A Breathless Semester

 6 min. read

Image: Nathan Dumlao

The unplanned mini-hiatus since my previous posts is a reflection of how hectic the final quarter of 2024 has been; not least, December. The first two weeks of the month are consumed with preparation for and/or participation in two big conferences. The first of which is the major annual event of LILAC (Liminality in Literature Academic Centre); the University sub-department to which my team belongs. For this particular event, my colleague Elif has been recruited - or coerced - into joining the organisational team. She is balancing these responsibilities with her own research, as well as preparation for various other conference papers.

When applying for the PhD, my professor friend, Danny Dorling, advised that there would be a lot more event organisation and project coordination than one would gauge from the vacancy ad. 

Brigitta, our supervisor, is a gentle and emotionally-intelligent soul but also a woman of very high standards; be it strict adherence to grammatical rules or conference planning.

One week after the LILAC event, the EMW (English in a Multilingual World) gathering takes place. This time it’s my colleague Geraldine and I, alongside several other LILAC colleagues of varying seniority, who are roped into organising. The conference booklet becomes the bane of our existence. Subject to much proofreading, revisions and weeks and weeks of email exchanges, the booklet will still be riddled with mistakes after going to print. Most notably, the University’s in-house comms team manages to miss out a whole abstract page.  Their work generally leaves a lot to be desired. Despite the many exchanges and astute observations of colleagues, the oversight somehow escapes our collective attention. We resort to printing out inserts.

If that weren’t enough, there's a last minute cancellation by one of the EMW keynote speakers, who’s caught a strong bout of COVID. By then all the promotional materials, including the booklet, have long gone to print. Miraculously, Brigitta manages to find a hail-Mary replacement; one Dr. Johann Larsberg. Cue another page insert.

During these intense weeks, Brigitta prefers the team to be on campus as much as possible. Furthermore, a number of administrative meetings are squeezed into this period; likely in an effort to grab folk before the Christmas holidays and campus closures. I’m also obligated to attend sessions during the once-a-year Ethics Week, in order to complete the compulsory online training for PhD researchers. It’s a mind-numbing, box-ticking exercise as well as a missed opportunity. This year’s theme is on the use of AI in academia and military research. The sessions are mostly didactic and non-interactive. In addition, the University’s Free Palestine campaign group, of which I’m a member, criticises the event for ignoring Israel’s use of technology to terrorise Palestinians, as well as the institution’s continued complicity through collaboration with Israeli academia. 

Apart from Ethics Week and/or conference planning, there are numerous other events - not all during office hours - abstracts to draft for more conferences, team workshops for which to prepare and our own reading and research with which to contend. I feel all the project management and admin is distracting me from the ‘real’ work of study. This is something with which I need to make my peace quickly. As the official team project coordinator, these duties fall on my shoulders even more than that of my colleagues. I share my concerns with my life coach, Pieter. He's gone through the PhD process himself, whilst working and raising a young family. Piet advises me to observe the rhythms of one full academic year to better understand effective time management for the future.

Image: Claudia Wolff

Once the conferences arrive, they are stimulating and even fun; in a frenetic way. The good grub is an added bonus. The second keynote speaker at the EMW conference is Prof. Dr. Kristophe Meyer; a specialist in the evolution of varieties of English in the former peripheries of Empire. I learn a lot during his session about the growing influence of Nigerian pidgin - already amongst the top 12 most spoken languages globally, according to the statistics cited by Prof. Meyer. He also has quite the handle on UK - particularly London - argot, influenced by various waves of Afrodescendant migration. I'm tickled by this elderly Swiss-German professor's use of slang during his keynote address, as well as our own one-to-one conversations. Prof. Meyer makes many references not only to Naija but the South-East London multicultural landscape in which I grew up. His interventions thus take on a rather nostalgic air for me.

As well as keeping an eye on catering, alongside our most affable colleague Jessica, Geraldine and I try to catch as many of our immediate team members’ presentations as possible. Frustratingly, there’s a scheduling clash between Elif’s paper and that of new colleague, Maddox. In Autumn she took over from our former teammate, Janneke for whom the PhD wasn’t a good fit. She subsequently returned to teaching. Maddox came personally recommended by Janneke. It’s so far been an auspicious transition. Also hailing from Flanders, you’d never know from Maddox' naturalistic English and clipped diction.

Alas, during the EMW conference I’m caught between her accomplished presentation on travel writing, checking on the caterers and following Elif’s intervention. Something has to give and thus, I don’t make it in time to catch the latter part of Elif’s paper, much to my regret.

For the sessions of the LILAC and EMW conferences I do attend, I pose challenging questions. Whilst attending one particular presentation, I find it especially hard to bite my tongue. All three participating academics speak on Afrodescendant literatures and contexts with which none have any direct experience. Two of the speakers are European, one is East Asian. This wouldn’t be an issue if academia didn’t already strongly reflect the racial and class inequalities of the real world. I am the only black face in the room. I debate on whether to say anything at all.

I reflect carefully on how to formulate my question in such a way that makes my point, whilst causing the least amount of offence. Many of those who’ve packed out the session also specialise in Afrodescendant literatures.

