A First Time for Everything: Part II

 5 min. read

Part I

(c) Maddi Bazzocco

Each day of the conference, lunch is provided by the institution. A group of us gather daily to dine in the canteen. It's during one of these food-related gatherings that I discover, by chance, Brigitta is amongst the cohort's many smokers. Moreover, I have the distinct impression she'd rather I didn't know or catch her in the act.

The afternoon meal is far heavier than I’m used to eating at that time of day during the week. The ensuing drowsiness catches up with me on the first day of the conference. (To avoid a similar soporific effect the day of my presentation, I avoid a hot lunch altogether).

Meal times are an opportune moment to become acquainted with other guests. After seeing her name pop up in different contexts over the years, it'll be the first time I meet Maria-Teresa, the conference organiser, in person. Maria is a petite, feisty but good-humoured quinquagenarian, with a voice like gravel from years of chain-smoking. She gravitates towards African animism, pouring libations at the start and end of the conference. When she half-jokingly suggests we pray to the gods, I good-naturedly explain that I'm more of a Jesus girl. This elicits a smile.

Frederick – or Freddie – is a convivial Irishman with a waggish sense of humour and a longstanding affinity with the Spanish language. German Celia’s Spanish sounds so proficient, I initially mistake her for a native.

I get on well with Agneta, an academic whose interest in African studies evolved from her social work with East-African refugees re-settled in her native Nordic country. She is also the adoptive mother of black children. She’s the second European participant I’ve met who’s raising African children in a predominantly white environment. 

I’m conflicted. I’ve always been against the idea of white couples adopting non-white children, no matter how well-intentioned. There is a huge gap of lived experience and cultural transference, no matter how many books are read or online fora one joins.  It manifests even in something as (not-so) simple as hair; of great cultural significance to most Afrodescendants. I've seen black children growing up in a white family, with hair that's turned to locks through lack of care; most likely down to ignorance on their adopted parents' part. It's unintentional but infuriating.

In the case of my academic colleagues, I acknowledge this is not some Hollywood star’s fetishisation of brown babies (at least, I hope not). I don’t question these individuals’ genuine efforts to divest from white supremacy. I believe their solidarity with Afrodescendants is sincere. However, this particular kind of cross-cultural adoption seems to me one of the most flagrant examples of white saviourism; a massive blind spot. I dare not raise it lest I cause offence or I’m perceived as truculent. If the conversation must happen at all, it’ll take longer to build that kind of rapport than an auspicious few days at a conference in the Med.

(c) Patrick Tomasso

It’s one of the few times I’ll feel slightly at odds with the group. It’s somewhat indicative of my time in Continental Europe for the past seven years. Don't get me wrong, the conference is a largely positive experience and I’m thrilled to attend. Nevertheless occasionally, for reasons time doesn’t permit me to expound, I feel my perspective as an Afro-Brit sets me (involuntarily)  apart from an otherwise sympathetic cohort. Or maybe it’s just me and how I (over)think.

Ahead of my own presentation, I fit in several run-throughs.  It's scheduled on the penultimate day of the event, giving me lots of time to mentally-prepare. Brigitta isn’t keen on me being over-rehearsed. We squeeze in one practice before our combined intervention.

The Hispanophone presentations tend to be better-attended than those in English. The Spanish students clear the room when it’s mine and Brigitta’s turn, leaving behind mostly our academic peers. It’s a success all the same. I’m more relaxed during my intervention than I'd anticipated and the reception is enthusiastic. Colleagues take a bona fide interest in my project, surprised by how much has already been done in a few months. I’m both exuberant and relieved once it’s over. I can better enjoy the rest of the conference.

That same night, a delegation will arrive from the UK. The mostly non-Afrodescendant contingent is led by Charmaine; the daughter of South Asian parents with connections to East Africa and the British West Indies. She is blessed with a mellifluous, near-hypnotic speaking voice. Charmaine is the significant other of a renowned Black-British auteur. She doesn’t fail to divulge how many careers she’s helped to get off the ground, including some within my own social circles.

Charmaine and her entourage are a fascinating bunch. On the last night over dinner, for example, I have a lively conversation with a conservatoire-trained musician of African, Asian and French extraction. We swap war stories of our respective experiences living in France.

