Navigating another winter of discontent

 

5 min. read

My cultural and political engagements continue to be some of the few positive aspects of my mixed (at best) experience so far in Belgium. As usual, there is no shortage of free or cheap cultural events.

I have a heated exchange at Full Circle with a cocky UK-based African-American academic. His address is noticeably androcentric and he carries a strong aroma of misogynoir. He minimises the distinct difficulties Afrodescendant women face at the intersection of race and gender discrimination. He doesn't have much truck with intersectional theories at all. It's thus not a surprise that he apparently has a vendetta for black feminists like Kimberlé Crenshaw, Audre Lorde and in particular, bell hooks. Time doesn’t allow me to go into my frustration with his all-or-nothing, cherry-picking method of argumentation, as well as the lack of intellectual rigour elsewhere in the room. Notwithstanding a few notable exceptions, the mostly white guests are too scared and/or ill-informed to challenge him or add anything constructive to the conversation. Similar for most of the Afrodescendant guests, a number of whom are Americans themselves. Some patriotic loyalty is at play, apparently. One attendee, with whom I’d previously had a cordial exchange, is particularly defensive that evening. Or maybe I've just caught her at a jaded low-point. She accuses me of interrupting (she's not wrong) whilst shamelessly hacking others off herself. She pounces on any comment she doesn’t like, whether or not directed at her. She serves as the academic’s personal bulldog if I so much as ask for a point of clarification. Worst of all, as someone who professes to be interested in the advancement of black women, she takes no issue with the very problematic statements made by the guest speaker. For someone as educated as she claims to be, it’s a disappointing display.

I have a more positive encounter at the celebrated Jazz venue, Archiduc, where I come across a couple I met over five years prior at the 2018 Afropean symposium. I recall a conversation with the fellow, of mixed Afro-Brazilian descent, about his being an advocate for Black Love. At the time, he proudly informs me of his relationship with a darker-skinned Afrodescendant woman. I am glad to observe he's kept his word.

I have long wondered what became of the two. Did they remain in Belgium and if so, why I had not bumped into them sooner, like other guests I met at the same symposium?

That is partially answered by the adorable tot accompanying them at Archiduc that afternoon. They’ve spent almost two years in hibernation, outside of work obligations, looking after the new addition to the family. We exchange numbers and a few text messages. I'm not expecting us to become BFFs. I'm just pleased to have scratched that curiosity itch.

On the political front, I am in charge of booking the entertainment for a special bring-and-share organised by Intal, to raise awareness about the deteriorating situation in Eastern DRC. A live performance and a DJ set are also envisaged, to add some well-needed levity to the event. I ask my mate, B-Sharp from the Afro Jam to help out with the former. He's on another level that evening, the enrapt audience hanging on his every melodious word. He ropes me into an impromptu performance, as I suspected he would.

 I am also invited to be on the organising committee of the association's annual political education conference, Campus Intal. Whilst the organisation itself is slightly on the chaotic side, it’s still incredibly rewarding to be involved in any activism of this sort. Many, if not all, of my Intal comrades are also members of the Belgian workers’ party, PTB. We cross paths once more at the party’s New Year’s gathering, at which delegates outline their political programme for 2024. It’ll be a significant period, with many forthcoming key elections, none for which I am eligible to vote. My support will have to be moral instead.

Campus Intal itself is equal-parts invigorating and exhausting. The team of volunteers is coordinated by Kelly, a boisterously loud New Zealander of Taiwanese origin. I’ve hitherto given her a wide berth, deterred by her presumed attention-seeking and a suspicion that any activism had more to do with her IG profile than The Cause. My attitude does thaw substantially whilst we work together to ensure the weekend runs as smoothly as possible.

I make several great connections that weekend in between the informative and interactive workshops. There’s Italian-Eritrean, Merlat working in the NGO sector. I meet Brian, an easy-on-the-eye Brit of mixed-Madagascan origin. He arrived in Brussels almost a year before I began my (mis)adventure here but is new to political engagement. I have longer conversations with vaguely familiar faces such as half-Egyptian, Yussef and Habiba; a bright, not to mention stunning, Lybian-Italian with Camel-like eyelashes born and raised in Vancouver. 

