Jam-Packed

 9 min. read

The Equinox is behind us and Northern Hemisphere Autumn is well underway. Whilst I’ll miss the abundant light, longer days and (snatches) of good weather, my memories of summer 2024 might not be as tinged with the usual nostalgia. The season has been challenging for my morale; particularly at its height in August. 

I return from my second excursion to Croatia exhausted.  I-need-another-break-to-recover-from-my-holiday-cliché exhausted. The excess scrutiny from certain yokels contributes to my mental fatigue.  Compared to my first, now almost mythic trip to Croatia, this one is less charmed.  

The exhaustion continues well after my return to Belgium. Post-birthday angst,  about all the things I haven’t achieved at my age, hits with a vengeance. I’ve also not recovered financially as quickly as I’d hoped after years of precarity. Perhaps I was naïve to think it would be that easy. It isn't straightforward moving on without the cushion of savings. Several things I couldn’t afford to do before, important but not urgent, now require my attention. Furthermore, due to a shift in contractual T&Cs and energy companies’ overall greed, I suddenly have a hefty annual electricity bill. 

My anxiety is sky high, leading to a malaise that itself sets off a vicious cycle. I’m too agitated for decent sleep, flooded by invasive thoughts. The lack of rest in turn contributes to the malaise and so on. I’m bouncing off the walls. I continue to go on campus so that I don’t feel too isolated at home. I sense that generally fewer Bruxellois-e-s take lengthy breaks in August. Nevertheless, at one point, there are only two of us in the sizeable open plan workspace.

Despite my efforts to socialise and take advantage of several attractive summer activities happening across Brussels, I still feel intensely alienated. The malaise starts to affect my motivation. The plan is to spend August on focused reading. I make the error of starting with some of the driest and most technical aspects of my studies. In addition, the University requires new PhD candidates to complete compulsory online courses. These are broadly soul-sapping administrative affairs.  Although I power through, all this consumes mental energy that I hardly have to spare. 

(image courtesy of Buzzfeed)

It's an odd experience. The whole concept of summertime sadness has largely been alien to me. I didn’t even know some folk dealt with vernal-related depression until fairly recently. Unlike the gloomy, dark and wet hibernal seasons, how could anybody begrudge light and sunny summer? True, I’ve had the occasional emotionally difficult summer but that had more to do with insufficient social stimulation.  This feels like a different animal, more akin to what I've frequently experienced before spring begins in earnest. 

In any case, this isn’t related to the weather so much as my current life season, notwithstanding the reprisal of my studies. I’m full of gratitude for my PhD adventure; a thick silver lining in my otherwise ambiguously grey Belgian experience.  

That’s another thing I’ve been coming to terms with. My ambivalence towards Belgium isn’t just a passing phase. Nor is it limited to one particular crisis such as a pandemic or job insecurity. 

Whether it’s the bureaucracy, the unimpressive infrastructure (in spite of very high taxes), how hard it is to create a community, or the generalised discourteousness, it’s just not my cup of tea.  That's the verdict after four years of more or less giving it the benefit of the doubt. The benchmark used to be whether I felt better in Belgium than when I left France. For the first time, I must admit a similar disenchantment has set in. And yet the Almighty clearly has plans for me in the Land of Waffles, Beer and Chocolate; at least, for the next few years. I therefore make my peace with it, like being in a (privileged) state of exile. Similarly, the timely reading of A War of Loves by David Bennett helps me be better reconciled with my longer-than-anticipated single status.

Elsewhere, from late summer until well into autumn my diary will be replete with meaningful activity. At the end of August, I attend a well-needed one-day silent retreat. These events are unsettling and emotionally demanding in the most beautiful and constructive ways. The following day, I attend a Pan-African cultural festival to support dance session en masse led by my most talented Afro-Zumba instructor. A number of other regulars from the class also show up. I feel like I'm in a musical. Without a doubt, it's one of the highlights of the summer.

Early September also marks my third trip to the socio-political and cultural festival, Manifiesta. For the first time, I’m more directly involved in organising events which demands a weekend long stay, as opposed to my usual day visit. I book a delightful en suite that alas, I’m too busy to properly enjoy beyond showers and bedtime. En route to the festival on the first day, happenstance would have it that I stumble across Auntie J from the UK, flanked by a couple of mates. Ever since I told her about the festival, she’s been itching to attend. Her initial plan was to bring a sizeable posse but in the end, it whittles down to a trio.