(c) Denise Jans

Charmaine and co have taken time out of hectic schedules to make the latter part of the conference. It’s therefore a shame that their session –a documentary and post-show Q&A - must be truncated owing to poor time-keeping. Charmaine keeps her sang-froid but she’s understandably miffed. All in attendance are regretful that we are denied the full experience.

On the day of departure, Reggie kindly offers to drop Brigitta and I off close to the airport. My supervisor will stick around a little longer to enjoy some cultural events, before taking a late-ish flight back to Belgium. I, on the other hand, will return on an earlier plane (notwithstanding a one hour delay). 

On the drive towards the airport, all three of us converse in French about any and everything. That is, when I'm not passed out from fatigue, sleeping in a rather undignified pose.

Not long after dropping off Brigitta, Reggie complains of the lack of black contributors during the final sessions. He proceeds to speak candidly about his frustration over the general lack of representation. I counter that the conference has been more diverse than I expected. However, I eventually open up more about my own misgivings over academic spaces, in which Afrodescendants are the topic of discussion but usually not being the ones to lead it. 

I’m taken aback by Reggie’s frankness. With his half-Spanish children and going by some dubious comments he makes about a photo of Agneta’s blonde (naturally!) future daughter-in-law, I assumed he was assimilated enough into the mainland European cultural landscape not to notice and/or care. 

He speaks of opportunists, exploiting a niche because they know there are too few black academics to provide much competition. His candour comes as a relief, echoing several conversations I’ve had with sympathisers of diverse ethnicities since beginning my doctorate.

Reggie deposits me in front of my airport terminal, to which I’m indebted. As with most of the other participants, I intend to remain in touch.

It’s a warm day;  a far cry from the chilly Belgian climes for which I’m already sartorially prepared. As I go through the check-in motions, at security I’m asked to remove my boots. One of the agents then inspects my head wrap for what I presume are traces of drugs. My hair was also covered on the inward journey, and yet nobody at Brussels thought to touch up my head-gear.

It’s not the best lasting impression of Spain. Fortunately, at least for this trip, it will not be my only one.

A First Time for Everything: Part I

 5 + 1/2 minute read

(c) Dan Dimmock

Way back at the start of my PhD journey, my supervisor, Brigitta, suggests we make a joint intervention at a conference in Spain, in early Autumn. She doesn’t have to ask twice. 

The start of October marks four months since my doctoral studies began. In that time, I’ve gathered a wealth of information; enough to feel comfortable sharing the first fruits of my research, even if the overall project is still taking shape.  This will be my maiden voyage; the first academic paper I'm presenting for an external audience. (It feels very grown-up just to utter those words.) Plus, Spain in Autumn beats temperamental Belgian weather any day. It’ll only be my second trip to the Iberian giant, almost two full decades after my first.

The run-up to the conference has its fair share of twists and turns. There are several iterations of the programme, issues with funding, and sporadic - not to mention confusing - communication. Brigitta is concerned it might not go ahead. Fortunately, conference coordinator, Maria-Teresa confirms in time for us to be reassured.

Brigitta and I will be making the same outbound voyage. I worry that it might be over-exposure. Yet, thank goodness, these concerns are largely unfounded. It’s a pleasant, albeit exhausting trip by plane, train and -in the end – by foot to the hotel. 

Brigitta invites me to take the window seat on the train ride from the airport, to enjoy the pleasant landscape. She is an individual of select words but we’re not short on conversation. Knowing my own loquacious tendencies, I try to be conscious of not over-sharing. Nevertheless, during the course of the week, at times I question whether I’ve held true to this resolve.

The conference will take place in a small city with a large university population. The weather is even more propitious than has been forecast when we arrive. Sunset also occurs later than in Belgium, allowing us to enjoy the vestiges of summer that bit longer. Sunrise, on the other hand, is surprisingly late.

The majority of conference participants are staying in the same hotel, a stone’s throw from the Faculty, as recommended by Maria. 

Each room is a capacious studio-style en suite, with kitchenette (although one has to pay five euros a day for access to utensils). From my window, on a clear day, there’s a decent view of the distant Pyrenees. 

