Off the Grid...kind of....Part II

 3 and 1/2 min. read

Part I

In addition to my health issues, 2025 has brought with it a body-snatcher style shift in my landlord, Kojo’s behaviour. Up until recently, we've had a decent rapport. Based in South-East Asia, he passes by every couple of years to check on the place, normally during the festive period. He seems pretty pleased after his Christmas 2024 visit, as he did when he popped by two years earlier. I inform Kojo that the cooker went on the blink temporarily on Christmas Day. Kojo casually suggests I have the hob replaced, since it must be getting on a bit. Seeing the modest size of the T.V. (which he bought himself), he offers to purchase a new one - practically insists. I decline. I never watch it, I explain, it’s for my guests. 

On the other side of the New Year, let’s just say things take a sudden and inexplicable turn for the worst. I know at some point over the festive period, Kojo has suffered a bereavement. It's not clear to me if this has happened before he passes by in December - and he was in a state of shock and/or denial during his visit - or if it's occurred shortly after. In my more charitable moments, I try to be understanding; albeit imperfectly. Kojo's sudden about-turn makes it very hard. The acrimonious exchanges and borderline harassment add a great deal of unneeded stress to my already anxiety-inducing health issues. Fortunately, Kojo and I have arrived at some kind of entente-cordiale, although both acknowledging that my occupancy of the flat is less and less tenable. I will need to find alternative accommodation by the time my lease is up in early Autumn.

Thank God, my studies have been an oasis of sorts. The first quarter of 2025 has brought some encouraging news in the form of several of my abstracts being accepted for various conferences. I nevertheless feel I’m always running behind time. It hasn't helped that my recent health problems have slowed me down. 

One afternoon in late February, I attend a session with a new therapist, Sirin.  I’ve started seeing her in parallel to my (now less frequent) appointments with Sandrine.  Walking-dead exhausted, I catch Sirin up on all the drama that’s been going on lately. She advises I speak to my GP about taking a brief period off university to recuperate. I’m initially reluctant. My studies help redirect my thoughts elsewhere. Plus, I don’t want to fall further behind. Sirin points out that it’s better to take a break now as a pre-emptive measure, than eventually suffer burnout and lose a lot more time in the long run.

I come to appreciate this timely wisdom. When I do eventually see my GP, the pressure at uni has started to increase - as has my anxiety - with various deadlines. I must also find a way to pay for all those conferences fees and related expenses. That begins to weigh on me.

I begin to feel a familiar existential anger about moving from one crisis to another. 

'Lord, Jesus. Can't I catch a break?'

My thoughts become very dark at times.

Meanwhile, my supervisor and my teammates are supportive when I inform ahead of my absence.

My sick leave overlaps in part with Lent, as well as my first 2025 trip to the UK. It's a low-key, bus(wo)man's affair; part study and work, and part meeting up with a select few friends whom I haven't seen in a good while. I’ve already sensed that God wants me to slow down during the Lenten period- and beyond. Stubborn as I can be, if life didn’t intervene, it would be harder for me to do it of my own accord.

(c) Elena Mozhvilo

Since my PhD began last summer, I’ve been struggling with fitting the rest of my life around it. I've known several folk who've juggled doctorates with marriage, children and/or full time jobs. I assumed that, as a single person with no dependents, a PhD would surely be adaptable to my schedule. Not quite.

I once heard a pastor from my UK church advise: 'Don't compare yourself to freaks of nature'.

It’s the opposite to what happened when doing my MA. I forewarned my acquaintances at the time that I’d probably go off the radar quite a bit. Instead, my activities continued pretty much as normal until the last six months. I presumed the same dynamic would apply to my PhD. I willed it to. I have so many commitments that are close to my heart, particularly in the activist space and social action.  Some of these open up incredible opportunities to meet and learn from those who have already made a difference. In February for example, I have a great conversation with one-time anti-Apartheid activist, vocal anti-Zionist Jew and Keir Starmer's constituency nemesis, Andrew Feinstein at Intal's annual political education weekend - or Campus.

 I also want to make quality time for friendships; established and embryonic alike, not to mention a glut of cultural events I'd like to attend. Alas, something has to give. When I mention at the start of the year that time management will be a priority in 2025, my sis warns, You can’t simply add your PhD on top of an already busy schedule. Her words echo in my head.