At the end of conference day one, I partake in my first guerilla, flash mob-style protest at the notorious supermarket chain, Carrefour. Heavily invested in Israeli settlements, the franchise is high on the list of companies to Boycott according to the BDS campaign. A sizable group of us descend on one of the largest branches in Brussels. I assume we’ll merely picket the entrance so I am surprised when we enter the megastore's premises themselves. At a strategic moment, Palestinian flags are unwrapped, and one of Intal’s leaders calls for a boycott of Carrefour and an immediate ceasefire in Gaza on a megaphone. The group proceeds through the shop chanting these demands, as bemused customers record the protest on their phones.

Those amongst us (like myself) with a more precarious, third-country national status serve as decoys. Habiba and I feign a genuine interest in the dairy or pasta products whilst we play lookout. We’re led by Lucien, born to Syrian-Christian parents near Damascus.

I detect one of the security guards making a furtive phone call. He doesn't attempt to handle the situation himself. I ring Lucien to warn him the police are on their way. They show up with a head-spinning quickness.

By that time we’re already at the tram stop, heading back to HQ. It is exhilarating. Despite being almost half my age (I assume), Habiba is a veteran of this kind of direct action. It’s more of a novelty for me.  The following morning, both of us will attend a popular workshop on activists’ rights in Belgium. The human rights lawyer leading the session is the same who advises on Intal's direct actions.

Following the supermarket protest, we let our hair down at the conference afterparty. Most of the crowd are baby Millennials or Gen-Zed, far more familiar than I with the Electro-Eastern fusion, Amapiano and commercial Hip-Hop playlist of Intal's very own DJ Mustafa. Despite the absence of any old school R&B, I still get my dance on. It's just as much fun watching the comrades throwing shapes to varying degrees of success. Kerry, intense even when sober, is literally bouncing off the walls after a beer or two. When she volunteers -unsuccessfully - to pole dance around the pillars, I double up in hysterics.

Slipping away to get some rest before the next day of activities, I am stopped en route by none other than B-Sharp’s amiable wife, Luna.

At such moments, I could believe that perhaps I am exactly where I need to be.

Soundtrack: Chet Baker Sings + The Legendary Riverside Albums

The 2023 Sign-off…

It’s been a while. I have even played with the idea of disappearing until the New Year, inshallah, but that would seem impolite.

I have spent the last several weeks putting the finishing touches to my End-of-Year articles and playlists, balancing that out with other writing obligations and commissions that have trickled in.

Switching to freelance has helped me regain some agency. I’m nonetheless still in survival mode as I try and establish myself in this self-employment lark. That causes a fair amount of stress. It is compounded by the onset of winter proper, which hits Belgium with frosty violence in early December.  If it’s not bitterly cold, it’s relentlessly wet and overcast. Not for the first time, it feels as if my S.A.D is starting earlier and earlier. The end of year lends to taking inventory of the recent and distant past. I have been in the throes of a low spell that has me revisiting my regrets, old and new. Add to that some simmering family disagreements and it’s not the cheeriest cocktail. I wonder how this all fits in with me working routinely on improving my psycho-emotional health. And yet, when I recall how bereft I felt at the end of 2022, I have cause to be grateful.

And of course, there’s no stasis in my world; a saving grace in itself. The last couple of months have naturally been taken up by much activism around Israel’s criminal war in Gaza and the general plight of the Palestinians. Brussels has not had the same weekly mass demonstrations seen in London but there are groups faithfully holding events on a regular, even daily, basis. I have attended a few. Except for a run-in with one unhinged character (in which others intervene on my behalf), these marches are largely peaceful. It’s been wonderful meeting new acquaintances from all walks of life, coming together for this single humane cause.

