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.

Musical Solace: Part II

 

10 min. read

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.

nieuwsblad.be

Elsewhere, my cultural excursions continue to be dominated by music. I make my way to an exhibition about Belgian Jazz legend, Jean-Baptiste ‘Toots’ Thielemans. I have a good old time learning more about this national treasure and his intoxicating music. After the visit I hurry to Evere – coincidentally to a venue bearing Thielemans’ name - where dear friend Karin’s son, Amos has a recital. He spots me in the audience and gives a furtive wave. He’s coy in front of his friends. When the performance is over, a coax low-key high five out of him. 

My presence is a pleasant surprise for all the family.  Any excuse to hang out with Karin and the tribe. I’m aware of how much it meant to Amos who, the previous week, had pleaded with me to attend. Out of earshot of the kids, Karin and I remark, bemused, on how experimental the recital has been. The kooky music teacher has the children roaming the stage making animalistic shapes and noises, before improvising rhythms on various handheld percussion instruments.

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.

It’s more therapy of the musical kind that evening. The Brussels Jazz weekend has begun in earnest. Star of Jazz guitar, Philip Catherine and his quartet (bass, piano, drums) headline the main stage at Grand Place. Somehow, I underestimated the scale of the event. Thousands are gathered for the free concert, in honour of none other than Thielemans, with whom Catherine regularly collaborated. Once I can wrangle a seat, I’m a lot more relaxed. 

 Alas, I’m dressed too optimistically for the weather in a cardigan, summer skirt and sandals. It’s sunny but windy. I’m tempted to stay after the Quartet’s two hour set but I need to keep moving and warm up. After the rousing encore, I spot an ex-colleague from TTUO in the crowd with her boyfriend. She’s delighted to see me, even if her significant other is in a hurry. Normally polite and friendly when we’ve met before, he pulls her away and bids me a hasty goodnight.

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.

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