Recent circumstances have accelerated the re-evaluation of how I distribute my time; negotiating what to maintain, reduce or put on hold until further notice. I know that self-care is central to any plan to make the world a better place. If I burn out, I can't show up for anybody. However, it remains a tricky and, at times, painful process. I have outgoing inclinations. Yet, haunted by Sirin and my sister’s admonitions, I’m aware it’s a necessary process too. Notwithstanding the numerous medical appointments or a problem landlord, I have a busy year ahead; purely on the academic front. 

That brings me full circle to my hiatus from this blog. Prior to recent crises, I would be content to meet my minimum of one post per month, all things considered. At the moment, I can’t guarantee that. My primary blog, I Was Just Thinking, as well as my editorial duties over at Afropean.com take precedence. That said, out of necessity, I'm also scaling back on those preoccupations to some degree. 

The recalibration is ongoing. It might be that some months I’m quite active on these pages followed by several weeks -if not longer - of radio silence.  Either way, it felt rude to proceed without any notice. 

So, until…whenever?

Off the Grid...kind of....Part I

7 + 1/2 min. read

It’s been a while. This is the longest unplanned hiatus to date that I’ve taken from this blog.

The readers that occasionally pass by these pages might not have requested an update but I feel I owe you one.

Let’s just say 2025 has got off to a fairly dramatic start.

One early February morning, I find myself in hospital screaming blue murder from debilitating pain. It began in my lower back but by then, is radiating throughout my whole body.

Rewind to mid-2022. I start feeling pangs on a regular basis on the lower left-side of my back.  I assume it’s a psycho-somatic reaction to a period of prolonged anxiety.  Unable to ignore the pain any longer, I see my GP about it. Before referring me to physio, she suggests I apply Chinese tiger balm to the affected area and prescribes some special exercises. It seems to do the trick. The back pain will return periodically, usually during moments of intense stress, but my GP’s solution continues to be effective.

Until it isn’t.

From late 2024, despite religiously adhering to the regime, the pain does not alleviate. Worse still, it’s spread down to my left leg, close to the calf. It starts encroaching on my everyday life, impeding my movements at the gym. Sneezing induces sharp shocks of pain. Sleeping has also become more difficult. The discomfort from trying to turn in bed wakes me up. I get leg cramps during the night and I’m limping in the mornings. I try to book an immediate appointment with my GP but she’s on maternity leave at that time.

Desperate and not knowing much about back specialists, I go online. The Belgian site dedicated to medical problems of all kinds keeps bringing up osteopath information. I book a session with one based only a stone’s throw away from my flat - and, more importantly - available that same week.

Image courtesy of Nightingale Home Nurse

After I explain my symptoms, to my horror, the osteopath asks me to strip down to my (unmatching) underwear. I’m not even allowed to keep on my tights. Completely unprepared, despite my doubts, I submit to his instructions. I’ll find out later via Google and/or word of mouth that whilst getting undressed for the osteopath is not uncommon, it’s not essential. He should have also offered me a blanket for discretion, and the fact that it's the middle of winter.

Thank goodness, I’ve showered earlier that afternoon and my bikini line is up to date. The osteopath has me contorted in positions that would make the proverbial blush. I feel no man I’m not married to should see me in such a state. He seems almost dismissive about my prudishness; as if I’m overreacting. Surely it's pretty typical. He keeps insisting that I relax.

I’m mortified, I reply.

That’s a big word, he condescends.

And very apt, I retort.

I ask if he’s gay (not the first time I’ve done this in a medical context). No relief there. …But we’re all asexual during examinations…he jokes inappropriately.  

The mini-ordeal lasts for the best part of an hour, during which the osteopath claims I have a 'misaligned pelvis'. This theory makes sense at the time.

At last, properly taking note of my extreme discomfort, he let’s me re-dress. I’m still in pain at the end of the appointment.  That’s normal, he reassures, give it up to 48 hours.

Two weeks later and rather than seeing an improvement, the osteopath seems to have aggravated the situation. Peine perdue. All that humiliation for nothing. Plus 60 euros that I couldn’t really spare down the drain, with negligible assistance from my health insurance. I make an appointment to go back to the same osteopath, figuring he should finish what he started. Then again, I’m afraid he’ll make it worse.