I’m co-moderating a Francophone event organised by peace and anti-colonial campaigners, Intal. The panel discussion covers resource sovereignty in Africa, ever-draconian European migration policies concerning inflows from the Global South, and the success of popular uprisings in Senegal. It’s one of the first events of the festival, so we’re not expecting a big turnout. Yet the room is jam-packed and there’s not enough time to take all the questions during the Q&A session.  The team is left feeling exuberant.

Apart from the illustrious international roster of guest speakers – from UK economist Grace Blakeley to the dynamic Franco-African domestic worker turned trade unionist and politician, Rachel Kéké  – it’s like a Who’s Who from the world of CSO’s and activism on the ground. I bump into many a comrade. Amongst them is Suki, whom I met when I was working on the Equality Pact in Marseille, where she's normally based. She’s since quit the project, disillusioned with management. 

Whilst volunteering at one of the pop-up bars, I serve an American pundit, with whom I’m familiar from his occasional stints on Novara Media. He’s a lot more obnoxious in real life. I meet a Dutch woman who studied Portuguese and happened to have taken lessons with one of my former bandmates from my Bossa Nova/MPB days. I bump into an amiable young Afro-Caribbean fellow whom I recognise from a predominantly black church that I sometimes visit. I’m ecstatic to meet another Christian in this context. I bound over to him, effusive with encouraging words about how important it is for us to be there. Social justice is Kingdom Business too.

Once again, I hang out with some of Jeremy Corbyn’s crew. JC is back this year, promoting a book he’s co-written with one time anti-Apartheid campaigner, ex-ANC politician and vocal anti-Zionist, Andrew Feinstein.  Music is also an indispensable part of the Manifiesta programme, with both local and international guests performing. Tiken Jah Fakoly and the UK rapper-activist, Lowkey are amongst this year's high profile line-up. Intal have invited a musician acquaintance of mine, Diese Mbangue, to perform after he lit up one of our smaller events earlier in the year with a solo acoustic set. For Manifiesta, Diese returns with his full band for what turns out to be an electrifying performance.

A couple of weeks after the festival, I’m off to Strasbourg for the first time since 2021.

En route by coach, I’m witness to a theft in plain sight. At Brussels Midi station, a dubious looking fellow boards the bus shortly after I get on. The inspector doesn't stop him, and yet he has too sketchy an air to go unnoticed. I can't tell if he's about to hold up the coach or have a funny turn. I eventually presume he's legit however, since none of the other passengers intervene when he takes a bag from the luggage rack. Nevertheless, sensing something suspect, a few of them spring to action to check on their own belongings. 

By the time the girlfriend/wife of the unfortunate proprietor realises what’s happened, the culprit is too far and too quick for the couple to chase him down. Her significant other alternates between expletive rage and tearful distress. He exclaims that all his possessions - except his passport - are in that rucksack. After screaming (understandably) at the driver and inspector for their incompetence over security, the couple alight to make what will most likely be a futile police report. I offer to provide a witness statement but the fellow is too distracted. I feel distraught for him, as well as guilty. I was immediately suspicious but didn’t react when none of the passengers seemed fazed.  

Several hours later, an old friend, Françoise, collects me from Strasbourg coach station in the wee small hours of the morning.  Françoise has kindly invited me to stay with her and her bibliophile sister, Magritte. That not only takes care of accommodation but provides plenty of opportunity for Françoise and I to catch-up. (Ironically, although we do have a number of lengthy conversations about the dire state of French politics, the siblings’ favourite 70s and 80s pop/rock bands and Magritte’s enviably vast personal library, I barely update Françoise on what’s been happening on my end.)

The aim is to squeeze in as many visits over a long weekend, as well as to hop across the French/German border for some (still) mouth-watering bargains in Kehl. It’s an overly-ambitious itinerary, which circumstances will curb in an ultimately helpful way. A number of friends happen to be out of town that weekend. Another acquaintance definitively quits Strasbourg for the countryside mere weeks before my visit. The upshot is that I spend quality time with those I do manage to see. In the three years since my last trip there have been weddings, pregnancies, sicknesses, recoveries, trials, tribulations and triumphs.

