A Summary of Summer 2023: Part II

 4 min. read

Part 1

The summer is also not without cultural solace. I attend a free play about domestic abuse, performed by a non-professional collective of survivors and/or support workers. I sign up at the Beurs creative space for a free screening of a documentary on the Afro-Brazilian political movement during the 1970s and 80s. The organisers are strict. Those of us who arrive even a few minutes late are locked out. Some give up and return home. I go to a nearby bar to wait for another opening and self-remonstrate in the meantime. My patience eventually pays off. I sneak in for the closing act of the film, which is followed by a flavoursome vegan supper. It’s another great occasion for stimulating conversation with those who have overlapping interests. One such is the elegantly beautiful event coordinator, Rahel, whose family relocated from Ethiopia to Flanders. In the coming weeks, we'll exchange a number of socio-cultural recommendations and groove at one of the many open-air concerts on Brussel's annual car-free Sunday.

 I practise Portuguese with a patient French national who spent many years in Brazil and has an excellent command of the language. Such is their androgyny, that I’m highly nervous about mis-gendering them. Short of asking for their preferred pronoun - which I’m concerned might cause offence in case it’s not as ambiguous to them as it is to me - I endeavour to stay on my grammatical toes. 

The following week I attend the book launch of writer and researcher Hans Kundnani’s EuroWhiteness; about the ethno-cultural construction of modern European identity. It is held at a culture hub  (pictured above) that I’ve only just come across. I don’t know how it escaped my attention all this time. The venue hosts a cornucopia of intellectually-rich activities. 

The format of the launch is a mix of presentations by Kundnani and Asian-British journalist Mehreen Khan - who lived and worked in Belgium for five years - group discussions and Q&A. It becomes a moment of spontaneous networking. I am pleasantly surprised to encounter more Black and Asian Brits at that one event than I have the whole three years I’ve lived in Belgium so far.

In other news, I meet up with old friend Melissa, in Liège. Normally based in Southern Africa with her husband and gorgeous children, it’s been over a decade since we last saw each other in the flesh. Her eldest child, now 12, was less than a year old. Melissa and her husband, Pius, do amazing work as activists for migrants’ rights. It was also Mel who introduced me to Lorenzo. Thank God, our own connection has survived the dissolution of that friendship.

Mel has a brilliant mind, is a gifted multi-linguist and one of the most culturally-aware Caucasians I’ve ever met. She’s also very humble. Mel has been invited as the keynote speaker for a graduation ceremony at her Alma Mater in the Netherlands. She uses it as an opportunity to do a mini-tour of the Benelux region. 

Mel meets me at the main station in Liège which, bizarrely, is the venue for a very loud EDM festival that weekend. We divide our time between her inviting Airbnb and a local park. Naturally, we talk about everything under the sun and still run out of time. It’s been so long and I enjoy her company so much, I wish I could extend it. Alas, Mel only has a few days left in town.

I do not want for musical outlets. I continue to frequent any jam or free concert still running throughout the holiday period. I make a potentially fortuitous choral connection when I stumble across an active Gospel outfit, once finalists on Belgium’s Got Talent. It never showed up on any of the lists I searched when I was on the hunt for such singing opportunities. 

There could be a reason for that.

I reach out to the choir director, Jason, who responds with keenness. We arrange an informal phone call which turns into an impromptu audition. His feedback is positive. Jason warns that the choir members are very young. Not yet ready to abandon the dream, with Jason’s blessing, I invite myself to a rehearsal. Indeed, the main demographic is under 18. Jason explains the only adult members have grown up with the choir. It’s not all a waste. He is involved in a number of occasional projects for adult Gospel collectives. We agree to stay in touch.

Elsewhere, Clothilde, Agnès and I revive our long dormant harmony sessions in the park. I reach out to both in July to see if it could be a possibility, not especially optimistic that it will materialise. There’s a lot to be said about managing expectations. To my delight and slight shock, both respond in the affirmative. It’ll be the first time all three of us reunite in almost a year. I bring along a few song selections with nothing particular in mind. The girls show enthusiasm for one of my Gospel favourites: Strange Land by Commissioned. Our harmonising reunion goes better than anything I could have planned.