Meanwhile, having herself recovered from a herniated disc a few years ago, my sis is upset with me for seeing an osteopath in the first place. She reckons it’s quack-science.

Go to an orthopaedist, she orders via video call.

Don’t they just take care of feet? I ask, revealing my level of ignorance.

I cancel the appointment with the osteopath and book to see an orthopaedist close to my university campus ASAP.

(c) Annie Spratt

The evening before that appointment, I’m due to host another dinner party. I’m nervous for a variety of reasons. I have a dicey relationship with one particular guest. My invitation is supposed to be an olive branch. My back pain is also playing up again. I’m worried I might have to cancel. Fortunately, it calms down enough not to interfere with my hosting plans. All goes well. I don’t mention anything to my guests.

That evening, I’m awoken in the middle of the night, partially by pain and partially to check I turned off the heating in the living room. I bend down and feel something pop. The pain is so acute I let out an involuntary yelp. It’s around half-past 3am. I’m scared about waking up my neighbours. I bend down again to retrieve something from the floor. Another bad move.

For the best part of the next hour, I negotiate unsuccessfully with my body. The otherwise strong painkillers that I've started taking more regularly (prompted by the osteopath) have no effect whatsoever. I cannot find any sustainable position in which my body is not in unbearable pain. I drag myself into the shower, hoping the hot water will offer some reprieve. I’m trying to avoid going to the nearby hospital at all costs. It would involve me getting dressed, finding my Belgian residency card, dragging myself to the door to let the paramedics in...and unlike the NHS, it's not free. I have hospitalisation insurance courtesy of The University but I have no idea how this works in Belgium. Thank God, up until now I've not needed to know.

I tell myself that I just have to make it through the night and until the orthopaedist appointment at midday.

My body screams 'no'.

I call the ambulance. By the time they arrive around 5am, the pain is so bad, I can’t walk to the van. I can’t even put on my coat, in spite of the cold. They bring the stretcher round to the front of my building. It’s too painful to lie down. The paramedics reluctantly allow me to remain on all fours - the least excruciating position. Unable to strap me in, they beg me to hold tight. One of them teases that I resemble a woman in labour.

I’m tempted to immediately ask for morphine but fear the hospital staff will presume I’m a junkie, faking the pain for a fix. I needn’t bother. They end up pumping me full of it anyway. A nurse pops me some valium at some point to relax my muscles (something I wish they had done earlier).

(c) Sardar Faizan

The needle from the IV digs into my right hand as I continue to be on all fours. I’m still in too much agony to lie down. It takes hours for the pain relief to kick in properly. The nurses tell me there’s not much they can do in the meanwhile or thereafter.

From the moment of the ambulance' arrival, I'm repeatedly asked similar questions by various health professionals. Fortunately, despite the pain - or maybe because of it, since it forces me to slow down - my French is clear and fluid. I've never been more grateful to have a level of fluency in one of the country's official languages. I hear words thrown around like ‘sciatica’ and ‘herniated disc’.

I don’t know if I’ll ever experience the blessing of motherhood. I nevertheless pray that if I do, the process of giving birth doesn’t test my tolerance for pain to the extent of that early morning. Now in a private hospital room, I scream with abandon, interspersed with growling invectives aimed at the Almighty- and the occasional song of worship. 

When the painkillers finally take effect, I fall into fitful sleep with funky dreams. After I awake, I'm served a humble breakfast by a cheery nurse, only too glad to fetch me hot chocolate instead of coffee or tea.

A friendly young doctor prescribes diverse medication to alleviate the pain, including more valium. My mind drifts straightaway to celebrities who have become addicted to legal drugs and/or died from accidentally overdosing on painkillers.

The young doc also prescribes some physio sessions and recommends I see a sports physician at some point. I tell him about my orthopaedist appointment at noon. That’s the next best thing, he agrees. By the time I'm discharged, I’ve been in hospital around six hours.

In the meantime I’ve texted my supervisor, my mum and close friend, Karin to let them know where I am. I leave hospital in time to make my providentially-scheduled midday orthopaedist appointment. He affirms the A&E doctor's advice and writes me a prescription for a MRI scan. The rest of the day is spent in a fog of painkillers. I’m barely coherent. I limp from that day onwards, and not just in the mornings. Walking up the stairs also feels odd.