I affirm that I’m not advocating academic segregation. Neither would I claim to represent the entirety of the 'Black British Experience' - whatever that is. However, what might be merely source texts to my paler-skinned fellow academics aren't just abstract stories to me. They often reflect something of my lived experience. It bothers me that certain (neo)colonial practices are being inadvertently replicated. A group that is minoritised in the Western context are effectively being objectified by 'outsiders' for research purposes. It risks being extractive, as phrased by one of a number of black academics with whom I’ve discussed this sensitive issue. How to avoid it?

One visiting professor comments about the power of literature to break down barriers and change perspectives, citing Richard Wright’s memoir Black Boy; one of my own personal favourites. She's not wrong. I don’t have to be an Englishwoman of the early 19th century to enjoy the work of the Brontë sisters, for instance.

Image: Shubham Sharam

Nevertheless, this appreciation does not redress existing macro/structural inequities being reproduced in academia. She further tries to find common ground by making a well-intentioned but tone deaf comparison to the prejudice her parents faced as Spanish migrants to Belgium. Once again, I diplomatically attempt to point out the limitations of such an analogy.

To my surprise, there are sympathetic nods and remarks during and after my intervention, by the likes of Prof. Meyer no less, for which I’m grateful. Still, I sense a shift in the atmosphere. One faculty member, about whom I’ve had reservations from the outset, approaches me with a feigned friendliness that drips with passive-aggression. When they ask for suggestions on how to address the quandary, I can almost hear a ‘wise guy’ left off the end of the sentence.

I remind them of my own endeavours to acknowledge the complexity of the issue, as well as remarks made by Dr. Larsberg during his own keynote speech. Referencing the work of a Polynesian poet, the main theme of his intervention is the decolonisation of literary analysis. Whilst Johann was not in the room when I raised my question, you’d think from his presentation that we’d previously consulted on the subject. He also uses terms like ‘objectification’ and ‘extraction’ to warn against colonial capture, all whilst recognising that there are no quick fixes.

Vindication.

As pointed out by my sweet and sympathetic Dutch colleague, Karolijn - also researching Black British literatures - awareness is the game. Or, as I like to call it, methodological humility. It’s incumbent on white or non-black academics in these spaces to acknowledge imbalances and colonial overhang.

A few days later, we will review this conversation as a team at our all-day Christmas outing in Flanders.  Maddox once again commends me for raising the issue. If not you, then who? Brigitta agrees that it's no bad thing for academics to be upfront about the motivation for their field of study. Particularly when it pertains to minoritised groups of which they are not part.

Next Stop: All Change

 3-4 min. read

I am fresh from my annual autumn visit to the UK. It’s a tradition that pre-dates COVID-19. When I first moved to mainland Europe, I was delighted to discover there were not one, but two, public holidays in early November; All Saints and The Armistice commemoration day. It was an ideal time to get away without using up too much annual leave. Once post-lockdown travel resumed, so did this autumnal habit.

The custom has remained intact, although it has been almost two years since I had to worry about booking annual leave. The stress of professional limbo also warrants a change of scene, mind you. This year, I have as good a reason as any for taking a break. Not long before I catch the Eurostar to London, life shifts course in a way that has me doing a lot of rushing around.

Sometime back in early September, I meet with one of my Brussels’ Day Ones, Sylvia. We catch each other up on our summer news and travels. She asks about how the job search is going. I inform her of my most recent disappointment. Plus, at that moment, I’m in the midst of a rather long and convoluted recruitment process for another potential role. There’s still almost three months to go before it concludes. Even if I were to be successful, I can’t wait that long to start earning money. State assistance now only covers the absolute basics. 

I explain to Sylvia that I’ve looked into teaching, to no avail. I don’t have the requisite qualifications. No great loss. I wasn’t too keen on that option anyway. Another friend, Karin has suggested I think of au pair work in the interim. According to the numerous parent-with-young-children Facebook groups of which Karin’s a member, native Anglophones are in short supply. No wonder. Most first-language English speakers in Brussels already have good jobs. They don’t need to subject themselves to skivvy’s work. Bar the sex industry, I would consider most other things before doing something as potentially exploitative as being an au pair. My mum agrees. As does Sylvia.

Why don’t you try freelance editing and proofreading in the meantime?, she proposes.

It’s like the first time I’m hearing it. Why didn’t I think of that before? In fact, it’s not the first time someone has suggested it, according to mum and Karin. It’s just I’d previously been averse to the idea. In hindsight, a number of folk have encouraged me to consider the independent/consultant route. It either seemed inappropriate or unrealistic. I’ve heard enough nightmare stories about how hard Belgian bureaucracy is on sole traders. If I did entertain the notion, it was something to act on after accruing some savings during my next salaried role, whenever that might be. 

Life, Destiny, God had other ideas.

I’m immediately galvanised by Sylvia’s suggestion. She passes on information about a Belgian cooperative that helps take the sting out of the admin, for a nominal annual membership fee. As if by way of confirmation, during the coming weeks I’ll meet a number of individuals who have used the scheme themselves or know somebody who has. 

I set about gathering as much information about becoming self-employed as possible. I attend information sessions at the cooperative and meetings with my union to understand any other legal obligations I have. I inform my life coach and job mentor. Both are thrilled by my change of direction, offering invaluable support and practical tips. It’s especially good news for my back-to-work mentor. Prior to this development, it hadn’t seemed like quite the right fit; different ages and life stages. It turns out that hers is exactly the kind of skill set I require now that I’m looking to launch solo.