In late November, I join Intal’s Palestine bloc for the march to commemorate the International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women. Early on in the event, the police react aggressively to demonstrators attaching solidarity stickers to lamp-posts and the like. At the end of the march, I bump into Nathalie, a member of my church, Fresh Wine Ministries. I can barely believe my eyes. I ask if she’s there for the demo or just happens to be in the area. Nathalie has come with a group of single mother activists. We both share our frustrations about the absence of a Christian presence at what are meant to be manifestations of solidarity and calls for peace. None of her entourage are from the Church. Whilst Nathalie is a little world-weary, I consider it an encouragement to have met her in these circumstances. We might be small in number but we’re somehow holding the fort.

Alongside my political pursuits I try to maintain my spiritual practices, with a special focus on Advent. It’s all the more necessary at a time when I’m particularly disillusioned with the mainstream Church. I find social action to be a lifeline, like my shifts at the Red Cross or the Christmas lunch initiative, organised by the Compassion team at FWM. 

For three weeks from early December, I rise before dawn for daily online prayers organised by the majority Francophone-African Elim International church.  I find these sorts of communal prayer events invigorating to an extent that surprises me.   At the cusp of Advent I attend a half-day silent retreat. It’s held at the same oasis of calm I discovered earlier in the year at a similar event. These activities are often a mix of serenity and deep, painful introspection. It’s priceless. A busybody like me would otherwise never find – or make – the space for this uninterrupted quality time with the Almighty.

The following week I join the second part of a conference on interreligious community life. I see a few familiar faces including a former would-be employer. As well as stimulating discourse there’s a live Gospel music interval. I won’t stick around for the main event itself but get a taste during the soundcheck. The quartet are easily the best such outfit I’ve come across since relocating to Belgium three and a half years ago. Alas, I have a gripe with the musical director, Jason. He neglects to invite me to participate, as he all but promised when we met in the summer.

Thankfully, there are other musical outlets. A couple of the jams I’ve come to appreciate in the past year have sadly, already fallen by the wayside. I still have my monthly Brazilian appointment at Café Merlo for which I’m grateful. Urged by a friend yet to hear me sing, I perform a rendition of Brazilian classic, Insensatez, at the Jazz Station’s Sunday night open mic/jam.

Agnès, Clothilde and I continue to meet up when we can. Yet, even such leisurely activities can feel pressured when squeezing them into a packed schedule. I have a hard time with the idea of letting people down.

Our group has now expanded to four. I've invited Beverly, an affable young German lass, to join us after hearing her harmonise at another open mic. So far we’re yet to all meet as a quartet. We make do with gathering in various constellations, according to what our timetables allow. When we’re not connecting online, we attempt to meet for other festive musical events, of which there are plenty. There are outdoor performances at the Christmas market. Holy Trinity Brussels have several carol concerts on their agenda. I sing my little heart out to some of my favourite Christmas hymns at HTB's majestic annual traditional service. For all my post-colonial conflict about being born and raised in the heart of Empire, there's the odd British custom for which I have a soft spot, especially around Christmas.

I note a marked difference in Brussels festive atmosphere this year compared to last December. The City has really showed up for Christmas 2023. It seems most communes begin installing the still-tasteful and enchanting decorations even earlier than usual. In 2022 there was a lot of belt-tightening because of energy costs. Some fairy lights were deliberately left dim, making the whole thing a bit shabby. Not so this year, save for the odd blown fuse. I gladly indulge my new tradition of wandering the streets of Brussels, my inner child leaping with delight at the Yuletide illuminations.

This Christmas once again, I will divide the season between the UK and Belgium. I’d have preferred to stay put, especially so soon after my last visit across the Channel. It would also have been cheaper. I wish so all the more when the coach company with which I’m supposed to travel, postpones my departure date by two days. What should have been roughly a week’s stay is truncated to a long weekend. Mum insists that she would have been happy to join me in Belgium for the first half of Christmas. It would have alleviated the pressure of planning, she confesses. Yet somehow, I have had the strong impression she and sis were not keen on the idea. I hazily recollect being rebuffed when broaching the topic.