After a speedily-obtained MRI -a small miracle in itself, I'm told - the images are made available within a few days. The report follows a week later. I can't make head nor tail of it in any language. Google is little help, with results ranging from the risk of quadraplegia to not much more than a momentary inconvenience. I go back to the same orthopaedist to translate the report. Whilst acknowledging my condition has improved, he's clinical and more prone to speak about grim outcomes. I leave the appointment demoralised and a tad bewildered.

(c) Annie Spratt

Mercifully, I have a follow-up appointment with my brilliant physiotherapist, Simone, later that week. She's based at my main gym. Nearly half my age, Simone is confident, full of pep and very competent. Where the doctors tend to go overboard, either prescribing too much physio in one week or, in the orthopaedist's case, being full of gloom, hers is a level-headed and pragmatic voice.

Simone interprets the MRI results for me again but in plainer language. It turns out that I did have a herniated disc and some general wear and tear at the base of my spine. Very common symptoms she says, and nothing insurmountable. Simone commends me for the progress I've made so far and for staying active the whole time. She massages the affected area and tweaks my already light exercise regime. Her prognosis is far sunnier than the orthopaedist's. I just need to be patient, although not for too long, Simone reassures.

My brush with severe back pain will also lead me to discover how common it is. Family members and acquaintances share similar stories of which I was hitherto unaware.

Several weeks later, I’m well on the road to recovery. I walk up the stairs pretty much normally again. I’ve been off analgesics for several weeks. Thank God. The pills were not only pricey but knocked me out. I was constantly making a toss-up between distracting pain or constant fatigue.

There are still tell-tale signs, however. I’m not yet able to run properly and I avoid weights classes. I’ve limited my gym visits to a maximum of three - rather than four - per week whilst I await my return to full capacity.  The limp, whilst diminished, hasn’t yet totally disappeared. I have had a recent relapse that makes it more pronounced on occasion.

Nevertheless, I remain hopeful.

Part II

Wind of Change Part II

6 min. read

(Part 1)

Easily the most time and energy consuming pursuit of late has been an application to do a PhD programme at one of Belgium’s leading universities. I receive notification of three funded literary studies fellowships related to the African diaspora, via a cross-cultural mailing list I'm on. The notification comes courtesy of the supervising professor, Dr Brigitta Puller. She’s recently relocated to Belgium from Germany to take up tenure at The University. Our paths have briefly crossed before in certain academic and related spaces; tenuous enough for us to have only hazy recollection of each other. Fate brings us together again.

The PhD themes are intriguing, the fringe benefits are great and thanks to a heavy tax reduction for students, the salary seems decent by Brussels’ standards.

Two of the fellowships are of particular interest but I end up applying for all three, to better my odds. I’m eventually asked to interview for two. Ironically, the first for which I receive a response is the one in which I’m least invested.

Each interview requires a five-minute Powerpoint presentation on a given theme, the slides for which need to be forwarded two days ahead of the interview. A clerical hick-up means the instructions for one of the interviews arrive with over a week’s delay, a day before a planned trip to the UK.

The interviews take place within a week of each other. I feel I can’t start preparing the second until I’ve finished the first. I plunge myself into research and interview prep. There’s an added pressure given that, as usual, I keep knowledge of the interview to myself. Whilst my family are aware I’ve applied for the PhD, they don’t know when I progress to the next stage. I only inform my life coach Pieter, during our monthly meet-up, when we both happen to be in London, a few days before my first interview. I also inform my friend, Oxford professor Danny Dorling. His support and input is invaluable throughout the process. He and my former MA supervisor, write glowing recommendations to accompany my application. Danny’s reference is so effusive, I tell him no mere mortal could be as good as he makes me out to be. In any case, I credit these great references for me eventually being shortlisted.

Both Pieter and Danny are chuffed for me. The weeks leading up to and during the interviews are somewhat frenetic. I’m constantly exhausted. Whilst initially disappointed that I’m not interviewed for the third fellowship, I start to see it as a blessing in disguise. It would have been too overwhelming. Both interviews go fairly well. The mistakes made in the first allow me to give a slicker performance for the second.

VUB University campus, Brussels

The morning after interview number two, I receive an email from Dr Puller. The message is affirming but does not bring the good news I hoped. She takes it upon herself to notify me before the official rejection email comes through. She commends my efforts and what a positive impression I made. I have a sinking deja-vu feeling reading the ‘..you came so close' subtext.