There'll be things I'll miss about having a regular job; the stability and fringe benefits for a start. On the other hand, you can't beat the flexibility of working freelance. The main challenge is establishing a client base. I reach out to acquaintances in a similar field, setting up more virtual calls to glean some insight. With sis' help I design some eye-catching posters to be displayed in strategic locations. I do a few dry runs for friends and family. For a mate’s rate, I agree to look over Karin’s 400 page PhD thesis ahead of its publication. My sister, now an established businesswoman herself, sends some official documentation to proofread and copy edit. 

Meanwhile, I’m still producing my own content and continuing in my role as editor-in-chief for Afropean.com. Not to mention all my other preoccupations. 

I’m quite run off my feet once my London visit rolls around. 

I once again keep it low key, spacing out meet-ups. I attend a talk, organised by my Morphē Arts family, on the intersection of Art, Theology and AI technologies. It's an intellectually and spiritually invigorating evening. 

It’s also a trip of reunions. I catch-up with an old school friend I haven’t seen for a quarter century. I reconnect with Uncle Lenny; our first off-line encounter since COVID-19. I’m especially nervous before that meeting. With his staunch anti-vaxxer stance earlier in the pandemic and our divergence over how to approach the problems at my former workplace, I haven’t always seen eye-to-eye with Lenny. He still has his way but the catch-up remains cordial, mainly because I do my best to avoid controversial subjects. 

Soundtrack: Volcano by Jungle

A Springtime Parenthesis in London: Part II

(courtesy of FeedsPortal.com)

Part 1

6 min. read

The UK’s Mothering Sunday falls half-way through my trip. It’s a happy coincidence.

Alas, the sun vanishes that morning. Just the day before, young women optimistically expose bare arms and legs at the sight of clear skies, defying the intermittent chill. As my older and more circumspect friends observe ‘It’s still only March’. 

The steel-coloured sky and unambiguous cold of Mother’s Day morning are a rude awakening.

I make my way to church, although not my ‘home’ branch this time. I don’t have the appetite neither to explain to my London church family all that’s been happening these past months, nor feign that everything is light and carefree. I decide to worship at another one of the sites. There are still familiar faces like Pastor Sammy, with whom I used to serve in youth ministry and Will, a former policeman. I'm privately pleased he's quit the force. When asked why, he explains that one of his goals in life was to grow old and jolly. He hadn't encountered many of those when he was part of the force. 

I receive a brief but warm welcome from Sammy before he preaches from John 4, one of my favourite passages in the Gospels. I look out for his wife, Lydia but see no sign of her or their baby girl, Hope. Lydia and Sammy’s wedding way back in 2017 was the last I recall attending, before I relocated to Europe. Those kind of mass celebratory events seem like another lifetime, following COVID and its Great Interruption.

Between Mother’s Day festivities and baby dedications, the service is busy. Guests are dressed up to the nines, particularly the West African contingent. After Will fills me in on his life news, I don’t hang around. My exit is perhaps a little too hasty. There are one or two others with whom I’d have liked to shoot the breeze. I just don’t want to be late for my next appointment with Amelia, around the corner from my AirBnB in Forest Hill.

Amelia has made a special effort to see me today. Between the pandemic and personal schedules, we haven’t been able to connect offline for a few years. She takes me to a local café, where one of the waiting staff is obviously smitten by her. He avails himself of every opportunity to converse. Amelia is polite but circumspect.

She informs me of her hectic programme at a primary school, juggling regular teaching duties with a senior administrative role. She’s also finding time to revive an old love for gymnastics, classical dance and singing. Amelia is a woman with many strings to her bow of which I was previously unaware. As she talks, my head swims with ideas about future collaborative projects. 

Once again, I try to summarise almost two years of life season in Belgium so far. She’s horrified, if hardly surprised, when I narrate my former work saga. She hears echoes of my story in some of her professional experience.

Greenwich Park (greenwich.gov.uk)

As we leave the establishment, Amelia is kind enough to foot the bill. For her troubles, she’s accosted again by her admirer and only just manages to escape. By the time we step out, the sun is shining again. 

All the better. I’m spending the rest of the day with mum (of course). We've scheduled a walk through Blackheath and Greenwich, as was once our custom. We have just about enough time before sunset. I drop off mum’s card, gift and flowers before we head back out.

En route, outside Blackheath station, a crowd are gathered around what threatens to be a serious physical altercation involving three men and a woman. It appears a couple of the men have tried to intervene in a domestic. As mum and I distance ourselves from the drama, the woman’s bloodcurdling screams follow us. When we loop back around, an ambulance has pulled up on the scene. Yet another example of the tensions I’ve been observing since I arrived.

In stark contrast, mum has a pleasant surprise for me. To be continued...

We beat sundown to make it across the Heath and Greenwich Park before the gates close. We take the bus back to Sydenham where mum has cooked some of my favourites, despite my protestations that she shouldn’t have on Mother’s Day. I marvel at my mum’s youthfulness. I’ve had a whole lifetime to get accustomed but I still can’t. Thank God for her genes. 

 It ends up being another late night, which naturally has a knock-on effect on my sleep. There has been a notable improvement, compared to the borderline insomnia I experienced a short while ago. I sleep even better away from Brussels, yet it’s still not uninterrupted.

