Rites, Rituals and Milestones

7 min. read 

Image taken from Wedding Sparrow

The month of May is engulfed in busyness and significant events before I know it. Most notably, I return to the UK for the wedding of a dear friend, Winston. It’s such a special occasion that sis flies in for it from East Asia. Mum – an ‘adopted’ auntie of Winston’s - is also invited and thrilled at the prospect.

The trip has been on our radar for several months.

By the time the travel date rolls round, I’m in another deep life funk. I need the excuse to step away from the impasse in Belgium. What better reason than to celebrate with Winston and his soon to be bride, Shingai. I have already had the privilege of meeting this quietly remarkable woman last Autumn. I envisage myself appropriating her as a friend by virtue of their union.

Winston is from the Midlands, Shingai London-born and bred. To my great relief, the wedding will also be London-based. For entirely selfish reasons, it’s a load off not having to consider further travel and accommodation costs.

I book my ticket with a view to being gainfully-employed and having to work from home during the break. Since that doesn’t materialise, I’m left with a few extra days in London town. On the outbound journey, I arrive too late for plebs like me to board the train. It’s the first – and I pray only – time this has occurred. I underestimate the timing of the commute and encountering issues in transit. To my disgust, I learn that Eurostar’s early-boarding requirement has nothing to do with safety. The rules are different for those affluent enough to pay for business class.

Fortunately, I am able to rebook on the next train without extra cost, although it means arriving at St. Pancras very late.

The first few days of the trip are largely devoted to putting the finishing touches to our individual wedding styles. I’ve decided to go in traditional West African attire. My cream and violet outfit is already good to go. Little do I know mum and sis have been conspiring on how best to accessorise me.

On the morning of the wedding itself, our best laid plans to make the ceremony on time go awry. It takes substantially longer to prepare than we anticipate. Sis helps me and mum with some final make-up flourishes. The results are pretty spectacular, if I must say so myself. Our cab pulls up to the church just as the bride is making her entrance to Boyz II Men’s version of Ribbon in the Sky. We’re not the only stragglers who are made to drop back, so that we’re not caught on camera during this magical moment.

We’re permitted to make a mercifully discreet dash upstairs to the gallery. We spot Winston down below, dressed in an unconventional groom suit. Good for him. No hint of hesitation on his part regarding the commitment he’s about to make.

The building is filled to the rafters. The jubilation is palpable. Guests whoop and cheer as if we’re at a rock concert. With Winston and Shingai both being musically inclined, it’s no surprise that their guests are also. The officiating minister bursts into song at some point, demonstrating his own mellifluous tenor. I spot superstar choir director, Karen Gibson, amongst the crowd. A small (professional) Gospel group leads the praise and worship. I’m in my element as the harmonies from the audience sore up effortlessly. It’ll be the same during the reception.

The euphoria is tempered by a memorial segment dedicated to the couple’s late fathers, Winston only losing his dad a few months prior.

During the sermon(s), there’s more talk about wifely submission than is comfortable. (Funny how ministers readily overlook the same scripture’s admonition for couple’s to submit mutually.) As the couple are about to kiss, sis reaches for her phone to immortalise the moment. It dawns on her that the device has slipped out whilst leaving the taxi. Initially quite Zen about the temporary loss, she’ll become less serene as the day wears on. It’s a lot of palaver arranging the phone's return, which will have to wait for later that weekend.

Aside from this mini-drama and the cold overcast weather, it’s a glorious day. Mum, sis and I have made it on to the guestlist for the reception many miles away, in deepest darkest North London. It’ll take us the best part of an hour to get back by cab at the end of the night.

Caribbean delicacies and much joyous singing and dancing await. The reception overruns by two and a half hours; a surfeit of speeches, spontaneous merriment before the dancefloor is officially open, and so on. Please bear with us, Winston implores, This is nearly 40 years in the making.

We’re seated at a table with Winston’s old university friends, including Tonderayi; his now married-ex and (by coincidence) mutual friend of Shingai. Tonde and I have met and spoken several times. She once provided graphic design support way back when I used to run musical showcases in the Big Smoke. We’ve lost touch over the years, however. Given the current life season I’m in, I’m reluctant to engage in much conversation.

(image courtesy of Flawless Food)

In many ways, this characterises the day. Bitter-sweet. On one hand, it’s a wonderful occasion. Winston and Shingai are impressive in their own right but together, they are positively dynamic. The amount of love for them in the room attests to that. I can only imagine how much of the community their union will bring together. They are those kind of people. They already have almost 20 godchildren between them. They claim it comes from being single for so long. (Not that that theory seems to have applied to yours truly).

I admire what a well-rounded, good-natured individual Shingai is from the little I’ve observed. Hearing her share part of her story during the reception is a personal highlight. She had all but given up on settling down just before she and Winston became an item. The epic tale of how they came together- several years in the making – reads like a rom-com.