There is nonetheless initial cause for cautious optimism. Dr Puller proposes we get back in touch soon. She adds that we should continue on a first name basis (Brigitta - hard ‘G’).  Yet, as I slowly share the news with family, select friends and acquaintances (very few of whom knew about the application in the first place), I lose some of that optimism. It’s not the first time that a prospective employer sets up a meeting, implies there could be future collaboration and then it comes to nothing. I don’t want to be misled again.

That weekend I’ve planned a number of socials which I’m tempted to cancel. Politeness prevents me. That same afternoon, I honour a long-planned appointment with my friend Sylvia. I recount everything from scratch. The tears flow freely and often that day. Sylvia leaves space for that, in a sympathetic but tough love manner. (It's an odd day in general. I run into other acquaintances at this inopportune time.)

The application could only have gone one of two ways. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. A month or so before being called for interview, I have a vivid dream about a less-than-positive outcome. I once heard a pastor say some things are either God or the devil. It could also have been my nervous subconscious speaking. In any case, it helped prepare my mind if the results weren’t favourable. But still. I’m winded by the news. I feel especially bad reflecting on Danny's zeal; how he went over and beyond with his help and guidance. In some ways, I feel worse for him than myself. Danny continues to be supportive and is in no way recriminatory. He’s far more hopeful of what might come out of any future discussions with Brigitta than I am.

True to her word, Dr Puller promptly offers to meet offline before she leaves for her Easter holidays.

Good old German efficiency. There’s no time like the present. I'm eager for targeted feedback about my application. I'm not anticipating much else. I don’t doubt Brigitta’s sincerity. Nevertheless, if she’s a new member of staff, I reason that there’s only so much she’ll be able to do for me. I prepare myself for a commiserative meeting.

Brigitta does offer solace. She explains exactly how fierce the competition was and that I made it to a shortlist of five, twice. I also came pretty close with the third application, she adds. She proceeds to lay out a few options. Before I have time to process her words, she's offering me a project coordination role with the opportunity to study for a PhD over the next four years. I duly accept, trying to maintain my composure whilst inside, I’m on the verge of an out-of-body experience. Have I just heard correctly?

In case I have any doubts, Brigitta wastes no time in setting the wheels in motion before she leaves for her holidays. The fellowship begins in June. The following weeks and months are replete with a mountain of admin and numerous email exchanges. With the exception of mum, Pieter and Danny, family and friends are kept out of the loop until most of the formalities are out of the way. Not even my therapist knew. I am immensely moved by the joyful reactions from various quarters.

I am relieved, excited, nervous, curious…and a little stressed by all the admin. My life should at least feel easier but I’m not (yet) as carefree as I thought - hoped - I’d be. As Sylvia remarks when I share the good news (minus the expletive), it's been a relentless few years. Or several. I'm still in recovery. There is no silver bullet or short-cut when it comes to the inner healing process.

Still, it's undeniable that my life is about to change significantly and for upbeat reasons. All the nudges from loved ones to consider seriously a career in academia are being vindicated. Since doing my masters, I’ve been more open to the idea of a PhD. At the same time, paradoxically, I’d never thought of myself as a 'natural' academic. I'm intellectually inquisitive, sure but it's not necessarily the same thing. And yet here I am.

A German professor who moves to Belgium almost two years after I left TTUO is the vehicle of change in my life. Two plus years of soul-searching and turbulence. An unexpected blessing in a roundabout way. It happened when it happened. Not a minute sooner and not a minute too late.

If God indeed has a sense of humour, it’s a dry one. At least in my case.

Wind of Change Part I

5 min. read

Whilst I have indeed been quiet on these pages of late, life has been anything but.  In the weeks going on months that have elapsed, I’ve squeezed in a refreshing if hectic trip to the UK, visiting cities and people I hadn’t seen IRL since before the pandemic. As has become my post-lockdown tradition, I purposely schedule the break to coincide with Mothering Sunday in the UK. The day itself is lovely. I accompany mum to her church where I receive a guest-of-honour welcome, not to mention an unexpected gift. In the evening, on mum’s suggestion, we dine at a popular new-ish Turkish restaurant in the neighbourhood that comes with her hearty stamp of approval. Given that I’m usually more of a fan of Levantine cuisine than my mother, that says a lot. The establishment is heaving with activity. A lone vocalist plays inventive acoustic guitar covers, in between choice late 90s/early 2000s R&B being blasted through the speakers.