I’m groggy and slow the morning of the penultimate day of my trip. My mind often strays to images of me rattling around my Brussels flat alone when I return. I try and will myself back to the present.

(churchsupplier.com)

I’m running behind schedule to reconnect with the Chaplain from Imperial College. We met when I worked for the University a number of years ago. He's the only former colleague with whom I'm still in contact. 

The combination of living in smaller cities, extended time away from London over the pandemic and wishful thinking have me constantly underestimating the time it takes to commute. I reach the good Reverend in time for a short and sweet catch-up before he begins a hybrid version of the weekly meditation session he runs. It’s been several years since I’ve participated offline. Over Lent he’s experimenting with different Christian meditation traditions. 

The Rev. is a calming presence. Even if our reunion is shorter than I would have liked, it does me good.

I bid a fond goodbye and take a circuitous route from South Kensington to King’s Cross. The Piccadilly line is suspended at South Ken. It’s not a good day for public transport. There’s also a partial bus strike.

I’m due to meet with Nneoma from my Morphē Arts Collective family at King's Place. The hope is that others will join us later but alas, timetables and transport disruption do not allow.

It’s a blessing in disguise. 

Nneoma and I have apparently moved in similar circles, long before our interactions with Morphē. However, prior to my visit we were yet to meet IRL. We have instead compensated with video calls that last several hours. It’s therefore fortuitous that we have this extended one-to-one time. Nneoma’s babyface belies long and rich life experience, albeit often painful. A multifaceted artist, she has rubbed shoulders with some of the biggest names of our generation. Nneoma’s is an honest, sometimes even cantankerous faith; rugged to the core. If she’s had to develop a tough skin to survive, by the grace of God, she maintains some tenderness of heart. I blush and gush at her generosity when she presents me with a gift package.

Our conversation covers the profound and the trivial; from pathos to bathos. It’s through her that I learn of Will Smith’s shameless display of toxic masculinity at the Academy Awards, for example. The discussion can just as quickly switch to a reflection on the hypocritical reactions to the Ukraine crisis or the frailties of the contemporary church. We meet mid-afternoon and part ways at sunset.

It’s one last stop off to see mum, before I depart the following afternoon. She has an Easter Egg and various other nick-nacks waiting for me; items that I’ve ordered and am yet to collect. Whilst tucking  into her fried yam, tomato stew and black-eyed beans, I fill mum in on the Oscar fiasco. 

She’s scandalised. 

Goodness! Whatever happened to decorum? There could be children watching.

It’s another very late night as I do some last minute packing, with YouTube Shorts keeping me company.

Before checking out, I have the opportunity to converse with my host Erika once more. We’ve hardly seen each other during my stay. For that reason she considers me the ideal guest; independent and unobtrusive. I discover that much of the artwork and photography on the premises are all her originals. 

I say farewell and head straight to St. Pancras station, several hours before my train. I have one more tête-à-tête with former colleague and now long time friend, Diana. I deflect when she asks me what’s going on in my world. She’s up-to-speed give or take the odd details. It does me more good to hear about her latest adventures; travel, concerts and recovering from injury.

Way back when I booked this trip, I wouldn’t have anticipated what a timely respite it would be. It’s been low-key and intimate. I only planned to meet with a select few over a long weekend. It paid off not to be too prescriptive. I've had lovely, understated break.

Soundtrack: Close to Your Heart by Ed Mount.

A Springtime Parenthesis in London Part I

 

(courtesy of London Perfect)

6 min read.

Back in deep winter, I make the most of Eurostar’s seasonal sales to book a short early Spring trip to the UK.  A lot has happened since I first made my reservation, making the break all the more timely.

The combination of minimal travel restrictions (zero on the UK side) and commuting by train spares me the drama of recent cross-Channel visits.

When I arrive at St. Pancras, the outpouring of support for Ukrainian arrivals is as zealous as ever. I continue to be very divided about the issue; not whether help should be given but rather how selective this goodwill has been on the part of European nations. During my visit, I'll discover that these sentiments will be shared by other Afrodescendant relatives and friends.

As usual, I’ve secured accommodation in South East London, this time even closer to my mum. I’ll be staying with Erika; an Austrian working in the arts whose made London her adopted home. The experience is a world away from my first post-Lockdown trip to the UK last November. 

Firstly, Erika’s home is pristine. The reviews haven’t done it justice. I am yet to meet an Austrian, German or Swiss who doesn’t live in spotless conditions. Erika is easy-going. No strenuous house-rules, apart from keeping an eye on the whereabouts of her errant cat.

It’s exactly the kind of environment I need for a restful, hassle-free trip. Plus, after one month of my boiler being out-of-action, I can finally enjoy a hot shower over these few days.

I assume Erika comes from money. There’s no other way that a young, jobbing artist from overseas could afford a sizeable house in London that she didn’t inherit. Prior to living in Lewisham, she had a flat in London Bridge. ‘Nuff said. In any case, Erika is welcoming and down-to-earth.

The UK is enjoying the same clement weather that has blessed Belgium and its neighbours lately. Whilst I welcome the sunshine in usually grey Brussels, it’s been tinged with melancholy. Perhaps it’s too much rattling around alone in my flat, despite my efforts to get out and be active. The main advantage of having a live-in AirBnB host is knowing one is never completely isolated.