The programme begins late in the afternoon and continues well into the evening. I assume these are stereotypical Spanish siesta hours. Rather, it appears that it's been adapted so that the university’s own students can also attend. The beauty of these unconventional hours is it leaves the whole day to catch up on other tasks, as well as explore our surroundings. On the days where the programme is predominantly or exclusively in Spanish (no funds available for simultaneous interpretation), I skip these sessions for more downtime, often joining towards the end of the evening’s activities which almost always overrun.

Apart from an especially soggy day, the weather is favourable for whiling away time in the old mediaeval town, browsing some of the discount Spanish chains, or taking advantage of my student status for a free trip to one of the museums. I’d prefer to do a guided walking tour but alas, there are none available in English or French during my stay. A gulf has grown between me and the Spanish language since my school days, when I was a more zealous student. It’s been surpassed by my interest in Portuguese which, unfortunately, doesn’t get me anywhere this side of the frontier.

(c) Rut Miit

The colloquium itself is truly a bilingual and inter-disciplinary affair; literature, history, linguistics, gender and sexuality studies, and ethnography to name a few areas of expertise. The thematic common denominator is the African Diaspora in Europe. The conference also commemorates the anniversary of the founding network, one in which Brigitta is embedded.  I’ll discover that I’ve crossed paths with a number of participants back at the 2022 Afro-European conference in Brussels, long before my doctoral studies were on the horizon.

By now, I’m used to these spaces being dominated by Europeans speaking about African-Diaspora related themes. (Maria-Teresa herself jokes that when Caucasians study their own societies and cultures, it falls under Sociology. If they embark on African-related socio-cultural studies, it becomes Anthropology.)  I’m thus pleasantly surprised to discover a decent number of fellow Afrodescendants presenting papers. This is relative, considering the power imbalances ensconced within academia. For all its liberal ideals – or maybe because of them  - universities' teaching staff largely replicate the structural inequalities that pervade wider society.

Amongst the black contingent is Clémentine; originally from Cote d’Ivoire. She decided to do several interdisciplinary masters and a PhD in Spanish because she ‘liked the challenge’. She’s on her second doctorate. There’s Reginald, or Reggie. Originally from the DRC, he’s spent most of his adult life in the Catalonia region. Ngame is a handsome yet down-to-earth, Rwandan whose family fled to Spain in the early 1990s.

African-American Dr Louisa-Grace Brown specialises in African migrant communities based in the Mediterranean and has a solid command of the European-variety of Spanish. Yet, as she points out, even with a proficient knowledge of the language, Spaniards tend to question the Black presence in the country more so than other former empires (e.g. Portugal). 

Louisa-Grace will give the inaugural address at the conference; a dynamic intervention that sets the standard. Dr Brown throws in smatterings of Spanish, and even Gaelic (she’s also studied Scottish & Welsh independence movements).

  A few other black participants connect remotely, making it more or less 50/50 African/European representation.

The first night, I join Brigitta and her friend and fellow academic, Clarissa for tapas. (By then, I’ve already done some panic grocery-shopping, unaware that evening meals are covered by external funding). Clarissa is a polyglot from Sardinia who has lived all over Europe. Our conversation encompasses the Continent's staunch denial about its colonial past, racially insensitive books, Mainland Europe vs. the UK and misogynoir; the latter subjects introduced by yours truly. Despite my efforts to exercise restraint, these being such sensitive topics, I find myself getting carried away.

Part II

Social Detour

 

After signing my new lease, comes the administrative headache of opening an account for the two months’ deposit required. I’m still awaiting my Belgian ID card which further slows down the process. So much for hopes that Belgium would be less bureaucratic than its French neighbour. It looks like I can no longer avoid setting up a Belgian account. The stress that came with looking for a flat, hasn’t completely subsided on finding one.

A few days after the signing, I’m exhausted. I do have one distraction to look forward to. I’m supposed to be meeting up for drinks with Robert (French pronunciation). 

First, a little bit of background. 

Rob -as he likes to be called- is the ethnically-ambiguous host of an Internations event I gatecrashed during my first few weeks in Brussels. At said event we have a fairly brief but enriching conversation about our origins (his mother Belgo-Rwandan, his father Dutch), Belgium’s refusal to confront its colonial past and the anti-imperialist Non-Aligned Movement, amongst other things.