The party element of the reception does not disappoint, thanks to a canny DJ spinning Gospel, classic R&B, Drum & Bass, Dancehall, a slither of Garage and (too little) Afrobeats. He challenges us to a marathon stint of the Electric Slide/Candy dance as he switches tracks. I participate with gusto. It's been too long.

Whilst waiting for our taxi home, I hear strains of Tevin Campbell’s Can We Talk? and rush back in. Unusually, the couple aren’t in a hurry to leave. They’re on the dancefloor, mixing and mingling well into the evening. At almost midnight, the venue are desperate to kick us out. The wedding cake remains decorative as the catering staff refuse to cut and distribute.

Bitter-sweet. The day is also marked by those who could not be there. Sis contemplates the passage of time, whilst watching a group of teenagers on the dancefloor. That was me once, she ponders. Christenings, funerals, weddings, significant birthdays... life's milestones will do that to you. It turns out to be that kind of trip overall. Many a pensive moment. 

I consider all I hoped to be and I’m yet to attain at this stage of life.

Despite my best efforts to cultivate self-care and inner-healing, concern for me is written all over mum and sis’ face. There are a few tense family interactions, for which I cannot solely be blamed.

I do manage to catch up with a number of other good friends. The old question of in whom I should be investing re-emerges when an already elusive acquaintance finds it hard to commit to a meet-up, yet again. 

Nonetheless, when all is said and done, I’ll remember that the wedding itself was a joy. The sweet overrides the bitter. I don’t wish to make it all about the marriage, as much as it is a cause for celebration. It's more than that. Thinking of Winston and Shingai is an instant pick-me-up, especially during despondent moments. It’s not been an easy road for either of them but they’ve remained kind and generous individuals. Whether or not they found it each other, they deserve every happiness. It’s an encouraging story of God’s faithfulness, as well as their own integrity.

Ostende

Apart from weddings and catch-ups, I also make it to a couple of political and economic conferences whilst in town.

Sis and I return to our respective adoptive homes on the same day, purely by chance. Mum escorts sis to Heathrow (since she has further to go). I make it back to Brussels hassle-free, the low level dread of the grind notwithstanding.

On the other side of the Channel, in between the continued job hunt, my political and cultural excursions remain undiminished. After a late and underwhelming spring, the weather is clement throughout this period. 

A few days after my return, I join the Intal group for a decolonised guided trip around Ostende. The following weekend, Flora - a member of Intal - talks me into attending another (this time poorly-organised) meeting on her behalf, arranged by a partner association. It also happens to be the first day of Brussels’ annual Jazz weekend. I’m not best pleased that the meeting overruns and eats into my other evening plans. By the time I make it out, what's on offer doesn't inspire. 

A couple of days later, I’ll be compensated with a rewarding experience at the Bourse free stage in the company of Strasbourg's Emile Londonien’s Jazz-Funk trio and R&B act K.zia, daughter of the renowned Belgo-Congolese artist, Zap Mama.

That same weekend, there are more fun and frolics to be had at the Core Festival, tickets for which are a gift from sis. 

I count all these simple pleasures amongst my blessings. Thank God for small mercies.

King Leopold’s Coastal Vanity Project: Reflections on a Decolonised Guided Tour of Ostende

 

Ostende Train Station
(courtesy of Visit Ostende)

5 min. read

I disembark at Ostende station one sunny but fresh Sunday morning in late Spring. The Belgian coastal city has been a source of fascination since author, photographer and founder of Afropean.com, Johny Pitts recommended the documentary filmed here during the last days of Marvin Gaye’s life. The tragic soul man escaped to Ostende whilst trying to wean himself off substances.

Yet despite my interest, in the almost three years since moving to Belgium, this will only be my second time in the seaside town. Both visits have had some political connection. The first was during an intemperate weekend in September 2022, for the international Manifiesta festival. Today, I return for an historical tour of the city through a decolonised lens. The trip has been organised by Intal; an anti-colonial, internationalist peace initiative based in Belgium with partners throughout the Global South. I’ve recently become a member.

These alternative history tours are fairly commonplace in Brussels, where I currently live. The organisers at Intal want to redress the imbalance. I myself am used to doing regular old city tours in countries with heavy imperial baggage. More than once, I have felt frustrated by the scant reference to their colonial past.

An old view of the Royal Chalet, Ostende

The Ostende tour is guided by one Michael Meeuwis; a professor in the department of African Languages and Cultures at Ghent University. Flemish Meeuwis has stayed in the DRC several times; enough to have become proficient in Lingala. He also has an excellent command of French, in which the tour is conducted. Nevertheless, given this is a de-colonial tour, I wonder out loud during an earlier Intal meeting if nobody indigenous to one of Belgium’s former colonies could have led it. I am informed that only Meeuwis has the availability and expertise on Ostende. This says as much as anything about how academia is yet to reckon with its own colonial overhang.