The bus company offers no explanation for the timetable change. Fuming at first, I frantically try to find an economical alternative to no avail. I eventually make my peace with it as I perceive the bright side. It means a lot of rescheduling but also allows me to catch my breath pre-travel.

Soundtrack: Personal Christmas Mix, Kadhja Bonet - California Holiday, Childqueen and others

Wishing all LVC readers a peace-filled and comforting Christmas season.

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.

In Transit, Apparently

 4 min. read

January flows into February and the gradual tell tale signs of a seasonal transition become more apparent. Temperatures are still appropriately low for this time of year (which is a strange relief given how unseasonably warm February has been in recent years). Yet nightfall tarries ever so slightly and we no longer have to wait until 8am to see the sun. Perversely, the late sunrise is probably the aspect of Northern European winter I appreciate the most. The darkness helps my mind and body understand I need rest. My sleep hygiene is already compromised as it is. When it’s bright, it’s much harder to get some shut eye, particularly in the early hours. Spring and summer also tend to be busier, thus the desire to rest diminishes with the increased activity as well as daylight. 

I like to believe during winter, I can make up for some of the sleep I’ll lose at other points in the year. Not that I’m doing so well on that front, in any case. It’s the same old issue of heavy mental traffic. I have found that crossing the threshold into my naughty-40s, current life challenges and a general malaise make it even more difficult to still the mind. I persevere with meditative practices and therapeutic self-care. Whilst they no doubt take the edge off the worst of it, the beneficial effects of these habits are probably more long term than immediate.

On the practical end, I continue to put myself out there professionally. In late January, I am invited to an online interview for a remote position based in the US. Currently, my application process is split between roles of genuine interest and those for which I’m just going through the motions. This particular post falls into the latter category (as have a number of my most recent callbacks). The organisation does great work but I wouldn’t really be part of that. More of an administrative lackey with mediocre pay. I nevertheless try to prepare well for the interview. If it's worth doing, it's worth doing properly. 

I’m interviewed by two women, one of whom is the incoming president of the organisation. I had expected to meet her predecessor. I didn’t realise the turnover of that role was so swift. 

The two interviewers unwittingly fall into a good-cop-bad-cop dynamic. I don't appreciate the incumbent president's line of questioning. It makes me all the more apprehensive about joining this team. I’m told I’ll receive a response the following week. 

Hmm. Enough time elapses between the online screening and verdict for me to lose track of when exactly I was interviewed. 

It’s hard to read the situation. I’ve experienced delays even when the outcome was favourable, such as when I was previously recruited by TTUO. More recently however, I’ve begun to perceive it as poor etiquette when employers take inordinately long to update me. It doesn’t augur well. It’s thus a relief of sorts when, over a fortnight after being interviewed, this recruiter confirms what I’d already suspected; they’ve gone for another candidate. My hopes of resuming employment in February have faded even before I’m invited for that ill-fated interview. My morale plummets again. I focus my energies on getting back into work in March. TBC.

In the meantime, I endeavour as always to use my time constructively. I keep my mind active through sharpening my French and Portuguese language skills. I try to refresh my knowledge around my MA in Sociocultural Linguistics as well as other areas of study. I am not messing around with my workout regimen either, recently adding Body Combat to my routine. I ache in all the right places after my first session.

I ease into my political year with a New Year’s evening ceremony organised by the Belgian Worker’s Party (PTB). There I bump into Augustin – who convinced me to join – his wife, as well as a young Franco-Brazilian who, by some pleasing coincidence – I’ve met a couple of nights previously at a live music event. More on that later. 

The following month, I'll attend a two-day workshop on reimagining immigration policies in a more humane way at the Beurs culture venue. At the start I have the impression of walking into a parody on contemporary Western society. Participants seem to compete with each other for the most distinctive gender and/or queer identities. I quietly ignore the instruction to indicate my preferred pronouns. It feels inauthentic and like virtue signalling. However, once we get into the nitty-gritty of national and international policy and their underlying ideology, it's a lot more engaging, not to mention informative. It's good to find points of commonality in anti-imperialism and our desire for just migration laws.