Soundtrack: By the Water by Sondae + A Good Life by Marie Dahlstrøm

Across the Channel and Back Again

 

(courtesy of The Bulletin)

8 min. read

Early November sees me back in the UK for another quarterly visit. It couldn’t come a moment too soon. 

(I’m aware that I sound like a broken record by now.)

October has been busy, in a positive way. However, by the end of the month the stark reality of my current "between-jobs" status remains. 

In early October, I had reasons for now what looks like false hope. 

An interview. A potential employer wishing to speak to my references. Said organisation insists I procure phone numbers for all my referees. For some reason, email won’t suffice. Meanwhile, no firm offer of employment is forthcoming.

Much ado about nothing. It’s probably for the best. I heard only bad things about the head of department to whom I would have been subordinate. As much as I want to resume work, I don’t want to be re-traumatised either.

Thus, my one week excursion in Blighty is the pause that I need. I have a comfortable place to stay, at mum’s new flat. After some trial and error on previous trips, I am careful not to overload my itinerary. I limit my meet-ups to one or two a day. There’s the odd cancellation but most go according to plan. I meet with friends I haven’t seen at all so far this year; some not since before COVID-19 hit. Amongst them is Winston, one of my oldest friends (as in length of time, not age). He's recently announced his engagement; some welcome good news. There’s a wonderful origin story to the union – a case of right person, wrong time for years – I don’t have space to go into now.

Winston drives down from the Midlands to meet up with me in central London. His fiancée, Shingai, also happens to be a Londoner. I have the pleasure of spending an afternoon in their invigorating company; talking life, spirituality, music and pop culture references with two fellow older Millennials. Undoubtedly, the highlight of this trip.

Alas, I don’t get to indulge my Guy Fawkes nostalgia as hoped. Many, if not all, of the free Fireworks displays in South London are cancelled- including my local at Blackheath. It seems the pandemic was the perfect pretext to put them on hold. The real reasons appear to be financial, although some boroughs try to green-wash their rationale, citing care for the environment. Please.

As usual, melancholy hits me like a freight train as soon as my UK parenthesis is over, before my feet have had the chance to touch the concourse at Gare du Midi. All the things I allowed myself to push to the periphery whilst I have been away, await my arrival. In addition, I sense my annual bout of S.A.D coming on. Usually bracing myself for it in the first quarter of the year – when winter is at its most stubborn in the Northern Hemisphere – it seems to be making a head start.

Mindful to put all that’s necessary in place during this psycho-emotionally fragile time, it’s best for me to stay active. I grab moments of joy where I can or try to create them otherwise. I attend a Jazz gig the evening I return from the UK. I catch up with friends when schedules permit. It helps to take my mind off myself as well as warding off a creeping sense of isolation. 

I continue to volunteer at the Red Cross PSA Centre, more or less once a week. The demand seems as high as it’s ever been in the one and a half years since I joined the team. I see a lot more women passing through. A shift at the Centre never fails to lift my spirits, even if the systemic degradation of undocumented migrants is nothing to smile about.

On the cultural front, I waste no time in catching the laudable latest instalment of the Black Panther series.

I still regularly log-in to Morphē Arts morning prayer sessions and I’m still plugged into my Belgian Church. The midweek home group is my main lifeline.

In mid-November, a group of Native American missionaries take over for a special Sunday evening service. Frequently frustrated by the hegemony of White Western ways of ‘doing’ church, I’m elated that Fresh Wine Ministries have arranged this guest appearance. I make it a priority to attend. I am fascinated by a cultural expression of Christian worship about which I would otherwise remain ignorant. The group hail from many different tribes across what is now the US and Canada, and are conversant in their indigenous languages. They perform a mix of traditional Native American and Grunge-Rock/Heavy Metal worship songs. It makes a change from the often insipid, diluted-Coldplay fare that characterises much of modern Western P&W. Despite my malaise, I throw myself enthusiastically into the service.

The following evening, I head once again to La Tricoterie for their variegated open mic night. I’m flying solo this time. I notice many of the same faces I saw during my first outing over a month ago. 

A group of older hippy folk – including an excitable gentleman with a long silver ponytail and reeking of Mary Jane – come to sit at my table. His female friend/companion shoots him daggers when he gets a little too animated. Wariness on my part soon thaws. I practise Portuguese with the woman and discover that the two men are flamenco guitarists from Spain.