Rob appears to have taken a shine to me, periodically getting in touch to invite me to various soirées that he organises both off and online. Over time, he’s been in contact with increased frequency. I keep missing his calls. We finally manage to catch each other. He invites me out for a drink one Saturday night. By the time I arrive, I’m in a churlish mood. My day hasn’t gone to plan.

I explain I’ll start off in English and switch to French when I’ve calmed down and can think clearly.

 Rob isn’t fazed by my saltiness. He proceeds with gentle Socratic questioning; about everything from why I’m teetotal to my thoughts on revolutionary leaders gone rogue. It feels more like a job interview than a casual night out, I half-joke. I try to turn the interrogation around on him.

He was born and raised in South Africa. I ask how this came to be. Casually, he mentions that his parents were engaged in the anti-Apartheid struggle. As you do.

Well, I should go home now. I reply I can’t really top that.

He seems to be a good listener. Or it could just be an excuse to check me out on the sly. He doesn’t exactly hide it. 

He has to leave early. I don’t know what I’ve said but he’s very keen to meet up again.

True to his word, Rob texts me during the week to ask about my availability. We’re both free Friday night. He texts the details of a restaurant in Ixelles.

Can’t wait to see you again, he adds. 

That’s sweet. I respond See you Friday, inshallah.

I arrive at the proposed restaurant. It’s deserted, with a note indicating they’re (just about) still closed for the summer. I text Rob. Messages trickle in. Then he calls. He rambles something about low phone battery and being stuck at Louise. He suggests I come and meet him. I am not amused. I head to Trône metro. Just as I’m about to step on the train, my phone goes off again.

-Stay where you are. I’ll meet you.

Except he won’t literally meet me at the station. Rob texts me some more instructions to come to a book shop near Trône. He phones again.

I can see you coming up the high street.

...Although I can’t see him. He instructs me to carry on walking in the same direction, towards the white van in the distance, where’s he’s parked.

As I approach, he’s smiling mischievously.

What the heck happened?

He tells me to hop in the van. I refuse. He’s 6”6 and of heavy build. It would hardly be a fair fight.

Oh come on! You know my friends from Internations. I’m not going to do anything…

He has a point. An assault rap wouldn't be good for his hosting rep. I hesitantly open the passenger door, sitting at a safe physical distance. It’s not just because of COVID-19.

He commences to tell me the convoluted story of his day. A sibling’s washing machine broke down. He had to replace it. Somehow this involves him also having to change vans, pass by said sibling’s flat and then stop off at his parents’ in the outskirts of Brussels. Oh yes, and he has to pick up a couple of mates to help him out.

-I don’t have time for this, I protest. I have an early start at the hairdressers the next morning.

-This is some crazy rom-com business. Why didn’t you just cancel? 

-Because. I wanted to spend time with you. We can talk and drive. I had this date planned…

Come again?

-I never said anything about a date!

-What would you call it then?

-I don’t know. Drinks with a new acquaintance? An outing?

-An outing. I like that.

Rob likes to go into deep discussion quickly. He says for example, that if a man hooks up with a woman whilst she’s drunk, it’s tantamount to rape. I’m impressed but shouldn’t be. That’s a minimum.

He volunteers to tell me about the latest woes of his ex with whom he was with for 10 years. They split five years ago but are still good friends.

-It took you a decade to work out you weren’t compatible?

-No, perfectly candid. We knew sooner. I even went to therapy about it. Haven’t you ever been in a similar…?

-...Ah. Sunken cost syndrome, I venture, Like Vietnam. You’ve already invested so much time, energy and money...it becomes a vicious circle.

-Exactly. Surely you know what that’s like?

He’s fishing. At this early stage, I say, I don’t owe him that much of my bio. There are no short cuts to emotional intimacy. I don’t want him all up in my business. In any sense of the expression.

-But I was completely open about my ex.

-Yes. Because you chose to be. I never asked you.

He has to pass by his flat for some keys and to charge his phone. He makes a joke about inviting me round.

-Oh no, uh-uh. No Netflix ‘n’ Chill.

-I don’t watch Netflix.

-In that case, there certainly won’t be any chillin’.

En route to his flat, we speak about the merits of chivalry. I maintain that it can be defended from a feminist perspective. My feminist perspective anyway. Anything that can counter the socialised selfishness in men is a good thing.