The tour begins at Ostende train station, where Michael recounts the infamous King Leopold II’s ambitions for the old fishing town. His parents, Leopold I and Louise-Marie, whiled away their summers near the sea. Leo Jr wanted to turn the once sleepy bayside village into a coastal city to rival Brighton, Nice and Monaco. He poured the blood money procured from his brutal exploits in the Congo into the town’s infrastructure. Buildings all over Ostende bear the double-L insignia of two generations of Leopolds. Aspects of the cityscape are ‘L’- shaped by design, such was the magnitude of the younger Leopold’s conceit.

Early on in the visit, Prof. Meeuwis highlights the Belgian monarchy’s blood links to that of the UK. Leopold II and Queen Victoria were cousins. Empire was a family business.

In the vicinity of the oft-renovated Ostende casino, running parallel to Marie-José Square, is Leopold II Avenue. Michael mentions that campaigns to have the street renamed in honour of the slain first leader of an independent Congo, Patrice Lumumba, have so far fallen on deaf ears.

Prof. Meeuwis lingers near the bust of Auguste Beernaert; erstwhile Belgian prime minister and Nobel Peace Prize laureate. Beernaert had a turbulent relationship with Leopold II. The two men were initially confidantes, Beernaert believing that the King’s plans in Africa were of a philanthropic, liberating and ‘civilising’ nature (and so many other colonial clichés). Auguste swiftly became disillusioned when the extent of the horrors in the Congo came to light. He went from being the King’s close friend to one of his fiercest critics. During his time as Belgian premier, Auguste attempted to mitigate some of the violations by officially recognising the Congoleses’ human rights in parliament. It was a mere sticking plaster, admits Prof. Meeuwis, but it reveals how much Beernaert had turned against his one-time ally.

Auguste is also credited with laying the foundation for what would become the International Court of Justice at the Hague, Netherlands. Our tour guide rues that Beernaert remains somewhat an underrated historical figure.

The group moves nearer the bay. Close to the beach is Paris Road (Rue de Paris). Now a nondescript street obscured by road works, it was once the haunt of Leopold II’s private bankers. There are no exact figures for the fortune Leopold II amassed from his exploitation of the Congo. Modern estimates suggest it would be worth at least several hundred millions of euros today.

A stone’s throw away from Rue de Paris stands the King’s old chalet, which included an underground passageway connecting him to his mistress’ lair, also in the vicinity.

We pass by what was the Royal Villa. Michael draws our attention to the astral motif that adorns the gates, as well as other former colonial buildings we’ve seen en route. He points out that stars also feature on the present day Congolese flag. The idea is said to have come from Henry Morton Stanley, Leopold II’s man on the ground (The King himself never set foot in Congo). Stanley in turn is believed to have been inspired by the Texan flag, during his time as a confederate soldier in the American Civil War. For Prof. Meeuwis, it’s incongruous that this colonial symbol is still part of the Congolese flag.

It was at this Royal Villa that the first map of the Belgian Congo was said to have been drafted. It’s also where dignitaries were welcomed to discuss the apparent scourge of the Arab slave traders in the West and Central Africa region. This formed part of Leopold II’s elaborate PR campaign to justify his incursion into Congo to the Belgian public.

Prof. Meeuwis leads us to the largest statue in Ostende dedicated to the king for whom the term ‘crimes against humanity’ found one of its earliest uses. The now-discoloured bronze edifice shows Leopold II mounted triumphantly on a steed. To his left are fawning members of Ostende’s fishing community, offering up their children to the monarch. The tableau is mirrored on his right. This time the grateful supplicants are Congolese, overseen by a stern colonial official. Observing this scene is a woman in a long flowing robe – representing Belgium itself- with a flame in her right hand, also gesturing towards the mounted king. The sculpture was created in the 1920s/early 30s – decades after Leopold’s death. For our guide, this exemplifies the cult of Leopold II; a type of deification of the depraved sovereign.

In 2004, a group of Ostende-based anarchists insisted that the sculpture more accurately reflect what really went on in Congo during Leopold II’s reign. The group eventually decided to effect the change themselves. The authorities acquiesced. A Congolese statue is now missing a limb, to represent one of the most notorious acts of butchery by Leopold’s colonial forces. This small but significant change is indicated in Dutch on a modest, easy-to-miss plaque.

The Ostende decolonisation movement scored a greater victory elsewhere. Five to ten minutes away by foot, lies a park where a bust of the King proudly stood. It was removed in the wake of the 2020 global anti-racism uprisings. According to Michael, the local authorities – a conservative coalition of the centre-right Flemish Liberal Party and the Christian Democrats – have grown even more recalcitrant regarding any further decolonisation of public spaces. The professor adds that there are many amongst the political class with historical colonial connections.

We end the tour back at the ignominious monument in memory of Leopold II. We have returned to observe a minute’s silence for the victims of the King’s barbaric regime. We gather solemnly around the Congolese figures, to give honour to whom it should be due.

A version of this piece also appears on Afropean.com. The piece has further been edited on 24 June 2023 to reflect the precise circumstances in which a part of a statue from the bronze monument was removed.