More generally, I didn’t expect to enjoy sunny London as much I am. It feels different. I grew up here, after all. Sun is sun. And yet this temporary scene switch – being physically away from the little dramas that have characterised my Belgian experience – is very refreshing. A change is as good as a rest, they say.

I make my peace with the extremely lax Corona-precautions. Brussels isn’t too far behind these days. I must quickly readjust to longer commutes; spending up to three-quarters of an hour in transit without even leaving the borough. If I hadn’t been raised in a megapolis like London, it would swallow me alive. I don’t know how small town boys and girls manage the transition.

(courtesy of Vox)

Going about my business, it’s not long before I’m reminded of the tensions that accompany life in a mega-city. Within a short window I come across a number of heated verbal altercations, one of which ends up in a truculent customer being escorted out of a shop by security. Inner City Blues.

Aggressive exchanges notwithstanding, my holiday is off to a laidback start. I stock up on the usual bargains that I can’t take for granted in Belgium. (I will end up returning with more luggage than with which I came.) 

I have my eyebrows done expertly courtesy of my old beautician, Nab. It’s been years since we've seen each other, although I’ve stayed abreast of her news thanks to mum. Nab looks well, finally recovering from the blight that COVID has been on her business. For some reason, she's trying to convince me to relocate to the Gulf. She knows from experience that there’s a lot of money to be made, claiming that educated ‘native’ English speakers are sought after. I’m not at all enthused by the idea, especially in light of the region's terrible employment rights’ record for Asian and African migrant workers. I listen politely as Nab’s suggestion goes in one ear and out the other.

She does persuade me to dye my eyebrows. I’m in such a rush, the colour doesn’t have long enough to take. I am already late for my hair appointment in Peckham. 

 I keep my answers courteous but vague when Auntie Femi (as I call her affectionately) asks how life is in Brussels. As I have my kinky twists refreshed, she entertains an exasperated mixed Yoruba/English conversation with her facetious youngest son.

I have enough time after doing my hair to squeeze in a lastminute.com meet up with my auntie. J. She always has an endless supply of weird and wonderful anecdotes at her disposal, the magnet for colourful characters that she is. She regales me with a story about a funeral of a good friend. It has enough plot and tension to make a soap scriptwriter’s mouth water. As one of her latest ventures takes an unanticipated and rather disappointing turn, J is already bouncing back and making it work to her favour. Her uniquely customised self-portraits are garnering attention, enough for her to have some exhibited in a local library. She has various literary projects on the go, as well as travel plans. She is full of more verve and vision than folk half her age.

That same evening, I pass by to see mum. Hot food and more hair care awaits. Mum says she’s relieved to see me in a mellow mood. I’ve been tense during our latest phone conversations. I attribute this breeziness to positive effects of the trip so far.

The following day I’m set to meet my baby cousin, Israel. I say ‘baby’. He’s 22 and with his ‘Fro and Beatnik beard, he looks quite the hipster. He catches me up on his Uni and work news, before we move on to politics. I never cease to be amazed by how well-versed my half-Scottish, UK born and bred cousin is in West African linguistics, geography and history. He’s yet to step foot on African soil but has a knowledge so extensive it would put many in the diaspora to shame. I’m not a complete ignoramus myself but he’s always teaching me something new. I take literal notes for further research.

Later that afternoon, I meet with Olivia whom I've known the longest of all my friends. We met in primary school. This link-up is something of a small miracle. When you’ve been acquainted for so long, the relationship inevitably goes through various phases. This time two years ago, we were barely on speaking terms.

(courtesy of Open Table)

She’s looking well. We have a couple of hours together, yet it’s not enough to bring each other up to speed. A medical doctor, she’s recently switched specialities. I ask after her extended family. I try and synopsise the last two years but it’s still over too quickly. Olivia is based in the Midlands. It’s just by chance we’re both in town at the same time.  I pray this is the first of many bridge-building encounters.

The evening is crowned by a one-to-one in the Victoria area with Faith from my Morphē Arts family.  Half-Ghanaian, half-German, she is one of the few other Afrodescendant women in the group.

Connecting with this Christian Arts collective has been a saving grace over the pandemic period and my relocation to Belgium. I dread to think how I’d have coped – if at all - with all the ups and downs otherwise. 

Faith is talented, attractive, sharp and dynamic. One of many impressive women I know, still inexplicably single. The last time we met in November, I remarked that we’re priced out of the market. Grace’s hazle-green eyes lit up, before throwing her head back in hearty laughter.

On this occasion, she introduces me to a lively establishment with a versatile menu round the corner from Victoria station. We catch up over  healthy(ish), delicious, and reasonably-priced delicacies.

As her name suggests she is a powerhouse of faith and prayer. Her vibrancy and goodwill washes over me like a warm shower. I’m reinvigorated by the evening’s end. Whilst I head home, Faith makes her way to Soho for the DJ set of a mutual acquaintance’s husband. I'd be tempted to join her, if the clock’s weren't going forward and we weren't already foregoing an hour’s sleep.

Soundtrack: 1982 by Cabu.

The Home Strait: Finally Off the Ground

 

It’s fair to say my latest UK excursion has had its share of hitches. By day two I’m having to hunt for new accommodation. I find a new listing on Airbnb by a male host. I’d usually be wary of both factors. However, the pictures look decent, he apparently comes certified and the price is a steal; especially with the discretionary voucher I wrangled out of Airbnb. In my haste, I forget to check if it comes with Wi-Fi; a lesson I learned the hard way from past experience.