The weather is marvellous for this time of year; ideal for several wistful strolls through the city. I pass by Temple Neuf for its ongoing weekly meditation session. I've missed it. In the absence of the main pastor, members of the congregation step in to hold a special commemorative service marking the World Week for Peace in Palestine & Israel. I’m somewhat impressed by how much Palestinian suffering is centred; something that is shamefully absent from many mainstream church spaces. 

That same evening, Françoise generously offers to accompany me to the weekly rehearsal of HRGS; the choir to which we once belonged and where we first met. I plan to make an unannounced cameo. A few members are aware I’m in town but I’ve made no official arrangements to drop by. 

We are warmly received. Whilst much of the choir is now unfamiliar, there’s enough of the old guard to bridge the gap between past and present. I’m asked to reprise one of my old solos, which in itself shouldn’t come as a surprise. I’m still more unprepared than I should be. Blame it on nerves, says Françoise. I'd rather not.

Meanwhile, after several of the veterans demand where she’s been, she decides to rejoin the choir. (Privately, she will later divulge that she took an indefinite hiatus by being reluctantly dragged into internal choral politics.)

My visit to my old Strasbourg church becomes fraught for reasons too long to elaborate here. Once again, internal politics to which I’m not otherwise privy are at play. The day is fortunately redeemed by plans to spend the afternoon with erstwhile Strasbourg acquaintance, Sérafine, at her capacious flat in Kehl. She prepares a delicious pasta lunch and we while away hours covering a gamut of weighty themes. Both of us have lived through substantial changes in the intervening years.

I round off my Strasbourg trip by meeting up with former HRGS choir director, Kiasi. Dividing his time now between Paris and Alsace, he's obtained a set of wheels for the commute. We catch-up in his car, whilst Michael Jackson’s Dangerous album provides the nostalgic soundtrack to our overdue exchange.

Soundtrack: Timeless by Kaytranada, Milton + Esperanza by Milton Nascimento & Esperanza Spalding and Open Hearts by Joya Mooi.

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 Thrill is Gone

7 + 1/2 min. read

On an otherwise uneventful morning in late January, I receive a notification from the Belgian tax authority that I have some incoming correspondence. Unnerved, I log into the convoluted electronic system to see what awaits me. To my horror, I discover that according to the Kingdom of Belgium, I owe 1200 euros for the tax year 2022.

I search the document for any inconsistencies. (Even in English, it would be difficult wading through the jargon). Surely, there must be some mistake. I was unemployed for the whole of 2022, when I wasn’t on sick leave for suspected burnout. I’m thrown into a panic. I plan to call the tax office at the nearest convenience. In the meantime, I message the leader of my church home group to ask for some well needed corporate prayer and any practical advice. A few members contact me privately. Aussie Joe sends me information about a department that takes care of expat enquiries. Alana, originally from Germany, reassures me that this sort of thing has happened to her a number of times before. Don't worry, she says, it has always resolved in her favour.

Alas, I am not so fortunate. Apparently, even unemployment and incapacity benefits are taxable in Belgium beyond a certain threshold. The irony is, when I was employed, it was the state that consistently owed me. It’s perhaps an even bigger irony, or rather a flagrant contradiction, that only last year I was considered eligible for assistance with essentials like commuting costs, precisely because my income fell below a certain threshold. How can I be too poor for one but ‘comfortable’ enough to be taxed for the other? This bloody country. Its notoriously eye-watering tax rates would be tolerable if residents could see where the hell the funds were invested. Instead, basic infrastructure such as pavements are in a sorry condition (step out at your own peril), state departments are underfunded (as I have discovered, to my detriment) and Brussels has a chronic homelessness problem.  

I am so distraught, I burst into tears on the phone. I am told that even if I am able to pay in instalments, it’s still to be settled within a year. The timeframe could possibly be extended but not without filling out a lot of paperwork. In any case, it’s already been a struggle recently to stay on top of my most important bills.  How am I supposed to find the extra cash to settle this unjust debt? The customer service agents offer no consolation. At least they are professional and polite; not a given in Belgium.  

I am at a loss. For a variety of reasons, I don’t want to burden my family with this. (I do eventually open up to them. I'm not great at hiding things.)