 A few weeks later, mum will spend a week and a half with me for the Easter period. It’s a relatively smooth trip but for a fairly heated set-to that is settled within an evening. Highlights include a moving Good Friday service at Holy Trinity Brussels that has us both in tears, and a visit to Ghent; mum’s first, my second. We continue our custom of signing up for a walking tour of the city, which gives me a renewed appreciation for it. I wasn’t all that impressed when I passed by for the first time in 2016. I realise that back then, I hadn’t really seen Ghent proper. If the guide seems a tad disconnected at the start, he becomes more committed as the tour progresses.

A major snag is the town's counter-intuitive layout. Getting from the main station to the city centre is fairly straightforward, the return journey not so much. We are amongst a number of day visitors, roaming around for an inordinate amount of time looking for the bus to take us back. Asking locals is mostly futile. Their English levels are not up to the task (surprisingly for Dutch-speakers) or they are none the wiser. I’m especially frazzled after a frustrating conversation with a hotel clerk who, rather than just admit she can’t assist, wastes my time with instructions of which she herself is not sure. We eventually make it back with the help of some kindly and better informed locals, one of whom explains that the recent modifications to the layout even confuse residents.

Ghent City Centre (courtesy of Visit Gent)

In other news, my activism is infusing my time in Belgium with meaning that I would have otherwise struggled to find. The Intal coordinating teams have entrusted me with increasing responsibility. In March, there are demos for Palestine and against structural racism more widely. I’m also part of the working groups for a forthcoming European election related-event, as well as Intal’s programme for the annual Manifiesta festival in September.

Elsewhere, I have a difficult but necessary conversation with one of my pastors about the church's silence over Israel’s barbaric assault on Gaza. I am given an impetus on meeting Lys, a young woman whom I spot wearing a Keffiyeh at a Sunday service. I’m so heartened and relieved to meet someone at Fresh Wine Ministries openly showing their support for the Palestinian cause, I give her a warm hug.

We both lament the general lack of engagement at FWM. Whenever I do hear the crisis mentioned, say at prayer meetings (which I have been frequenting less for this reason), it’s usually someone with Zionist leanings, whitewashing Israel’s oppression and ignoring the Palestinian plight altogether. (Of course, I don't allow that to pass without a corrective).

Lys intends to speak to Pastor Mike about the church’s lack of response. So do I. Let’s talk to him together. I suggest with enthusiasm...

...Except she means straight after that Sunday service. With all the post-service buzz, it's not the ideal time to have such a heavy discussion, to my mind. I only find out from Lys later by text that she’s already had a word with Pastor Mike. She seems too easily pleased with what sounds like cop-out reasoning. Perhaps Lys doesn’t feel comfortable probing the pastor further. An age difference and linguistic limitations could be a factor.

I feel I have no choice but to meet with Pastor Mike myself. I would like us to speak online but he prefers we convene at church.

In the lead up to the meeting, I am incredibly nervous. I shouldn’t be. Pastor Mike is effusive and easy-going. And yet, it is a highly sensitive subject. On the day itself, in a wonderful show of solidarity, my good friend Karin calls me to bounce off ideas. She credits me for helping her evolve her own understanding around the Palestine issue. I am profoundly grateful for her support.

I also consider it providence that Elodie, a member of my house-group, happens to be hanging around church that afternoon. She’s sympathetic to the Palestinian cause herself, although not the most vocal about it.

Pastor Mike is relaxed and receptive, at least at first. Whilst he remains convivial throughout, there are tell-tale signs that he’s not all that comfortable with the conversation. He insists he needs to collect his children from school, for instance. I assume the meeting is over, only for Pastor Mike not to be in a hurry to leave after all.

At one point, he tells me to ‘climb down off my soapbox’. It’s said in a jovial tone but I don’t think it’s wholly meant in jest.

I like to believe nevertheless, that it's an instructive conversation for both of us.

Pastor Mike’s views in private on any number of issues are comparatively more radical than he lets on in public. Our discussion is too extensive to go into detail here but it does cover a lot of themes beyond the Middle East to encompass the DRC, double-standards over Ukraine and anti-migrant sentiments. We converge on a number of topics, even if our approaches are significantly different. Some of our conversation takes place in Elodie’s presence. I’m mildly irritated by what seems to be an inconsistency in what she says when Pastor Mike is in the room and when he’s not.