Also in February, I attend a donations-based Brunch organised by Amitié Sans Frontières; a Migrants’ rights campaign group. I invite Cindy, a member of my church home group along for what turns out to be a slightly chaotic but aimable event of live music, rousing speeches and deliciously eclectic food. Elsewhere, I’ve resumed activities with the gender deconstruction (GD) group run by Bruno and his hottie of a partner-in-overturning-the-patriarchy, Miguel. More specifically, I’m attending this term’s Book Club discussion about bell hooks’ Will to Change (at the time of writing, my own copy is MIA at Karin’s house). Fortunately, my erstwhile friend Lorenzo – also part of the GD network - has given this particular event a miss. Apart from seeing him at the Group’s New Year’s meet-up - where we merely exchange a hasty farewell - we’ve not interacted since crossing paths at a summer 2022 silent retreat.

Une Belle Échappée Festive: Part II

6 min. read

Whilst a number of my friends will be overseas or otherwise indisposed during the festive period, sis and I do manage to pay a visit to heavily-pregnant Karin and family. My sis’ natural gift with children comes in handy and she swiftly wins over the affections of Karin’s brood. She teaches older boy, Amos, some Afrobeats and House moves. His little sister, Evita pleads with us not to leave when it’s finally time to go home. Even their dad, Felix is quietly won over by sis’ charm.

The next evening we meet up with newer acquaintance Jens, after much fuss on my part getting him to confirm the details. 

Sis is eager to try some authentic Belgian Beef Stew. A number of establishments are either closed, over-subscribed or plain inhospitable. The last option on our list, Falstaff, miraculously has a table for three on a Friday night. If the food is good, the service is bizarre, to say the least. Our waiter behaves like an emotionally-abusive lover. He showers us with attention and convivial conversation one moment; is curt and withholding the next. It’s not the most economic choice of restaurant, either. Whilst she enjoys the food, sis feels cheated having to pay that much for a shabby service.

After taking advantage of some of the special festive events in town – including the light show at Grande Place - Jens suggests we head to Flagey for a DJ set at Café Belga. 

The venue is full to bursting. Sis is temporarily dissuaded by the heaving crowd. We persevere nevertheless and are immediately rewarded with some choice selections on the decks. I lose it when the DJ drops, Go Deep, by Janet Jackson.  

As is his custom, Jens disappears for a portion of the evening. Sis suddenly wants to go home. As she leans into tell me, a white-adjacent female strokes sis’ hair extensions. I kick into defensive older sibling mode, immediately remonstrating her for daring to touch a black woman’s hair without being invited. As if Solange had not put this on record for all the world to know.

Sis is slightly bewildered, not having clocked what the young woman has done. I try to fill in the gaps on the ride back home, once Jens has finally reappeared. Sis also explains why, after initially having a good time, she quickly lost appetite for the event. She recounts how one of the other revellers took inordinate offence at me dropping my earring whilst dancing (it went nowhere near her). Sis intervened, polite but firm. From a distance, I assumed they were simply making friendly conversation.

Jens drops us off home. Before disembarking, we play a parting game of Name that Tune and Head’s Up. Jens' musical knowledge reveals itself to be broad but not deep. I’m unreasonably peeved by this, as if I've been duped somehow.

More worrying is his lack of socio-political awareness. Not for the first time, I challenge him on being culturally insensitive. He’s surprisingly dismissive about why I took issue with my sister’s hair being stroked by a stranger. It's as if he's ignored all the conversations in recent years, revived in the mainstream, around the interplay between structural racism and micro-aggressions. I'm shocked by his absence of humility and white-splaining. I recall a similarly frustrating exchange around gender-related issues. 