I feel stifled by the pressure. I start to experience a violent resentment towards the country that has been my home for the last three and a half years. Before, when asked what I thought of life in Belgium, I would hesitate to answer. So much has been framed by relocating here during the early days of the pandemic and various other challenges. There were things that I felt were far more retrograde than the UK - for all its faults - as is the case for much of Continental Europe. And yet, nowhere is perfect, I would say. At least I don't have to live like a perennially broke student in Mainland Europe, with rent and commuter costs far more approachable than in the Big Smoke. There are also aspects of Brussels living that I have enjoyed and indeed, remind me of the best elements of London life.

After this tax debacle, my feelings move from ambiguity to ambivalence, if not outright animus. It feels like Belgium has taken from me more than I had to give. On almost every significant metric, be it personal, relational or professional, I have experienced more disappointment than I care to mention. Basta. At what point do I start to accept it’s been a failed experiment? That perhaps God's will has moved in a different direction and left me behind? Maybe the time has truly arrived to start planning an exit strategy, albeit with reluctance. At this juncture it would be a leap into the unknown and not in the optimistic sense.

To add to the growing list of ironies, an acquaintance who works for a local arts and entertainment channel finally uploads an interview he recorded of me a year ago. The timing of its release couldn't be more strange. Not only is much of the information now out-of-date, if not obsolete, it's edited to look like I'm having the time of my life in Brussels.

Unconsciously, I return to the melancholy œuvre of Chet Baker. As he croons The Thrill has Gone, I can’t help but think how apposite it is to my current life season. Likewise for Everything Happens to Me.

Not for the first time, I weep hot tears in my therapist’s office. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to book an appointment because of my straitened circumstances, that I have a stockpile of grievances to work through.  Earlier that week, I also share my discontent with my life coach, Pieter. In a rare show of unguardedness, he intimates his own strong reservations about Belgium. Being a Dutchman, I assumed it would be less of a culture shock for him. I couldn’t be more wrong. The differences between Holland and its neighbour are as stark as night and day, Pieter explains. As we try to work out together how I move on from this life impasse, his suggestions give me much food for thought.

I wish I could say I find solace at church. The continued silence over, if not implicit support for the murderous campaign of the Israeli government in Palestine has become untenable.  I am even more selective about what church activities in which I participate at this sensitive juncture. I avoid anything that might provoke a strong reaction.

Still, the risk remains of exposure to some inanity about geopolitics. At the end of a prayer meeting in early February, we’re asked to pray for Israel, the ‘peace of Jerusalem’ and the release of Israeli hostages. Nary a word about the potential annihilation of Gaza. I am disgusted not only by the blatant bias of the request but the equally misguided response. Of course, I attempt to bring a corrective with my own prayers but it’s telling that I should have to. I hotstep it out of the meeting ASAP. I choose not to hang around for phatic conversation with those for whom I’m rapidly losing respect.

Even a basic Sunday service is a struggle to sit through, nowadays. Last year, Pastor Mike seemed to be turning a worthy corner. Lately, with the church growing exponentially, he's resorting to soundbites, oversimplification - or worse - thoughtless generalisations.

Meanwhile, as I participate in secular political events, I witness people who, whether they have a faith or not, are to my mind, doing God's work. Nobody is perfect. Yet, in these contexts I am surrounded by people who care deeply for justice, the way that Christians are called to do throughout scripture. These spaces seem more real to an extent than the churchy enclave on a Sunday.

I open my heart in a candid email to one of my spiritual mentors, Vinoth Ramachandra. He is also exasperated by the mainstream Church’s reaction to the injustices in Palestine…

"...I'm really struggling on an existential level with all of this" I write "particularly the complicity of the mainstream Church... Of course, there are exceptions and I'm blessed and comforted when I come across Christians showing solidarity with Palestinians. I respect Pope Francis for calling a spade a spade. However, as you know, it's shamefully rare, even amongst some Christians who'd otherwise consider themselves on the margins. Apparently, even the leader of the biggest Christian denomination speaking up isn't enough. I think of the double-standards regarding the reaction to Ukraine. I'm sickened and disillusioned. I feel more isolated from and disenchanted with the capital-C Church than ever. It's not so much a crisis of faith, as a crisis of belonging and community.

…I'm struggling to engage at all... My pastors are of mixed heritage from South Africa. Both grew up under Apartheid, so it's not unfamiliar to them, although they would have been very young. They are certainly old enough to remember the before and after. The husband won't even use the word Apartheid to describe the regime under which he lived; he tiptoes around it with euphemisms.

