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.

A Summary of Summer 2023: Part I

4 min. read

As I write, North-West Europe has been enjoying freakishly good late summer weather. I’ve long been fond of September. It’s a month of transition and fresh starts, straddling two seasons and often accompanied by clement weather. Still, I can’t recall ever experiencing sustained, heatwave-like temperatures at this time of year. (Cue mixed feelings of cheer and climate change-related angst).

I never like to complain when it’s hot. I’ll take bright sunshine and sticky tropical climes over the typical cold and damp, any time. Heck, we’re owed extra heat and sunlight after the half-hearted, stop-start disappointment of the core summer months. I need all that Vitamin D and brightness to brace myself for the cooler and darker seasons.

Back in early August, returning from my latest excursion to Eastern Europe, I am greeted by mostly steel grey skies and weather cool enough to tempt me to switch on the heating. It does nothing at all to quell a resurging malaise, soon to evolve into another bout of light depression.

On the bright side, I have another visit from mum to look forward to; her last before Christmas. I’m not as buoyed by the idea as I should be. It’s another fortnight stay and I worry about how to fill the time. Mum is an easy-going guest but I don’t want to take anything for granted. The state of my finances also leaves me nervous. Mum has been self-sufficient and even generous with her resources. Yet it bothers me immensely that I’m still not in the position to treat her. It’s what I’d want for any guest, let alone a relative.

In the end, as usual, I upset myself mostly over nothing. Mum’s stay is smooth and more or less drama-free. The sun makes a reappearance. She’s now familiar enough with my local area to go out on autonomous trips to the gym and the park. We do one or two cultural events, including an exhibition on the connections between Belgium’s colonisation of the Congo and the rise of Art Nouveau. Understandably, it leaves mum feeling morose.

The bitter-sweet runs throughout her visit. Difficult discussions about the past and an unruly dog dampen an otherwise pleasant picnic experience at my local park, for example. Mum and I have a number of hard, revelatory conversations. Some bring a sense of resolution, others need to be revisited at a more propitious time.

The dread of being left to my own devices stirs days before her departure. I try not to pay it too much mind so it doesn’t take me out of the present.

It’s scant solace when she does eventually return to London. The absence hits harder than on her previous trip. The month of September, usually associated with some kind of renewal, stretches before me like an inscrutable void. I’m still feeling the aftershock of my most recent major recruitment let-down. I eventually press the pause button on applications, sensing that I’m reaching a point of job hunting burnout. Mum’s visit is the ideal excuse. I will resume towards the end of the trip, her presence providing some kind of moral support. When I do get back on the grind, I ease myself into the process as much as possible.

Even with the job search break, I’m still very busy during what would usually be a summer lull. Brussels itself seems busier than usual for August. Either the rising cost of travel has been a deterrent or folk have taken shorter breaks earlier in the summer.

I stay occupied with my freelance writing and copy editing exploits. I’m also becoming ever-more integrated into anti-imperialist peace initiative, Intal. I attend yet another meeting with the core team mid-August, where we plan activities for the coming months. I also sign up to volunteer with the group at this year’s Manifiesta festival in Ostende. 

It’s a sweltering hot day; a pleasing contrast to the wet and wind of the previous year. My shift at the pop-up Intal book shop coincides with an enriching panel discussion about the troubles in Africa's Sahel region. The panellists give interventions on how African states should resist Western interference whilst facing down the domestic enemy. With contributions from Guy Marius Sagna (Senegal) and Kambale Musavuli (Congo), I’m reassured once again that the flame of African socialism wasn’t completely extinguished with the fall of so many post-Independence struggles in the late 20^th Century. 

Other highlights include interacting with South African activist, Mikaela Nhondo Erskog, a rousing speech by US Amazon collective action pioneer, Christian Smalls and an address by the one and only Jeremy Corbyn. Compelled to cancel his previous Manifiesta invitation on the news of Queen Elizabeth II’s death, he receives a hero’s welcome this summer. The Socialist Left in Belgium still has a lot of love for Mr Corbyn.

 JC is due to make an appearance at the Intal camp but appears to be delayed, probably mobbed by some fellow-travellers after his intervention on the mainstage. As we wait around, I hear one of the other Intal volunteers declare with mock-impatience, ‘F*** Jeremy Corbyn!’ for which I pounce on him, only half-joking. 

Mr Corbyn finally makes an appearance. He resumes his previous thread not to relent on campaign efforts for peaceful resolutions to global conflicts. He looks rather sheepish as we launch into a spontaneous rendition of ‘Ohhhhh, Jeremy Corbyn!’ but receives it graciously. I’m hoping for just a quick selfie with the man himself. My modest expectations are exceeded. I wind up spending a good amount of time with the Corbyn entourage including his unassuming wife, Laura – the mastermind behind his post-Labour leadership Peace & Justice Initiative. I enquire about her past life in banking. Laura explains that, as a means of discrediting her and her husband's politics, the press portrayed her as some bigwig financier when she her position was far more modest.

I meet various members of the Corbyn team and their wider circles. Over the course of the day, I’ll bump into Hannah, the sister of my former manager, Ama. We’ll swap Labour party battle stories with Corbyn and his crew, many of us now having been expelled for spurious reasons. I’ll listen to similar frustrations from an Australian comrade about their own right-of-centre Labour government. 

These kind of serendipitous encounters characterise the day.