It’s the usual mixed-bag of performances. There’s a surfeit of Rock acts of varying quality; an arresting spoken word artist; a young black man with Little Richard hair, promoting his Trap-influenced single and a talented songwriter accompanying herself on ukulele. I’m squeezed in after one of the poets and do a brief acappella rendition of one of my go-to Jazz standards, Stella by Starlight. Apart from the spontaneous conversations with fellow punters, the peak of the evening is a male/female duo and their Simon & Garfunkel-esque folk interpretation. The song is not familiar but I’m swiftly humming along with a third harmony. As I sneak out before the (potentially cacophonous) jam begins, I stop to praise their all too-short set. It’s a warm exchange. We are mutually appreciative of each others’ performances.

Later that week, I find myself at another open mic night, this time more local. I want to leave almost as soon as I walk in. The event is new and, whilst in theory it’s supposed to be eclectic, it’s completely dominated by Blues-Rock. By some irritating irony, I've passed up a monthly Brazilian-flavoured jam in central Brussels to support this local effort.

C’est pas ma came, as I tell the host. His warm welcome aside, I feel I’ve wasted my time. 

Not completely. 

As I’m making an early exit, I bump into a few other would-be performers similarly disappointed with what’s on offer. By coincidence, we’re all partial to Jazz and Latin styles. We swap musical tips. 

The Jean-Luc Pappi trio (image courtesy of Jazz04) 

I am buoyed by the conversation with these fellow travellers and return home more upbeat. The evening would have been salvageable, if it weren’t for some creep following me off the Metro. I have to take a detour and hop the train in the opposite direction so he won’t know exactly where I live.

The following night’s musical excursion is a lot more propitious. I join some Internations acquaintances to see a Latin Jazz trio (pictured right) performing at the Art Base Gallery. The ensemble is led by an outstanding pianist who plays from the depths of his soul.

Sunday afternoon, I assemble a posse for (the not so exclusively) all-female DJ set at Soulful Sundays in Café Metteko. The group is comprised of some recent Brazilian acquaintances, Clara and Loïs, as well as my new favourite muso, Jens. 

Whilst half Franco-Belgian Loïs is a polyglot with a facility in both French and English, Clara has only some of the former and very little of the latter.

I didn’t realise. I’m used to speaking to her in my B1 Portuguese.

She and Jens have barely a language in common. It’s not such a problem when Loïs is around. I also interpret where I can. My oral Portuguese is nevertheless somewhat limited. Jens slips in and out of his third language (French). He and I are used to communicating to each other in English. It’s been a little while since we hung out and have lots to catch up on. I try to include Clara but my attention lapses.

Jens is his usual conscientious self, routinely offering to buy drinks. Whilst he orders food, I catch him staring with fascination as the light hits a wine glass at a certain angle. He can be adorable in his own facetious way.

The music selection is hit and miss. I dance with one of the friendly regulars to Funkin’ for Jamaica but not much else. By some miracle, Clara enjoys herself. The set is over by 8pm. Jens, as always, wants to continue the party elsewhere. 

 I spot one of the DJ’s I befriended the last time I was at Metteko. He jokes that I shouldn’t trust Jens.

Clara is feeling the chill and heads home. I also would prefer to take advantage of the early finish. Most of Jens’ haunts are closed in any case. I convince him to walk me to Arts-Loi station, so I can take the train directly home. He obliges, like a gent. He is not aware of how long the walk will be.

According to Jens’ whimsy, we make several stops en route, to indulge the aesthetics of store front galleries, or tourist-bait selling over-priced tat, or admire the view of a drizzly Brussels from the top of Mont des Arts.

Soundtrack: Ticket to Shangri-La by Young Gun Silver Fox; Motherland Journey by Blue Lab Beats; Nightfever compilation feat. various artists; The Anchorman Mixtape by K-Os

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.

Here Comes the Sun

 

As May makes way for June, we see a shift in consistently wet and/or overcast weather. Storms are replaced by clear blue skies. I can dust off the summer clothes and put away (most) of my winter boots. It’s as if the climate itself is cautiously optimistic about the Belgian governments plans for further loosening of restrictions. Cafés and restaurants re-open in full. More indoors activities are permitted and more people allowed to meet inside. We can gather in bigger groups outdoors. It’s great news for places of worship. I attend a couple of church picnics within days of each other. The sun doesn't set until around 10pm. Parc Cinquantenaire is still alive with activity at this time.