...[Neither of them] - to my knowledge - has openly commended the honorable actions of their native country nor spoken out in solidarity with the Palestinians and denounced Zionist ideology… There is also at least one member of my church of Palestinian origin. What about his people? His humanity?  Church feels like a charade; a bubble disconnected from the real world and real life concerns. When I'm on [Palestinian] solidarity demos or in similar spaces, there's hardly a Christian presence, if at all. Attending church these days feels like I'm an accomplice to the madness...It's not as simple as switching to a different fellowship. It's not as if I don't visit other churches for a change of scene. The mainstream Church seems to be so co-opted by Babylon, moving elsewhere won't change that. It's not a decision I take lightly but if I had a genuine alternative, I would seriously consider it.

My pastors are decent people with good hearts. Unfortunately, I've long detected a lack of courage, such as the rather restrained response to other valiant protests - if not tacit hostility. I'm highly frustrated by this apparent cowardice and hope for a time to speak to them about it tactfully.

All it takes for evil to prevail...

Anyway, thanks for being one of those refusing to keep silent or justify the unjustifiable. It truly helps keep me sane and hopeful…"

What small spiritual comfort I find is experienced in more intimate settings; my own personal prayer time or one-to-one with friends in the faith. If I'm disenchanted with the Church, my conviction that Christ is a loving Saviour who values the life of all people equally is stronger still. I pay a couple of visits to Alana, who is recovering from a nasty skiing injury she suffered over the festive period. I nevertheless studiously avoid talk of the Middle East. The German state’s historically complicated relationship with the Jewish people and Israel, as well as its disregard for Palestinian life, has had a noxious effect on the mindset of much of its population. Germans with otherwise ‘progressive’ views, leave a lot to be desired when it comes to Justice for Palestine. I’ve learned the hard way.

Returning to the tax scare, there is some reprieve when I receive a one-off commission courtesy of a good acquaintance of Pieter's; by sheer coincidence, or rather God-incidence. This client is unaware of my tax woes. He merely has a lot of money to spend before the funding deadline closes on his latest social entrepreneurial project. After some negotiation, we agree on a fee that just about relieves the tax debt, even if there's not much left over for anything else. Thank God for small mercies, and all that.

Soundtrack: Galatea by IkeN, Chet Baker Sings

Balancing Act

 

(courtesy of Brussels Airlines)

8 min. read

Spring has announced itself in earnest, long before its official start on the day of Equinox (20/21 March). The skies over Brussels have been consistently – suspiciously – clear and blue. It’s the sort of weather where you don’t quite know how to dress; either too hot or too chilly, all possibly within the same day. Before moving to Belgium, I came across a statistic that it rains roughly two-thirds of the year. Leading up to my second anniversary here, I can attest this is not an exaggeration. I wonder if we’re approaching the year’s sunshine quota, only for the rest to be eked out over the coming months.

Still, I can’t complain about an abundance of sun. Yes, it would be great to have a bright and clear summer but, heck, I need to welcome the rays whenever they come.

Most would acknowledge it’s a morale boost. Although it can still be an uphill struggle whilst the sun’s shining, it's at least more scenic en route. It seems the Belgian authorities take advantage of the warmer climes to relax COVID rules. Or rather, more cynically, like many states across the world, they’re experimenting with herd immunity whilst folk are distracted by the war in Ukraine. Since the rule change, masks have all but vanished. Even on public transport where it’s still mandatory, several passengers – especially the young and/or reckless – dispose of them altogether.

I have a follow up visit to the GP at the end of my trial medical leave. She explains there’s not much that can be done for me without a firm diagnosis. She extends my leave until the end of March. Any more would be hard to justify for insurance purposes. She has consulted the recommended counsellor with whom I spoke. He advises more counselling. Apart from that, he claims, there's nothing out of the ordinary. I don’t know how I would have needed to present to be taken more seriously. I’m not about to fake distress. I sense that, because I can get out of bed and hold to some routine, or didn't have a meltdown in his office, the counsellor presumed that I was doing better than I have felt. That I don’t need more emotional and mental respite before returning to the world of work. 

I become overwhelmed in the doctor’s office. She offers some tissues. I have my own.