I encourage Pastor Mike to be more explicit about social justice matters as well as other delicate issues that affect congregants, especially those on the margins. He says that it shouldn’t all come down to him. I agree. However, he does have a platform and it contributes to church culture.

I don't attend service at FWM the following Sunday but I'm told that Pastor Mike's sermon reflects some of what we've discussed. Several weeks later, a day after Iran responds militarily to Israel bombing one of their consulates, Pastor Mike begins his sermon with intercessory prayers for the nations including Palestine, Congo and Sudan; a direct application of a suggestion made during our meeting.

Soundtrack: Ye Ankasa|We Ourselves by Jembaa Groove, Grupo Ébano by Grupo Ébano

Une Touche-à-tout Incorrigible...and Proud of It

 6 min. read

One sure sign of the advent of Spring is that my diary fills up with no great effort on my part. Not that I’m ever at a loss of what to do. Je suis touche-à-tout incorrigible et j’en suis fière. Staying busy for me is not a form of avoidance. I am able to sit with uncomfortable feelings if need be. It does help me to avoid being consumed by them, however.

Towards the end of February, I have a couple of interviews within the same week. If I look at the cup as half-full, at least it shows I’m still an attractive prospect to recruiters. Alas, the most recent callbacks have been for unfulfilling roles that are not well paid, and/or I have it on good authority that the working environment is unpleasant. 

I still give it my best as I’m wont to do. The first interview for a Christian NGO, goes well; enjoyable even. Some of the questions take a philosophical slant. I manage to hide my wariness, based on what I’ve heard on the grapevine about high turnovers and a volatile GS. The other interview later that week is online and, well, a bit strange. It must go down as one of the shortest I’ve ever attended; 10 minutes of questions, if I’m being generous. The rest is spent discussing the practical aspects of the role. 

At some point the panel inform me that the role will begin on part-time (50%) hours and salary; roughly the same, if not less than unemployment benefit. This is a detail that has been studiously omitted from the vacancy on the organisation’s own website. I already had reservations about the job. The post itself is good but I’d struggle to be motivated by the organisation’s main campaign area. There’s a damned-if-I-do/damned-if-I-don’t aspect to both these employment prospects. In the end, the decision is made for me. Neither of them translate into a job offer. 

I’ve now reached a juncture where the adage (incorrectly) attributed to Einstein is becoming more pertinent. Something needs to change but I don’t know what and how. To complicate matters further, my attempts to obtain justice from the Belgian state against my former General Secretary for moral harassment leads nowhere after months of investigation and – to my mind – damning evidence. I can take small comfort in pursuing it as far as I could go, despite not having the means for legal support, my union’s refusal to support me and everybody from former so-called friends and my own mother wanting me to drop it. I feel overwhelmed, trapped and furious with God. I am not here because of any misdemeanour on my part. Even if there were, I could appeal to Divine Mercy.

So yep, staying busy prevents me going over the edge.

Solidarity demo for migrants
(image courtesy of Sudinfo)

I spend a few weekday evenings in February at coordination meetings for the launch of my Church, FWM’s compassion ministry; a pilot social action/justice project. 

I attend a fascinating debate on the ongoing crisis in Eastern Congo one evening at a VUB campus. I’ve been invited by one of the organisers, Elisabeth -or Lisa - an eloquent human rights lawyer. We meet at another highly informative event by the Belgian Workers’ Party (PTB) on ‘uberisation’ and the gig economy in Belgium.

The discussion about the present Congolese conflict and the interference of international actors becomes heated. One Belgian gentleman’s remarks have such a neo-colonial undertone, the panel – not to mention many of us in the audience – aren’t sure whether he’s earnest or a troll. His exquisite significant-other – resembling a cocoa-coloured Joan Collins – keeps trying to catch my eye. My shallow admiration for her incredible bone structure turns to suspicion as she appears to be supporting her husband’s questionable POV. I refuse to meet her conspiratorial gaze.

I show solidarity at demos in early March for Migrants Rights and to commemorate International Women’s Day. I confess to being frustrated with my current level of activism. The symbolism of street demonstrations is all well and good but I’m on the lookout for opportunities to make a long term tangible difference.