There’s also upbeat news on the travel front. There is to be more or less free travel around the EU for those who are fully vaccinated and carry the coveted certificate. There are various other conditions to be met for those who do not. At least from July, Belgium will forego it’s quarantine and testing regimen even for those arriving from red zones, as long as they are fully vaccinated. My second dose, God willing, is on the horizon. 

Alas, that doesn’t ease the criteria for travel to and from the UK. It’s on Belgium’s red list. On the other side of the Channel, Belgium is classed as amber with (still) onerous testing and quarantine demands. Thus far, the UK doesn’t appear to factor in vaccine compliance (though that might soon change). I’d have to quarantine longer than I planned to visit. Until I’m fully vaccinated, I’d also have to quarantine on the Belgium end. Living alone, that’s too heavy a cost on my mental well-being. Mum’s plans for an early summer visit are indefinitely suspended, considering all the current exigencies. Ditto for another friend, wanting to schedule a late summer visit. It’s not just a blow to morale. More like a pistol-whip. It’s been over a year and a half since any contact with Blighty-based loved ones.

This mutual rigidity is as much political as it’s for health reasons. Admittedly, the proliferation of new strains in the UK is perturbing but the post-Brexit reality also plays a role.

On the relational front it’s still a work in progress. I’m balancing self-sufficiency with embryonic, albeit promising, efforts to build community. The recently-acquainted Lorenzo is great company. He’s mellow, we overlap on cultural interests and are never stuck for conversation.

 I can now attend more offline events organised by Internations. Brussels has adapted some of its early summer festivals to the current reality, such as its end of May Jazz weekend. Dubbed ‘The Balcony Edition’, musicians play on the verandas and rooftops of various administrative buildings and historical sites around the city. Mercifully, the weather is fine enough for it to all work. It’s designed so that audiences can do a tour of shows; ideally by bike, if not, alternative modes of transport. I have my colleague Demetria to thank for keeping me in the loop. We agree to meet up for a show on the last day of the festival.

The Saturday evening prior, I have made similar, vaguer plans with another recent-acquaintance, Simon-Pierre. We confirm at the last minute. 

On the plus side, it gives me a chance to attend one of the free gigs on my own. So determined am I to arrive on time, I skip out on a local show to catch an Etterbeek concert. For all the good it does. With bus diversions and numerous demos (of which I was unaware), I miss half the set. Not a huge deal. The alto sax solos are good but I don’t care for the accompanying contemporary dance choreo. It’s a little too oddball.

En route to meet Simon-Pierre at Ixelles, I encounter similar traffic-related mayhem. The bus driver eventually gives up at Luxembourg station, from where I have to hot-step it by foot. I’ve kept SP abreast of the transport issues. 

 On arrival, Fernand Coq Square is rammed. Excitable children and restless revellers push past us, momentarily distracting us from the agreeable trio playing Jazz standards. Afterwards, Simon-Pierre treats me to a virgin Mojito on a terrace in the once again vibrant St. Boniface area. Whilst waiting for our orders (the waitress/bar manager initially forgets mine), the conversation ironically (or maybe not) turns to clichés about black-owned establishments. 

SP seems more respectful and mature than the vast majority of heteros I’ve met so far in Brussels. I can’t resist an uncharitable vent about our mutual acquaintance and my former frenemy. Simon-Pierre has the most realistic estimation of his friend I’ve come across. Neither apologist nor traitorously critical.

I’m still disenchanted by my experiences with the male population here. What should have been mere emotional flesh wounds have turned septic. There hasn’t been much improvement of late, either. Unhelpful blasts from the past crawl out of the woodwork only to play more unwarranted mind games. 

Another character starts contacting me on Internations. We have never met offline but have some mutual contacts on the platform. He takes it far too personally that I’m not on social media nor own a smartphone. We nonetheless make plans to meet up for a drink. 