My sister, as well as my dear friend Karin, both suggest I seek a second opinion. I do wonder if this is one of those instances of medical professionals overestimating the pain threshold of Afrodescendants. The well-known – not to mention harmful – notions that we have a greater capacity to withstand pain; physically or otherwise.

A few days after seeing the doctor, I catch sight of my old job advertised online. It comes with an annual wage uplift of over 15K. I didn't realise TTUO had that much to spare. If my former management weren't such bad faith operators, they could have kept me on for far less money. 

All these considerations are making it hard for me to unload, albeit the objective of the limited leave is for me to rest. Other possible life lines appear remote. After two and half years of not seeing each other in person, Japan’s (still) harsh travel restrictions stand in the way of an imminent offline reunion with sis.

((c) Stocklib.fr)

On a more mundane level, it’s going on a month since my boiler broke down. Depending on what day you catch him, my landlord is either very responsive or completely AWOL. Various workmen come and go, if available at all. I’m given sometimes conflicting information about what can and can’t be done. There are quibbles with the landlord over the price. In the scheme of human suffering, having to boil a kettle to have a wash is a negligible inconvenience. However, the boiler palaver is more needless stress, consuming time that could be better used. Yet even this has its silver lining. It'll result in a needed dip in my electricity bill, all the more appreciated in the midst of a global energy crisis.

The image of a tightrope comes to mind; negotiating the challenges of these peculiar times on one side whilst on the other, not neglecting the small mercies that keep hope alive, in spite of myself. One Saturday evening, for instance, whilst participating in a lengthy cooking workshop at church, I take time out to nurse my painful right foot. Another participant, Anne-Marie, happens to have a qualification in medical pedicures. She gives me an effective foot massage before introducing me to a trainee podiatrist whose mother also happens to be attending the workshop. He in turn puts me in touch with a student podiatry centre round the corner from where I live. They offer supervised treatment at the fraction of the price of a private clinic. Providence. I'm grateful for the minors whilst praying for more interventions in the majors.

Providential blessings aren’t just evident in the one-offs. Whilst some friendships appear to be on the wane, I endeavour to focus on those that are steadier. Friends like Brenda, who isn’t deterred by my morosity. A few days before setting off for her first solo holiday in idyllic Tuscany, we meet up for a walk around the scenic Parc Woluwe.

Then there’s Karin, a real life superheroine. Sister-in-Christ, activist, wife, mother, PhD student, main breadwinner...and she still carves out quality time for her friends. 

She celebrates her birthday the same week as International Women’s Day. We meet up for lunch a few days before she organises a celebratory dinner at her home. 

Her husband Felix is somewhere in the background, doing his best impression of a facetious curmudgeon. It’s all quite tongue-in-cheek.

They’ve tricked their toddler, Evita, into her usual early bed time. Somehow she sleeps through the noise made by her older brother, Amos, and his adorable chums. Karin's kids and I have mutual soft spots for each other. Entertaining them assuages my broodiness.

I know from experience that Karin has a culturally-rich and diverse social circle. In attendance are some familiar (and less so) faces from church as well as new acquaintances to discover. 

I’m introduced to an Italian disability rights activist, and her Burundian husband. Like Karin’s children, their young ones are growing up trilingual.

Also invited is Cleo; a racial justice activist and photographer of Jewish/African-Caribbean heritage and more besides. She is gamely accompanied by her tribe, ranging in complexion from deep chocolate to butterscotch; a good-natured teenaged stepdaughter, an energetic six-year old (one of Amos’ adorable playmates) and a baby girl with irresistible cheeks. 

 Cleo is convinced we’ve met before. I’m sure I would remember if we had. It continues to bug her all evening until, by chance, we discover we were at the same International Women’s Day/Black History Month event just days before. On that occasion, Cleo’s is only a disembodied voice in the crowd, asking a salient question. From where I’m sitting I can’t get a clear view of her. Having already heard much about Cleo from Karin, Fate has it that our paths inevitably cross later that very week.

Admittedly, at first it’s only my love for Karin that gets me out of the house that evening. So much the better. This evening of stimulating conversation and good, Lent-friendly food is precisely what I need. It’s coming up to the midnight hour before I head home.

