Brazilian women filmmakers.
Other highlights include all three keynote speeches. On Day One the honour goes to the first Afrodescendant female professor in the UK, Olivette Otele. The following day it's the turn of fellow academic, the provocative Kehinde Andrews and to close, the fearlessly candid activist, Mireille-Tsheusi Robert.
There's also a chance to visit the infamous Africa Museum in Tervuren. The museum has rightly come under fire in the past for completely effacing Belgium’s sanguineous track record in its former colonies, notably Congo. Whilst I’ve been to the Museum’s sprawling grounds many times, I wouldn’t have ventured inside unless it were for a more historically honest guided visit. This is my opportunity.
We divide into two groups. Most are keen to follow the Belgo-Congolese guide, Frédéric (who, I’m later told, gives an unfiltered tour of the premises). The rest of us, perhaps out of sympathy, join the Flemish guide, Marieke, who is beginning to feel left out. She does her best to be culturally sensitive and acknowledges the remaining controversies but naturally, she wouldn't bring the same perspective as Frédéric.
On the way back from the Museum by tram, our group analyses the visit; both its strengths and oversights. One African-American participant raises the salient point that without the guide or foreknowledge of Belgium’s colonial past, the museum's coverage of this historical violence remains muted.
After the Conference closing ceremony, a posse of us heads to Flagey for drinks and food. I’m exhausted but sad it’s all over. I’ve made several more new acquaintances, spread throughout Continental Europe and the UK.
The day after, I make my way to a new Jam at the Jazz Station bar in St. Josse. I’ve passed the venue many times, my curiosity yet to be satiated. I am accompanied by a couple of very recent acquaintances, Clothilde and Agnès. We meet for the first time a few weeks earlier, sitting in on a rehearsal for a Gospel choir that we're all interested in joining. Clothilde and Agnès are such fast friends, I assume they’re already well-acquainted. Once I let down my guard, we’re all chatting away easily about harmonies and previous singing experience.
The ladies follow through on their promise to stay in touch and reconnect for musical excursions, hence my proposal to head to Jazz Station.
I’ve also invited for the ride another kindred spirit in music, Jens. It’s a been a while since we hung out. I am a bit paranoid he’s avoiding me. On the contrary. He’s just been busy. Jens accepts my last minute invitation with alacrity.
The Jazz Station event comes recommended by a flirty French musician I meet at an open mic night in Laiterie café, where I’ve performed a few weeks prior.
Alas, the set-up at the Jazz Station is more stereotypically uptight than the easygoing Laiterie gang. We still have a great time, albeit Agnès finds the house band too esoteric. I see her point.
The event does seem more welcoming of singers compared to others I’ve attended. I give it a go. The feedback is positive. I’m relieved to have gone through it, even if I’m not wholly satisfied with my performance.
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| Jazz Station (c) Visit Brussels |
The best part of the evening is seeing my guests all get along, as well as meeting other musically-inclined folk. Like the producer, Bémol and his wife, Alessa. The couple have only just moved to Brussels after several years spent in Southern Europe and North Africa. Agnès mentions that Bémol is looking for vocalists to provide BGVs on a forthcoming project. Whilst open to the idea, privately I maintain a healthy scepticism about its likelihood. On verra.
By the end of the night, numbers have been exchanged, as well as information on similar events.
Before Jens drops us off home in his pristine, upmarket car, multi-instrumentalist Clothilde avails herself of the chance to perform the improvised piano piece that she was denied before. (Only Jazz standards can be performed during the jam). She’s more accomplished than I assumed.
Clothilde radiates a childlike exuberance; one of those rare beings yet untainted by the world. It moves me to tears. Never change, I tell her.
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