Despite his obvious privileges - and me teasing him for being a luxury car-driving bourgeoisie - I hadn’t pegged Jens as a middle-class-European-male cliché. I realise this is not coming from a place of bad faith. He is not a poser; he’s too sincere for all of that. He comes across at first as cosmopolitan, open-minded and quite down-to-earth. He’s dated black women in the past (of course, interracial dating does not automatically equate to enlightened views). Jens' lack of empathy and cultural curiosity thus disappoints me profoundly. That likely has more to do with my own (unfair? premature?) expectations than him wilfully misleading me. 

I get counter-productively worked up trying to make Jens understand. Moreover, sis doesn’t wholly take my side, much to my annoyance. She’s more conciliatory about Jens' reaction. He has made a positive impression. She commends him for being easygoing, as well as holding his own in a heated discussion without becoming truculent. Still, the evening will leave me rattled for a while to come.

Not enough to immediately hamper the rest of mine, mum and sis’ festive plans. I continue to show them the luminous charms of Brussels bathed in Christmas lights. There’s not much else going on otherwise. 

On New Year’s Eve, we eschew the fireworks at Parc Royal to pray into 2023 in the comfort and warmth of my flat. In the morning, we head to Fresh Wine Ministries for a shorter special New Year’s Day service. Pastor Mike admits to being laid low by 2022, as were many. The previous year has been intense; like a microcosm of everything that has frustrated me so far about adult life. Even if things are yet to materially change for me, I feel momentarily lighter just being able to draw a line psychologically under 2022. Pastor Mike is optimistic about 2023. Over the coming days, I’ll hear these sentiments echoed elsewhere. I, on the other hand, remain reserved about the coming 12 months. A chaque jour suffit sa peine.

I introduce mum and sis to Pastor Mike and other members of the Fresh Wine Ministries family after the service.

Later, I'll assume most of the cooking duties, having begun my preparations the day before. Mum and sis make very encouraging noises about my culinary efforts; a simple but apparently effective menu of game, red meat pie, mixed potato mash, vegetables and home-made gravy. We gather around Disney+ to watch the first instalment of the Die Hard franchise, unfamiliar to us all. Sis and I find it raucously entertaining, even if we’re sceptical about its gun-toting, patriotic, rugged-individualist messaging. I come down firmly on the side of the debate that this Bruce Willis vehicle can be classified as a Christmas movie.

It’s the last full day of our cross-Channel festive break.

I accompany mum and sis to Gare du Midi station the following afternoon, savouring the last few moments before we go our separate ways. Amongst the long queue for the Eurostar, I see a familiar face, Chibugo. She once interviewed me for a job for which I was eventually unsuccessful, although received positive feedback. By some twist of fate, we’ve run into each other on a number of random occasions since. 

Chibugo is also seeing her sister back off to London that afternoon. I find this encounter somewhat providential. We keep each other company after our family members disappear through the security checks. It takes some of the sting out of an emotional goodbye.

It’s not until that evening that I’ll feel mum and sis’ absence.  I return from Zumba that night to a dark and empty flat once again. I can hardly bring myself to switch on my fairy lights once my relatives have left. I dismantle the decorations before Twelfth Night. I’ll wake up disorientated in the early hours, on the way to the lavatory, remembering mum and sis are no longer camped out in my living room.

 The loneliness does not tarry.  The next day it’s back to the demoralising job hunt. That week, I apply for a role that seems like such a step backward, I feel sullied going through with it. To prevent cabin fever - and to take advantage of the dry mild weather – I fulfil a personal goal of walking the entirety of la fameuse Chaussée de Wavre. This major thoroughfare traverses several of Brussels’ communes and has long piqued my curiosity. I take my time, making numerous stops en route. Having benefitted from being surrounded by loved ones for a few weeks, I am becoming re-accustomed to my own company. 

Elsewhere, I find respite in resuming my work-out regimen and shifts at the Red Cross. It’s good to be back and of service after weeks away. The RC is a lifesaver in more ways than one, if that's not too melodramatic.

Soundtrack: Best of...2020 Part 1 & 2, Best of...2021 Part 1 & 2, Best of...2022 Part 1 & 2