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My old nemesis, Rob, has come back on the scene of late, albeit at a safe-ish distance. I’ve been giving his Internations activities a wide berth. There are a couple that are intriguing enough to coax me out of my self-imposed exile. One on Ukraine – previously mentioned on these pages – and a so-called African fine-dining experience. I’ve paid a deposit for the latter. In typical Rob fashion, it’s rescheduled several times within the space of a week. 

One lunch time, I show up at his office for a proper explanation of affairs and half-a-mind to ask for a refund. We end up having a discussion about how to better understand structural racism, in light of some unhelpful -if not downright unsavoury - comments made during and after his Ukraine-related event.

 Rob is also fresh from attending a press conference where Congolese students returning from Ukraine have spoken of facing further discrimination from Belgian universities. These institutions are willing to accept their displaced Eastern European counterparts but not them.

I make my getaway whilst Rob takes yet another work-related call. I confess, it’s good to be on civil terms. So long as I remain circumspect and space out our interactions.

A few days later I meet up again with a mutual friend of both mine and Rob’s, Em. I’ve invited her to an expat soirée near Gare Centrale. I plan to surprise a DJ acquaintance, Thibault -or Thibs – who regularly invites me to his events. It’s yet to work out. 

A few weeks earlier I show up to a private party where Thibs is supposed to be DJ-ing. It’s a wet and windy night. So windy that Em pulls out last minute, fearing it’s too dangerous to drive. The party takes place in a remote room at the top of a high-rise on Avenue Louise. There are scarcely any guests when I arrive. Thibs himself is yet to make an appearance. Three unknown men hover around the entrance. I smell a set-up.

What the…?

The host switches from cordial to defensive. He snaps that I should come back later if I feel so uneasy. I leave to ‘get some air’. By the time I exit the building, I know I’m not going to return.

Fast forward a few weeks later, at the aforementioned expat soirée – in a nice, neutral location – I see the host of the ill-fated party once more.

We’ve already met, no? He asks. 

Yes, briefly, I reply. If he doesn’t remember how or when, I’m not going to remind him.

IDRED Demonstration 20 March 2022 (image RTBF)

Sod’s law, this is the one rare night when Thibs is not on the decks. 

It's an agreeable evening, although I hoped to do more dancing than networking. Em, on the other hand, is very enthused about it all.

That Sunday, I reunite with Karin after church to join an anti-racism demo in commemoration of the International Day for the Elimination of Racial Discrimination (IDRED). Karin is keen, if a little apprehensive. It’s her first demo. Felix has vetoed the children accompanying her, lest things turn violent. I strongly doubt it. 

The original plan is to organise a bigger, socially-conscious posse to go down to the march. Cleo has familial obligations. Davina, a Ghanaian-Brit I met at Rob’s Ukraine event, is also indisposed.

That leaves just the two of us. Karin and I have a good two hours before the demo to catch up, even if it’s only been a few days since we last met up. I’m acutely aware of how easily during this season I steer the conversation to my own circumstances. I'm trying to combat the urge. It’s not as if Karin doesn’t have a lot on her own plate. It occurs to me to be more explicit with how much I value her. It’s the least I can do. She’s sat through enough of my whining about being estranged from Lorenzo. I don’t want to be so preoccupied with a closing door that I no longer see those that are wide open before me.

Karen and I link up with hundreds of other demonstrators a few minutes before the crowd sets off. It’s sunny but nippy. I’m not adequately dressed for the chill. I link arms with Karin most of the way. There are Batacuda-style percussionists – of all ages - providing the soundtrack to our marching. They are occasionally drowned out by chants and alternative, ahem, sources of music. We aim to stay close to the drummers. Various Leftist political parties, trade unions, CSOs and cultural groups are amongst the crowd. We stop to glean information from a couple of the civil society groups.

We note that no church groups seem to have made an appearance, at least in an official capacity. There are folk at my church who are said to have attended Anti-COVID restriction marches, protesting  policies that are meant to protect. Yet these same people don't seem to muster the same energy for anti-racist solidarity.

Karin takes pictures of several children at the march, to reassure Felix that it’s a family-friendly gathering.

We end up walking the entire route, as well as staying for (mercifully brief) closing speeches and entertainment. If Karin weren’t present, I’d probably already be making my way home. By the time we are ready to leave, most of the 3000 reported participants have dispersed.

Soundtrack: Corinne Bailey Rae (self-titled debut), Bookends + Bridge Over Troubled Water by Simon & Garfunkel.