Distant alarm bells grow a little louder when he let’s slip he’s been looking me up online. He then complains that I don’t respond enthusiastically enough to his standard-issue text messages. I reply that they don't require a dissertation. He follows up by asking if I use a translation app to write my messages in French. (His written French is pretty dreadful, not uncommon in these parts). Once that initial indignation is past, I accept this is a textbook example of controlling and potentially abusive behaviour. If he doesn’t have the presence of mind to keep his stalker-instincts in check enough to make a decent first impression, it can only deteriorate. I dismiss whatever curiosity I have about his offline physique and persona. We know what they say about curious cats.

Thankfully, Simon-Pierre hasn’t displayed any such unhinged tendencies. It’s still early days. I endeavour to find an equilibrium between the benefit of the doubt and remaining circumspect.

At least my experiences with the female demographic has been by and large more auspicious. The following Sunday Demetria, myself and a couple of other female colleagues head to part two of the Jazz weekend. Demetria has brought her own transport. After the first set she proposes we pop along to another. 

The rest of us are grateful for the lift. The next venue is in a residential area, a good distance from any public transport. 

It's well worth the digression for what turns out to be my favourite balcony concert of the lot. A trio play Jazz guitar and bass on the first story of a cultural centre, each musician facing out of one of the large French windows. It feels very chic and continental, I remark to one of my colleagues. The sort of thing you fantasise about grown-up life as a kid.

Soundtrack: Fidelity Radio Club by S. Fidelity. 

Chin Up (Part 2)

 

I'm trying to exercise emotional intelligence in regards to my own moods.  To borrow the well-worn rollercoaster analogy, I'm becoming more apt  at anticipating the slow descent. If I have a bad day or week - or few- by God's grace I'll recover. It's not the end of the world. There are those suffering a far worse pandemic.

If I don't feel the weight of light depression that stalked me in January, it's not necessarily because things are any easier. I'm just more accustomed to the situation, if no happier about it.

Still, I do whatever is in my power to squeeze the most out of those lemons.

As well as my own daily excursions, I enjoy one-to-one walks with new 20-something acquaintances such as Regina from Tonga or Brenda from Austria; both church members. One day whilst walking with Brenda in the snowy Bois des Cambres, emotion gets the better of me and I burst into tears. Setting COVID paranoia aside, she gives me a hug. She can relate to the sense of solitude. We moved to Brussels around the same time. 

My colleagues (sans Ama) also organise a walk around the Heyser area, one gorgeous Sunday afternoon in late February. I suspect my mostly married or spoken-for colleagues take pity on yours truly; moving to a new country amidst pandemics and lockdowns. For the first time, I'm meeting half of my small 5-member team in the real world. We pass a delightful afternoon discovering the lovely parks dotted around the environs of the famous Atomium (above, right); a part of town I’ve long wanted to visit. Our bilingual conversations frequently return to a dearly missed pre-COVID life of music festivals and world travel.

Hovering in the metaphorical background is the bane that is my frenemy, Rob. Yep, him again. In fairness, relations seem to have thawed, or so I thought. I even feel charitable enough to buy a gift for his birthday in early February (the French translation of Richard Wright's Black Boy). After all, Rob is one of the first people I ‘befriended’ in Brussels. In his own dubious way, he’s also made the most consistent effort.

By some fluke, Rob happens to be stepping out of his flat whilst I try to inconspicuously deposit the professionally-wrapped present in his letter box. In an unguarded moment, he seems genuinely touched. He's on his way to his parents. Embarassed, I make as hasty an exit as politely possible.

The next few weeks are packed with intense and often emotionally-exhausting email discussions/debates. Rob complains that I suspect his intentions. He insists, almost too emphatically, that he has no ulterior motives. He thinks I’m delusional. I take him to task over his selective memory of our earlier encounters. Nonetheless, somewhat reluctantly, I start to give him the benefit of the doubt.

 He sends me reams of online content, keen to pick my brain. My feminism still greatly rankles him. I am infuriated about his cavalier attitude towards being COVID-secure, especially in light of regular visits to his elderly parents. For Rob's part, he goes through phases of being fixated with my celibacy and views around monogamy. He’s at once scoffing and fascinated.

His dinner invitations don’t desist. He mentions another once-potential conquest who shares my perspective on celibacy. I’m bemused yet intrigued by this acquaintance, not least as he seems to be more respectful of her than me. He asks me round to meet her one evening at his place for dinner. I baulk at the flagrant disregard of Belgium's virus precautions. 