The host, Daniel's initial communication is not good. My request has been automatically accepted. He’s so slow to respond, I wonder if he’s even aware that he has a guest coming round. I plan to check-in after a few appointments and dinner with mum. I spend the afternoon and evening fretting if there’ll be anyone at the accommodation when I show up.

Daniel takes his time to answer the door and I can’t see any lights on inside. Very nervous, I knock a second time. He emerges, looking puzzled as he lets me in. I’m running late. He’s just been on the phone with Airbnb to enquire what happens if the guest doesn’t arrive.

He shows me to my room. It’s spacious with a couple of skylights and in good nick. The bathroom is less pristine but at least looks as if it’s cleaned on a fairly regular basis. By contrast, the kitchen is in a state. There’s moulding bread everywhere and stains all over the fridge. The following day I send a polite text requesting Daniel cleans up or I’ll have to notify the company. By the time I come home that evening, the rotting bread is gone and the room is in a more salubrious condition. As for the missing Wi-Fi, I pay BT for a few frustrating days of their temperamental hotspot service.

Outdoors, autumn is well underway in London compared to Brussels. I have to mentally adjust to not always alternating between French and English. Pardon springs to my lips more readily than excuse-me these days. I note with exasperation how lax the public are about mask-wearing, even where required (i.e. on public transport). With the ever imprudent Tory government leaving it to people’s discretion, it’s everyone for themselves and God for us all.

I also notice, to my embarrassment, that I’m having to remind myself of travel routes I used to know instinctively. What a difference two years make.

There are some more positive observations. I see  greater diversity in ad campaigns than I would in Europe or I recall before in the UK.

This trip gives me an opportunity to deal with some of the life admin that seems too laborious on the other side of the Channel; eye tests and dental check-ups, for instance. I stock up on treats that are either not available or exorbitantly priced in Belgium. I am tempted to do the same with fruit, if only it would last. It's all I can do not to weep at the price of berries or mangoes or grapes that are a fraction of the Continental price.  It’s not just the edibles that are a damn sight cheaper. I cautiously boost my supply of household goods, bearing in mind I have to carry it all back. My standard of living might be better overall living in mainland Europe where accommodation and travel costs are concerned. I spend far more on commuting during my eight-day London stay for example, than I would in a whole month in either Brussels or Strasbourg. There’s nevertheless a definite price gulf between the UK and the Continent when it comes to everyday items.

In between the initial mayhem of my visit, I manage to squeeze in a few catch-ups and appointments. I discuss Nigerian politics with my Yoruba hairdresser. Later that evening I meet auntie J, who, as I often assert, is the poster girl for single life. When she’s not travelling (pre-COVID) she has a new, exciting project on the boil. This time it’s short films and a semi-autobiographical book trilogy.

Once I’m settled into my new accommodation my meet-ups can start in earnest, with several on a trot. I'm aware that I can’t see everyone on this trip and have tried to be strategic. There are some encounters I'm also studiously avoiding for my mental well-being. My visits to mum are a constant. I’m at hers for dinner every other- if not every -evening. Even when we bicker over my coming round 'late' and she worries about me returning to the accommodation at an advanced hour. Whatever happens, she’s a mainstay.

With friends, there are the usual postponements, reschedules and cancellations. I go with the flow as much as my control-freak instincts permit. This flexibility also allows me to reach out to those with more fluid timetables.

I expect in-depth discussions with all about my latest highs and lows in Brussels but it’s not that predictable. A part of me is a little disappointed. On the other hand, as much as I like sharing details of my life with loved ones, it’s also a relief to speak about other things. There’s so much ground to cover in any case, the idea of where to start can be daunting. Almost everyone comes to know about my shambolic journey into Blighty and the volatile Kiki. If there’s an opportunity to organically discuss my current workplace drama, I don’t hesitate to go into it chapter and verse. Other moments, I hardly speak about myself at all. A couple of friends recount the latest about their contentious divorces; one of the sad, contemporary indicators of reaching a particular point in adulthood. My friend, Jen, introduces me to baby number two, Eliot; named after George and Thomas Stearns. 

King's Place, King's Cross London
(londontown.com)

Another friend, David takes me to an exhibition featuring work by one of his acquaintances and, as is our habit, we spend the afternoon conversing about art, culture and politics. We both happen to have another friend in common, Isabella. Ours is a tumultuous relationship of well over 15 years. We've been in and out of contact for a decade. She's more like an ex I couldn’t get over. My 2021 UK trip will be the first time we meet in the flesh for 10 years. She’s recovering at her family’s home after prolonged illness. If physically she’s been through the mill, her mind is as sharp as ever. Our talking points are incongruous but flowing, as they are at their best. It’s hard to tear away for my next rendez-vous, with a newer acquaintance, pleased nevertheless to have met up with Izzi.

I wish to prioritise some of my most recent friendships. The pandemic has precluded the offline interactions that would have helped forge bonds in a traditional way. Yet, the virtual format has its benefits. Several of my catch-ups are with folk I’ve befriended online during the past year and a half. People like Faith and Mona, from the Morphē Christian Arts collective, whom I meet in King’s Place for a mid-week offline reunion. I implore Mona, the former bassist of a once successful Brit-Pop band, to share her incredible journey from sex, drugs and rock & roll to Jesus. She’s still rock-and-rolling, just with a different, healthier motivation.