My new sandals aren’t handling the cobbled streets so well. I take a tumble. A couple of times.

-Are you all right?

-Yeah, I’m fine. Bet you won’t want to date me now.

-It’s women who worry about clumsiness. Men don’t care about that.

When I trip the second time, I say sheepishly

You've seen me fall over twice. We’re true friends now.

And so that’s my evening. My ruined evening, I tell Rob several times. I scold him for luring me out on false pretences. We banter back and forth. There’s a freedom to be as direct with him as I please.

-I couldn’t deny you some time in my company he insists At least you won’t forget it. Soon you’ll be catching feelings for me…

-Catching feelings? What is this, 1998? Anyway, you're the one catching feelings. You couldn’t let me have a Friday night to myself.

-What else would you have been doing?

-A lot!

He never does give me a straight answer as to why he didn’t just reschedule. Or maybe that is a straight answer in Rob’s world. Many a true word spoken in jest.

We hop in and out of an uber. He picks up another van. At sunset, we collect his two Moroccan friends. I wonder where they'll sit. Rob suggests we cosy up. I hop out of the car. One of the mates, Bilal, sits in the middle; the other in the back.

Between errands, the conversation continues. We talk about his time working in Accra, race relations, reproductive ethics, polygamy, birthdays, shoe sizes and French vs Belgian flirtation. I try and fail to intercept most of his double-entendres.

He has some slick word play, I give him that.

Until that evening, Rob’s facetious charisma hasn’t been apparent. Based on our previous outing, I thought he was nice; even a little dull. Still waters run deep.

It’s getting dark. A waxing gibbous moon hangs in the sky. I admit, this crazy road trip has provided me with an opportunity to see Brussels in a different light.

The streets are getting darker and I don’t recognise where I am. I start to panic. Maybe I'm being an idiot. I’m travelling with three blokes I’ve barely met and nobody knows exactly where I am.

-Please drop me off at Roodebeek station.

-I will but not now. I have to return this van by 10pm.

Rob will later have the nerve to accuse me of Stockholm syndrome.

-A good thing my Christianity obliges me to forgive. Otherwise, if I make it out of this alive, I’d never speak to you again.

A Night to Remember by Shalamar plays on the radio. I point out the irony. Later on, Rob turns up James Brown’s Sex Machine.

Turn it off! I order in English.

His freckle-covered face spreads into another impish grin.

Non-English speakers, his Moroccan acquaintances are perplexed.

- Don’t you like the song?

- It’s not that. It’s just that he has ulterior motives...

- The lyrics are a little...(Rob)

- ...Saucy (me)

At some point, I bring out my laptop to distract myself whilst the men do some heavy-lifting.

Rob passes the passenger side.

-Are you blogging?

-Yes, but not about you.

I promise however, that I will blog about this evening. How a mad mulatto practically kidnapped me. By the time I'm finished, he won’t be able to find a woman in all of Europe who’d want to date him (as if this blog has that sort of reach. Dream on, girl).

Shortly before 10pm, the time he’s supposed to return the van, we’re driving down lonely country roads. I put away my laptop, still mildly anxious. I can only hope Rob really is driving me to his parents’.

I’ve already warned him that I’m not meeting them. I don’t want to give his mum the wrong idea. 

Rob leaves me no choice. He parks at the door. His mother meets us at the gate.

If he doesn’t have her diminutive size, he has inherited everything else.

I remain in the car, trying to be discreet. Rob and the boys go into the house, dropping off fixtures and raiding the fridge. When he re-emerges with his booty, he introduces me to his mum as a ‘friend’. My upbringing forces me out of the car. I greet her properly with a smile.

Rob’s mum is very welcoming, considering the hour.

-Ma pauvre. He’s taking you on quite the adventure, she sympathises

Back in the van I quip,

-Even your sweet mum sees through your dirty tricks

I refuse to eat the food that is circulated.

-I’m watching my weight.

I nudge Bilal, pointing to his chocolate bar and tease

-Don’t eat it. I don’t trust him. It’s drugged.

-Oh no! Rob is a great guy. Great! Always kidding around. Really kind...

It won’t be the last time he eulogises his mate/occasional employer.

-So what, are they your wing men? Talking you up?

At last, at almost half-10, we park around the corner from the Central Station.