 I discover later that he’s been going on regular walks with this friend. 

How come? I ask. I thought he didn’t like winter walks. Rob claims he’s 'more comfortable' in her company. She doesn’t make allusions to him wanting to take advantage. Pish-posh. It’s been a while since I’ve cast aspersions. More importantly, it makes no sense he’d be uneasy going for a walk but happy to have me round for dinner or to visit him at work. These invitations are the latest addition to his social overtures. It appeals to me far more than dinner at his diseased flat. I let Rob know Je suis partante, only for him to blow hot and cold about the idea.

 I wonder if, like his similarly fickle South American friend, Rob prefers mind games to sincere interaction. Just as I was letting my guard down, intoxicated by the continuous attention, I am re-evaluating once again whether I want this person in my life. No upgrade from Frenemy to Friend just yet; if ever. I take a welcome break from all the back-and-forth to figure things out, much to his apparent irritation.

My attempt to build community in this period thus continues to be a slow saga.

To help things along, I sign up for an online 80s/90s/2000s Zoom party. A reluctant decision turns out to be one of my best all month. Not only do I bump into mutual friend of Rob, auntie Carol but also Tatjana, a former colleague and friend from THRO. She’s been on my mind of late. We squeal in recognition and proceed to catch up, rather awkwardly for the rest of the online revellers. Most of those signed up for the event are a no show but this turns out to be a blessing in disguise. It’s a select but zealous few, shaking our collective booties to international, pop, soul and disco hits from the past few decades.

Soundtrack: Nostalgia: Beats of 2008-2020 by Beatchild; Dive by Daniel Weiss; Various from Daft Punk's back catalogue (well, I had to).

G.A.T.

Now I’m no longer looking for accommodation, I can focus on making a life in Brussels.

Things are hectic on the work front. We have successive online workshops from late September to mid-October. My manager, Ama asks if I’m ready to lead some sessions. Looking for an opportunity to pop my presentation cherry at the TTUO, I accept. I like feeling useful. 

I am immensely aware of the privilege of doing a job that potentially makes a positive difference in the real world; to be able to work on issues that are close to my heart. At the same time, I am soul searching over how much my personal views align with certain aspects of the movement. Particularly on social issues. I’ve always found myself at odds as a Christian engaged in politics. I often feel like an outlier. I’m either too economically to the left for some or too socially conservative for others. It’s an opportunity for growth nonetheless. A chance to wrestle with my own values and beliefs; fine tune or adapt if and where necessary.

Things on the socialising front are also starting to pick up. (As much as COVID restrictions allow, that is. Figures in the Brussels region are especially worrying.)

Unlike Strasbourg, I don't have a hard time meeting folk of the same generation who aren't already married and too ensconced in domestic life to fraternise.

Having survived being (sort of) abducted by Rob, we meet up a few weeks later. Perhaps I’m a glutton for punishment. 

Rob has no filter. He treats me like his priest or therapist, making all sorts of personal confessions I have no business knowing. Some things can’t be unheard. 

He flirts with me in a quasi-aggressive way. As with his lurid anecdotes, I’m not sure if he’s trying to get a rise out of me. 

I’m not a tease. I let him know that he’s not getting any play. His romantic life sounds too complicated.  I accuse him of being slutty. I'm nobody's side chick.

Things become very interesting when I explain (not for the first time) that I’m celibate. He reacts with a mix of fascination and taking personal offence. In my experience, it’s a typical response from the male species; even if there were no romantic designs. Annoyed by the idea of one less potential conquest. 

He asks why I don't go for Christian men. As if it's that easy. I explain the pre-pandemic, vastly disproportionate female:male ratio in church. In that sense, it's a numbers game as much as destiny. Even in the less common cases where there's balance, the men are usually already spoken for. I don't get round to speaking about The Rest. Let's just say there are compatibility issues.  Whilst there's no shortage of vibrant and dynamic Christian women, the men often lack the same well-roundedness. Too 'churched'. Those who don't fall into that category usually aren't single. Et cetera, et cetera.

Ignoring the explicit faith-based reasons for my lifestyle choice, Rob presumes I've never been in love. Or that it's a result of trauma.

How condescending...(and insulting)...I haven't been molested if that's what you're getting at...

Rob brings out an irritable side for which I apologise more than once. 