The following day, at the same venue, I meet Jack- a political satirist to whom I've drawn close of late. He’s recovering from a severe bout of depression. He’s also nursing a mild hangover after an otherwise modest night out with a friend. I feel a twinge of the maternal, although there’s only a few years age difference. He’s like a deer caught in the headlights; fragility in his baby blues. He’s congenial but not as chipper as our previous video calls. I feel especially appreciative of him making the time and let him know.

My chat with Jack overlaps with a visit from Taylor, another Morphē alumnus with whom I have bonded over the months. We discuss the nomenclature politics around creative media. Later that evening there’s more thoughtful reflections of a socio-political nature with my good mate, Anton. A dancer by vocation, I’ve watched him evolve over the years into a community leader. He has ample patience and goodwill to listen and understand the perspective of those with whom he might not agree.  I covet these qualities in Anton and have much to learn from his approach. 

As my holiday draws to a close, my interactions ever more enriching and mentally invigorating, I recognise how privileged - if not spoiled – I am to be surrounded by so many great minds. Whether it’s my 26-year-old, trainee teacher friend Samuel; one of the brightest and most informed individuals I know. Or Ré, a multi-lingual graduate, with an expansive musical vision yet still applying himself with admirable diligence to his day job as a cinema manager. Or my mentor, Vinoth Ramachandra, whose latest UK visit providentially correlates with mine. He treats me to Italian in Soho whilst we discuss the political corruption across the globe, discriminatory migration policies, and the ethics of AI. All this stimulating discourse keeps me on my intellectual toes. It can also make me forget -and be less tolerant of the fact - that not everyone has the time and/or inclination to contemplate the Big Questions.

Speaking of which, my UK homecoming coincides with COP 26 in Glasgow. En route to meet with uncle Vinoth, I stop by a mass demo organised around the Bank of England. With so little opportunity to participate in any direct action on British soil lately, I couldn’t pass it up. After lunch with Vinoth on my way to meet Portia, another Morphē lovely, I’ll come across an even bigger gathering in Trafalgar Sq. for a more artistic demonstration.

Portia is a triple-threat actress/singer/dancer whom I also met through Morphē. We became especially close during the second lockdown. She’s of Irish-Italian descent from South Carolina and now rooted in the UK. Although many ways still a Southern girl at heart, she defies many of the bible belt stereotypes. We’ve been trying to negotiate COVID-travel relations for her to come and visit Brussels for months but it’s yet to work out. We content ourselves with hours of thematically multi-dimensional chat.

Friends and family comment on how brief my stay is. Considering how long I’ve been away, a week at first seems like solid quality of time. And yet when the penultimate day of my trip rolls around, it feels like I’m only getting started. It’s never gone so fast.

At the end, what should have been an obvious observation comes into focus. It’s my new Brussels’ community with whom I now share the minutiae of my life. There are anecdotes I looked forward to recounting to my more established UK base but for which there isn’t time. Unless I force the issue. I have to speak in broad strokes or major events, if I talk about my news at all. Again, it can be a refreshing change not to have to. It nonetheless signifies a shifting dynamic, one of which I wasn’t so aware living in Strasbourg. Perhaps because, back then, there wasn’t a pandemic to interrupt my cross-Channel travel.

Soundtrack: Volume One by Jam & Lewis feat. Various Artists + Let It Die by Feist.

Technical Hitch

On the last day of this London trip, I have decided to pay the extra to return to France by train. Flying might technically be cheaper and shorter but it takes up a whole day. Factor in the commute to and from the airport and security checks, I lose time rather than make up for it.

At least this way I can squeeze in another appointment. And it's better for the environment too.

I have arranged to meet former colleague Diana near the Eurostar at St. Pancras, during her lunch break. Whilst waiting I have the, ahem, honour of listening to passer-by murder The Commodores Easy and other tunes.  Her confidence is not commensurate to her vocal ability. In her defence, she's a much better pianist than singer. I imagine she wouldn't sound as bad if it were her own material.

Diana has a packed afternoon schedule thus, it's another speedy visit.  She's kind enough to pick up the bill. I've been mightily spoiled on this trip, rarely paying for my own drinks.

Diana waves me off at the Eurostar terminal.

The first part of the journey is a nice'n'easy one-hour ride to Lille. Onward to Strasbourg.

All is well. For a time. The usual pastoral scenery flies past our window. The weather is fine, if not especially warm. Nothing seems out of the ordinary; not even when the train comes to a halt in the middle of nowhere.

I'm not expecting the driver to make a grave-sounding announcement.

One bemused passenger bursts out laughing. Something about a problem with the carriage.  At one point I overhear talk of a motor issue.  The minutes and hours bleed into each other. My hope of making it back to Strasbourg at a decent time drains away with them. And to think, I was pleasantly surprised that my train was due to arrive earlier than I'd thought. How easily such things are taken for granted.

A member of staff is walking the length of the train, updating travellers in each carriage. Don't shoot the messenger.

Another young woman becomes a self-appointed liaison, traversing the train to find someone official for an update when another is not forthcoming. Her pacing irritates me until I realise what she's up to.