-Is the ordeal finally over? I ask

-It is, Rob confirms

To disprove his Stockholm theory, I demand to be taken to the nearest bus stop. It’s a straightforward journey to my hotel from there.

En route, I ask why he’s limping.

-It’s not a limp. I walk with character, he retorts, grinning. Touché.

-You have incredible self-confidence, can’t lie

-Thanks to my mum’s love. I’m a mama’s boy.

-That’s obvious

-The perfect son.

I respond with something that is, on reflection, mean-spirited.

No riposte is forthcoming, for once.

Rob dutifully accompanies me to the station. His bus arrives. He feigns to leave. I’m not having it.

You spoil my evening then don’t have the courtesy to see me off safely? 

He tells his boys that they’ll catch the next one.

I take the opportunity to ask if his activity on Internations is just a ruse to pick up chicks. He plays along. Or maybe not. Many a true word spoken in jest.

My bus arrives at last. The boys follow me on.

-I still can’t get rid of you!

Rob sits. I remain standing.

-I’m going to escort you all the way to the hotel. Since I spoiled your evening, I have to find another way to make it up to you.

My expression must be as quizzical as it is bemused.

-You’re seriously asking yourself if I mean it, he chuckles.

His humour edges ever more towards the scurrilous.

-You know I’m a Christian-Christian, don’t you? - I remind him.

-What does that mean?

- It means I’m celibate.

-You just haven’t found the man to make you change your mind.

-I have. His name is Jesus.

- Jesus is good. He has his niche…

-Yeah like creating the universe, dying for our sins, eternal salvation, abundance of life…

-...And I have my talents.

As they’re about to descend at Madou, Rob says he’s also celibate.

-In what way?

-I’m saving myself for my wife so that when she touches my skin, it’s so soft it falls off the bone.

I tell him not to mock my beliefs.

Over the next few days, exchanging voice notes with sis, the memory of the evening becomes less of the caper I thought. Sis pulls me up on some of the unpleasant aspects of the repartée. 

In hindsight, I was uncomfortable. I'm not one for natural banter. The situation threw me off and I started to play a role. Je n'étais pas à la hauteur.

To be continued...

Or maybe not.

Not Such Idle Hands

(c) Daeya Malboeuf

On the way into work the other day, I overhear a discussion between otherwise unknown colleagues.

‘How are you settling in to life here?’ asks one interlocutor.

‘Actually, I don’t find it very friendly’ is the reply.

Instinctively, I chime in

Me neither

Later that morning, I have a similar conversation with new colleague Predrag, fresh from Croatia. He’s soon to be joined by his wife and small children. We swap pleasantries and notes about finding accommodation.  He then asks my thoughts on the city. I try to be diplomatic.

Well my experience moving here on my own would be different from yours…

Not missing a trick, Predrag sees through my evasion. He tells me his single Bosnian friends have found Strasbourg rather alienating too.

It’s great if you have a family but…

…As his friends put it, it’s a City with a village mentality.

When I share this conversation with sis and a friend, independently of each other they reply:

Strasbourg doesn't sound very appealing, or...if it weren't for your interest in the language, I'd wonder why you're still there.

A part of me feels it's unfair to give the town a bad image. It is so easy on the eye. It's just compared to a city like London where, for all its faults it is open, diverse and any and everyone can potentially find their own 'tribe', Strasbourg by contrast closes in on itself.

Speaking to Predrag about his friends' experience, it feels good to be understood. It’s not all in my head then, which has been a gloomy place of late. I’m also missing the regularity of choir practice after a sporadic start to the year on that front.

I'm doing what I can to resist the grim thoughts. The devil makes work for idle hands and minds. Thus, I’m in default busybody mode.  

My melancholy seems to be a good creative fuel. A friend in the UK and I are keeping each other accountable regarding our fiction exploits. We both agree that when inspiration flows it’s truly a spiritual experience. I believe I feel closest to God in those moments.

I’ve also volunteered to take on more tasks at work whilst a colleague is on extended sick leave. It’s certainly more hectic, and there are some teething problems adjusting to working with different budgets and management styles. At least the job feels more rewarding.