He takes to sending me links to videos about the Christian faith or politics. He also emails choice scriptures, somewhat passive aggressive. 

Rob and I have talked about faith quite a bit. He's spent time in a monastery. He's intrigued and clearly searching. I want to be a help rather than a hindrance. Our complicated dynamic makes it a challenge, nonetheless.

For all his foibles, Rob is sharp and entertaining. He’s also a veritable M.A.T; Man About Town. He has a great circle of friends, some of whom speak very well of him; both beyond and within earshot. If that's anything to go by, he can’t be so bad. One evening, after a fraught conversation over drinks, we’re joined by Rob’s merry band of mulattos. My first impression is that they've been friends for years, if not decades. I'll later learn some of them have only known each other for mere months.

They're a cultured set too. I’m in my element. We discuss everything from semantics and international politics to West African cuisine and Brazilian music. I despair at the lack of Rob's knowledge of 90s R&B.  

A few days later, he invites me to an afternoon of board games and quizzes in the Ixelles area. 

It's the annual designated no-car day. The roads are eerily quiet, except for the odd thundering of skateboards collectively sailing down the empty streets. 

I get lost en route. By pure happenstance, I bump into one of Rob's crew, easy-on-the-eye Diego. I'm delighted to see him. We have already established a fast rapport. He's very complimentary about my outfit. Alas, he’s not staying for the festivities. I ask him not to leave me alone with his unruly friend. Rob’s so much better behaved when he’s with his chums. 

With mischief in his eye, Diego alludes to some suppressed attraction. I’m genuinely gutted to see him go. (A few weeks later, he and I will spend an enchanting Saturday evening in each other's company. But that's for another blog. Perhaps).

I win the quiz by fluke rather than comprehensive knowledge. Thus, despite my competitive streak, the victory feels a little hollow. 

Also along for the ride is Rob's friend, Carol. She’s a no-nonsense older Caribbean woman who keeps him in check. I take to her instantly. We exchange numbers. I invite her to an event the following weekend. I forward her the link. She passes, believing it too abstract for her taste.

She’s not wrong. The event is organised by some good acquaintances at one of my haunts at Botanique. It’s supposed to be a showcase and open mic. It’ll be the first such event I’ve attended in forever. My previous after-hours experience at the same venue was mixed to say the least. I attended for the sake of the vivacious and intelligent organiser, Fatima. The crowd is rather insular and monocultural. I duck out as soon as I can.

This time I imagine something quite different; more diverse and sophisticated. 

There’s a queue outside the venue. Once again, I’m not enthused to see the crowd is not as cosmopolitan as hoped. Fatima works her way down the line, only admitting those who intend to perform. I came prepared. 

Inside, I realise it’s not my crowd. I don't think they'd appreciate one of my acappella Jazz, Gospel or Bossa numbers. Maybe I’m too old. Or it’s too much of a Hip-Hop slam vibe. 

Thankfully, the bartender Mario comes to my rescue. He’s one of the first people with whom I had a real conversation in Brussels. We’re a similar age. Like me, he’s not a Brussels native. Originally from Costa Rica, he spent much of his formative years in Sicily. Our common language is French. 

We’re long overdue a drink, I tell him. I won’t sniff at any opportunity to build social ties.

The following week I meet up with Carol for a DJ set in town. A few days earlier Rob calls to invite me out for dinner. I decline. Too tired. I mention my plans with Carol.

Oh yeah? I’ll be there too.

So much for a ladies’ night out.

I arrive at the event half way, having finished work later than usual. Carol and her friends are about to leave. Charitably, she hangs around to keep me company. No sign of Rob. Ear infection, Carol explains.  She ran into him earlier in the day; another anecdote-worthy incident. Everything about Rob is a caper; as if he’s a real life sitcom character.

The music policy is more commercial than expected. The highlight is a mass singalong to Toto's Africa. Dancing is forbidden under COVID. (Why then, bother with the event?). That doesn’t prevent a drunk chick almost falling over me, leaping around to Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now.

It’s a rainy, uninspired Brussels evening. The music selection is hit-and-miss. Yet Carol’s company is enough to compensate. She calls to mind another of my West Indian aunties. That would explain the instant fondness.

Soundtrack: The Eddy OST, Placebo by Carrie Baxter