My spiritual mentor Vinoth pays a visit to the low countries around the same time. He’s staying with a friend in Antwerp but has some business in Brussels, including catching up with me. 

The day he arrives, it’s sunny with a strong chill. 

I book us a place on a walking tour. Vinoth wants me to show him the city. I’d prefer to leave it to the professionals. The tour guide doesn’t keep things moving along fast enough for Vinoth. He’s eager to pull away from the group to find somewhere warm to sit. After a few attempts to convince him to wait it out, I concede. 

Later that evening, Vinoth has another engagement at the Anglican church Holy Trinity Brussels, where I also occasionally attend services. As he’s not familiar with the city, I accompany him to HTB. It’s an excuse for more quality time. En route, we debate the benefits of observing Lent (he being a sceptic, me fully convinced). 

Vinoth has been invited to discuss his oeuvre, Subverting Global Myths which is the HTB book club’s reading choice for the next quarter. We’re ushered to an upper room by a kindly minister, Pieter and Ronal, the book club facilitator. Vinoth talks me up to them - even though we’ve only all just met – mentioning that I’m in transition professionally. Both Pieter and Ronal are well connected to the NGO sector, it turns out.

Cook & Book literary complex, Woluwe-St-Lambert
(c) by2photographers)

Elsewhere, I am approached by a freelance filmmaker acquaintance, Bonaparte.  He produces online content for a local news and entertainment channel. He wants to do a brief feature on my life as an expat in Belgium. I agree; more as a challenge to myself to do something new and potentially daunting. I’m initially reluctant for Bonaparte to film the main interview at my home but I eventually come round to the idea.

With the bulk of the conversation out of the way, we shift outdoors. Bonaparte takes numerous incidental shots in populated spaces, observed by a bemused public.

The shoot is spread over a couple of weeks. We agree that I’ll take Bonaparte to a couple of my haunts; a literary arts complex in my neighbourhood one week, and B-Mol’s dynamic Afro Jam the next. 

To my consternation, the latter appointment is more frustrating. B-mol is held up for unforeseen reasons and the event starts later than scheduled. 

Meanwhile, Bonaparte is in a hurry to film. He has a date lined up after the shoot. I’m annoyed. He shouldn’t have been so ambitious with his schedule. I worry he's putting undue pressure on the band to have me perform before everybody else. I don't require special treatment. For their part, B-mol and co are most obliging. I’m unhappy about this arrangement nevertheless and let Bonaparte know. 

The stress makes it harder for me to be as relaxed on stage as the previous occasion. I already have enough trouble remembering all the lyrics to my song of choice; Stevie Wonder’s Master Blaster. Quick glances at my crib sheet do little to fill in the gaps. I end up singing with lyrics in hand.

This mild ordeal over, to my surprise, B-Mol requests another. Before I can stop myself I suggest Could You Be Loved? It’s my favourite by Bob Marley but I’m even less sure of the lyrics than Master Blaster. Things turn more awkward still when we segue into Is this Love? and on B-Mol's request, Jammin’; another Marley favourite to which I can only mumble along at best. (I like the odd bit of reggae but I didn't exactly inherit my parents' fandom.) For a couple of the renditions, musically inclined guests provide impromptu harmonies for which I'm most grateful.

Bonaparte leaves for his rendez-vous shortly afterwards.

The rest of the night resumes its pleasantly febrile energy. By some coincidence, there are more Wailers’ covers to come, for which I’m not responsible this time. My mood starts to lift. It really is one of the best night’s out in Brussels; the only dubious aspects being white folk with blond dreads doing dodgy dance moves and me fluffing the lyrics on stage – again! - to Daft Punk & Pharrell’s Get Lucky.

On the way back home I stop off at a Jazz jam at Muntpunt Café. An unassuming young woman does a fine job working her way through some vocalised standards. As usual, the Jazz crowd’s reaction is too tepid for my liking. I come across a talented guitarist whom I routinely bump into at any number of open mic events. I recommend he pops down to the friendlier Afro Jam un de ces quatre.

Rushing to catch the last metro, somebody calls my name. It’s one of the regulars from the Red Cross. I give him a cheery wave before apologising for having to make a quick exit.

Soundtrack: É o que A Casa Oferece by Gabriel da Rosa, Medicine for My Pain and The Other Side by Lynden David Hall