Eventually the news reaches us that it's unlikely we'll have to retreat back to Lille.

We spend more time waiting for an emergency rescue train. Technicians arrive in a small van. If the relevant safety tests are passed, our train will be hooked onto the emergency vehicle and taken back to Lille.

But will we be able to catch another train tonight? I enquire of the messenger.

He's doubtful. There's no guarantee there'll be any more Strasbourg-bound journeys that evening. Other passengers enquire about reimbursement for alternative forms of transport from Lille such as car hire. No chance. It's not SNCF policy.

Thank God for bright late spring evenings. We'd have otherwise been plunged into darkness by now. I check my watch -perversely 25 minutes fast- and mentally adjust to the correct time. Almost 9pm. If all had gone to plan, we would have been pulling into Strasbourg.

One young lady is distraught; tearfully enumerating to the self-appointed liaison all her projets gâchés for that evening. Amongst them, a missed rendez-vous with the boyfriend and family from what I gather.

I know! We're all in the same boat. It's better we stop than have an accident, snaps the unofficial liaison. Irritation aside, she has a point. Better to lose time than a life.

Later, the same distraught young woman makes a weepy phone call to her expectant loved ones. I rub her arm in solidarity. She turns to look, slightly alarmed. I give what I hope is a comforting smile.  It transpires that we'll have to spend a night in Lille. I hope against hope that there will be a last minute reprieve. I'm on my way back from London; one of the world's most expensive cities. I've just paid my electricity bill. I'll be on a tighter budget than usual for the rest of the month. It's too late to start hunting on AirBnb, even if I had a smartphone. A last minute hotel booking might clear out my current account.

SNCF assure us they'll cover the cost. Something of a silver lining. We assume that they're availing themselves of the time spent waiting for the emergency vehicle to contact local hotels.

Thus it's a rude awakening when we arrive at Lille Flandres station to discover that the accommodation situation is yet to be regulated.   Roughly a couple of hundred inconvenienced passengers are handed an emergency lunch box. I try to avoid nibbling. I'm hungry, having eaten nothing since breakfast. I snack on some of the sweets and nuts and save the more substantial parts of the meal for later. I take a peek at the main course. Tinned rice-based Tabbouleh. Yuck. I give mine away and make a detour to a nearby cafe for an alternative. I'm not alone. Judging from discarded boxes, a number of rough sleepers are beneficiaries that evening of these emergency meals.

Meanwhile, it's chaos on the platform. Station staff are taking names and contact details for both hotel reservations and to make plans for alternative onward journeys the next day. I am informed that there is an half-8 train in the morrow. It will be a public holiday. No work. A saving grace of sorts.

Some passengers abandon the whole process and vanish; presumably already based in Lille. One woman has a heated discussion with staff about a flight the next morning she's almost certain to miss. It leaves at 8am. The next train heading in the airport's direction leaves around 5am. It's a 2-3 hour journey. She won't make it in time. The plane ticket has set her back €2000. My heart goes out to her. She wanders the platform for a while, suitcase in tow, before also disappearing into the night.

I overhear some anglophones struggling to communicate their concerns to personnel. I volunteer to translate. It's good language practice. The English-speakers are a couple of amiable Aussies. They're on a month-long excursion; visiting the most famous battlegrounds in France and Belgium. They had reservations for a hotel in Alsace, where they were to do a one-day vineyard tour en route to Avignon. They make their peace with jettisoning those plans. As not to tempt fate, friends have advised they  get to Paris ASAP to avoid missing their southbound connection.

I tentatively suggest the Aussies try the coach, assuming they won't be keen. To the contrary. Fortunately for them, there's a bus heading to the Capital within the hour. I help confirm hotel reservations in Paris over the phone. My fleeting Antipodean acquaintances are off with a thank you and 'cheerio'.

It's around 11pm by the time SNCF staff have sorted out our accommodation. We're separated into batches. A young and possibly inexperienced member of personnel uses his phone's GPS to direct our group to one of several Novotels, only to send us in the wrong direction. It would have helped if he offered to come along.

We grumble about the poor customer service as we're left to navigate our own way. I visited Lille a few years ago as a birthday treat. I have fond memories of the city and its friendly inhabitants. I wish I could have returned under more positive circumstances.

It's midnight by the time I arrive at my surprisingly spacious and pleasant chambers. I shower, eat my now lukewarm merguez sandwich and prepare for bed. With the thought of a morning train to catch, the chances of a good night's rest are slim indeed. I debate whether to go down for breakfast. In the end I decide against a full Continental during the week. It would be too indulgent. Besides, better to make sure I have enough time to get to Lille International.

Apart from the miserable weather, the next morning is off to a better start. On arriving at the train station I scour the concourse for what are by now familiar faces. One of them shows me where to have my defunct e-ticket tamponné for a replacement train.

By the time I arrive in Strasbourg the transport service is in full effect, as much as it could be during a holiday. I rearrange or cancel plans made for that day. I'm frazzled, not looking forward to having to return to a tense work situation that week having only had disrupted sleep.

A couple of weeks later I receive a profusely apologetic email from SNCF offering a full refund. Unusual but only fair in the circumstances. We are given the choice between cash or a travel voucher. The compensation procedure is reassuringly straightforward and prompt. An inconvenience has, for me at least, turned out to be a blessing in disguise.