One afternoon in early January, the strains of fluid piano playing float down the corridors of Le Chateau whilst I’m on my lunch break. My curiosity leads me to two colleagues having an impromptu sing-along to Billy Joel’s She's Always a Woman. Of course I join in, mangled lyrics and all.  One should never pass up such serendipitous artistic opportunities. It’s as if for an instant, I've woken up in a musical.  Thanks to this happenstance I discover that a colleague at THRO regularly organises open mic nights. A suivre...

That weekend, I attend a short story workshop with po-faced American author, playwright, musician and artist Mark Safranco. A talking shop, more like, since we don’t get any writing done. Polymath Safranco is ironically averse to workshops, preferring a Q&A format. An audience with....if you will. It’s a useful session nonetheless. There's much to be gleaned as he discusses his journey and writing methodology. He graciously answers questions with a broad East Coast inflection over a two-hour period. Although we don’t do any writing exercises, I still leave with a short story idea.

That evening I meet up with Gael, a mutual acquaintance of the Afropean team.  Having reached out to me over the Christmas break, we’ve agreed to meet up in the New Year.  No romantic intentions; strictly platonic.

He has travelled all over Africa and Europe, thanks to his job as a chemical engineer. Add to this his Senegalese, Lebanese and French heritage, not surprisingly he's also multilingual. Gael is not a pedant like me, who wants to be a scholar in every language. He’s happy to make himself understood for functional purposes. His experience of learning Portuguese for example, was a baptism by fire whilst working in Mozambique.   

Gael and I spend an agreeable evening speaking about everything under the sun including a lively discussion about the Christian faith vs. indigenous practices; not too dissimilar to that I had at the Afropean symposium with one of his idols Tété-Michel Kpomassie.

Gael also has a passion for music and hospitality. He’s returned to his old stomping ground, Strasbourg to open up a bar that reflects the Afropean ethos.  He proceeds to qualify what that means. He extols the virtues of his European girlfriend who has a passion for Congolese culture and politics. He believes she’s more qualified to be called Afropean than those Francophone Africans born in France with little active connection to their culture. I agree culture trumps ethnicity. Someone of mixed-heritage like Gael, who was born and raised on African soil before moving to France, is culturally more connected to the Motherland than yours truly although I am ethnically ‘thoroughbred’. Still, I don’t think his girlfriend his automatically a candidate for the Afropean label. I am also frank about my distaste for what I call Kim-Kardashian syndrome; black men who want a ‘black-white’ woman instead of the real thing. I explain to Gael that although I don’t have any truck with the cultural appropriation argument, (there’s no such thing as single ‘black’ culture or identity for one) I do take issue with the apparent self-centredness of many black men. It's as if the struggle concerns them alone.

 They seem to ignore/be oblivious/indifferent to the plight of women of African descent. Neither are they self-aware of how much they have bought into the narrative of disregarding us whilst venerating Caucasian women.One can’t ignore the fetishisation either of the stereotypical African buck which has nothing to do with valuing culture.

I have female European friends who genuinely take interest in various African/Caribbean cultures and are married to men from that background. I too have eclectic taste in men. But let’s not pretend it’s a level playing field for women of all backgrounds. From a global socio-economic and media perspective, women of African descent are often at the back of the queue.

Gael and I discuss the desire of many immigrants to assimilate, in a country that insists you’re French before (or instead of) anything else. We speak about colourism. I remark that some of those of lighter hue aren't as sensitive to the issue as they should be. I tell him about the documentary Dark Girls and mention the case of former Brazilian carnival queen Nayara Justino, stripped of her title for being considered ‘too’ dark-skinned. We both acknowledge the reality that most high-profile brown women are light-skinned and/or mixed race. Gael nods sympathetically and makes all the right noises. Yet there seems to me a cognitive dissonance in regards to his reaction and whom he’s dating. It’s too familiar a story. I wonder if he has, or would ever, date a woman with a similar background to his Senagalese mother, for example. I mean to ask but somehow don't get round to it.

 It’s not to say every brown man that dates someone from a different background is a sell-out. I just don’t think they’re honest enough about how much of the European ideal (both aesthetically and economically) they’ve imbibed.

At the end of the evening, despite an otherwise pleasant exchange, I can't shake the vague sense of disillusion.

This Week's Soundtrack: Oxnard by .Anderson Paak, Sade Birthday Mix.