Soundtrack: Personal Design of a Decade mixes, 2010-2014, By the Water by Sondae

Ready or Not...Part II

 6 min. read

Part I

A day after catching R&B singer/songwriter Amber Mark live at Botanique, I spend a windy Sunday in Ostend, at the annual Manifiesta political festival. It's the first since the onset of the pandemic and therefore my first occasion to attend. As is almost uniformly the case with this sort of event, there are numerous great things going on at the same time. If only I could clone myself. I go to sessions about successful union organising at Starbucks in the US and Ibis Hotel in France’s capital, both led by Afrodescendant women. I rub shoulders with gifted young socialist economist from the UK, Grace Blakeley and the extended family of celebrated Palestinian activist, Ahed Tamimi. Former UK Labour Party leader, Jeremy Corbyn is also supposed to be a guest of honour. Alas, he pulls out. It's the eve of the late Queen Elizabeth II's funeral. A fellow socialist-republican, JC decides it's better to lay low lest his presence at Manifiesta be wilfully misconstrued by the cynical British press. 

I come across various comrades and those I wouldn’t consider amongst them, such as my old nemesis, Rob.

Before hopping on the coach for the traffic-heavy ride back to Brussels, I enjoy an ecstatic set by the dynamic Ivorian musical outfit, Magic System.

A few days later there’s further intellectual and cultural invigoration at the Afro-European conference held in VUB university, Etterbeek. It is another first for me. As suspected, I bump into representatives from the anti-racist organisation that interviewed me a few weeks prior. It’s initially a little awkward but there’s no beef. 

It’s an intense three days. The theme this year is intersectionality, with the aim of understanding its complexities beyond just being a buzzword. 

Like Manifiesta, I’m torn between myriad presentations and discussions that overlap. I attend multilingual sessions covering topics such as Black Feminisms, the role of race in healthcare in Europe, racialisation in policymaking and knowledge construction by Afro-Brazilian women filmmakers. 

Other highlights include all three keynote speeches. On Day One the honour goes to the first Afrodescendant female professor in the UK, Olivette Otele. The following day it's the turn of fellow academic, the provocative Kehinde Andrews and to close, the fearlessly candid activist, Mireille-Tsheusi Robert. 

There's also a chance to visit the infamous Africa Museum in Tervuren. The museum has rightly come under fire in the past for completely effacing Belgium’s sanguineous track record in its former colonies, notably Congo. Whilst I’ve been to the Museum’s sprawling grounds many times, I wouldn’t have ventured inside unless it were for a more historically honest guided visit. This is my opportunity. 

We divide into two groups. Most are keen to follow the Belgo-Congolese guide, Frédéric (who, I’m later told, gives an unfiltered tour of the premises). The rest of us, perhaps out of sympathy, join the Flemish guide, Marieke, who is beginning to feel left out. She does her best to be culturally sensitive and acknowledges the remaining controversies but naturally, she wouldn't bring the same perspective as Frédéric. 

On the way back from the Museum by tram, our group analyses the visit; both its strengths and oversights. One African-American participant raises the salient point that without the guide or foreknowledge of Belgium’s colonial past, the museum's coverage of this historical violence remains muted.

After the Conference closing ceremony, a posse of us heads to Flagey for drinks and food. I’m exhausted but sad it’s all over. I’ve made several more new acquaintances, spread throughout Continental Europe and the UK.

The day after, I make my way to a new Jam at the Jazz Station bar in St. Josse. I’ve passed the venue many times, my curiosity yet to be satiated. I am accompanied by a couple of very recent acquaintances, Clothilde and Agnès. We meet for the first time a few weeks earlier, sitting in on a rehearsal for a Gospel choir that we're all interested in joining. Clothilde and Agnès are such fast friends, I assume they’re already well-acquainted. Once I let down my guard, we’re all chatting away easily about harmonies and previous singing experience.

The ladies follow through on their promise to stay in touch and reconnect for musical excursions, hence my proposal to head to Jazz Station.

I’ve also invited for the ride another kindred spirit in music, Jens. It’s a been a while since we hung out. I am a bit paranoid he’s avoiding me. On the contrary. He’s just been busy. Jens accepts my last minute invitation with alacrity.

The Jazz Station event comes recommended by a flirty French musician I meet at an open mic night in Laiterie café, where I’ve performed a few weeks prior. 

Alas, the set-up at the Jazz Station is more stereotypically uptight than the easygoing Laiterie gang. We still have a great time, albeit Agnès finds the house band too esoteric. I see her point.

The event does seem more welcoming of singers compared to others I’ve attended. I give it a go. The feedback is positive. I’m relieved to have gone through it, even if I’m not wholly satisfied with my performance.

Jazz Station (c) Visit Brussels

The best part of the evening is seeing my guests all get along, as well as meeting other musically-inclined folk. Like the producer, Bémol and his wife, Alessa. The couple have only just moved to Brussels after several years spent in Southern Europe and North Africa. Agnès mentions that Bémol is looking for vocalists to provide BGVs on a forthcoming project. Whilst open to the idea, privately I maintain a healthy scepticism about its likelihood. On verra.

By the end of the night, numbers have been exchanged, as well as information on similar events.

Before Jens drops us off home in his pristine, upmarket car, multi-instrumentalist Clothilde avails herself of the chance to perform the improvised piano piece that she was denied before. (Only Jazz standards can be performed during the jam). She’s more accomplished than I assumed. 

Clothilde radiates a childlike exuberance; one of those rare beings yet untainted by the world. It moves me to tears. Never change, I tell her.