Balancing Act

 

(courtesy of Brussels Airlines)

8 min. read

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

((c) Stocklib.fr)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

((c) Stocklib.fr)

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the…?

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

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

We’ve already met, no? He asks. 

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

IDRED Demonstration 20 March 2022 (image RTBF)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Can Sing a Rainbow

 

Last week, during one of my daily walks, I see a huge double rainbow straddling a busy main road in my neighbourhood. It ends somewhere in a nearby field. Following a drop in temperature and return to more frequent rain, there have been a few of these multicoloured appearances in the past couple of weeks.

I’ve always been taken by this natural phenomenon. In the biblical story of Noah, it’s representative of God’s mercy and fresh starts. I also like the paradox of this hopeful emblem. Such a wonderful and reassuring sight is only possible after significant rainfall. A rainbow would never be found on a clear, sunny day.

In this prolonged Coronavirus season, it’s symbolic of my efforts to count my blessings amidst the trials. March marks the first anniversary since the WHO officially declared COVID19 a pandemic. The month has brought with it more crises of morale as I reach another slow descent in the rollercoaster analogy. The monotony of teleworking once again eats away at my soundness of mind and there’s no immediate relief in sight. Yet March has also brought some opportunities to interact with others in ways that have eluded me for a while.

On the first Friday of the month  my church, Fresh Wine Ministries (FWM) organise a mass sandwich making initiative on their premises. The following day we are to deliver and distribute hundreds of packed lunches alongside the Serve the City team at the Red Cross Centre. Owing to the scale of the operation, it’s been in the church diary for weeks. It nevertheless requires some time management on my part. Friday nights have recently been set apart for online Christian counselling sessions with specialists from FWM. With all that’s going on, it’s vital that I avail myself of whatever resource to improve my emotional and mental well-being.

After another evocative session, I rush to FWM HQ. Dozens of (fairly) physically-distanced church members are in the back hall, beavering away. It’s quite the slick process, broken down to its most basic components. Some are buttering, others do the filling, whilst others still wrap the finished product in clingfilm. 

There are ample treats around, both for the sandwich bags and to line the volunteers’ stomachs. Pastor Tasha asks me to join a group of Francophones doing some buttering. This is no time to be coy. After mildly awkward salutations and listening in for a bit on the girls’ talk, the conversation becomes more relaxed and inclusive. There’s an embarrassing episode where I mistakenly eat what I think is a stray slice of bread. Tya, one of my co-volunteers at the Red Cross, teases me all evening. Sensitive sort that I am, usually this would bother me to a small degree. But teasing denotes familiarity; like being officially initiated into the clan.

The simple act of being in a room full of people has taken on life-affirming significance in the past year. Moreover, this will be the first occasion I have had to meet some FWM members in the flesh, including Pastor Tasha. The atmosphere is full of bonhomie. We brave the near-freezing temperatures to load approx. 500 packed lunches into car boots, to be handed out the following day. On the way back home via the metro, I spot a couple from church heading in the same direction. I recognise the male contingent, Jean-Luc, from the welcome team. Not wanting to be the third wheel, I keep a polite distance. The two are pretty persistent nonetheless. They accompany me all the way to my interchange at Merode. It’s good French practice too. I’m in full flow by the time I have to switch trains.

Some of us reconvene the following day at the Red Cross Centre. I’m wrapped up warm, expecting to hand out sandwiches to rough sleepers as on a previous occasion. Instead, the RC have a soup-kitchen set-up to distribute the lunch bags. 

This is an even more rapid-fire operation than the sandwich-making. Recipients of the food packages are moved along a conveyor belt-style system. The international voluntary team set to work; some pouring out flavoursome soup and passing it around, the rest distributing various components of the food bags. We’re given strict instructions to hand out a maximum amount of food at the onset. Those with families are only allowed limited extras, to ensure everyone can eat their fill. A few chance it, hoping we won’t recall their faces when they return for second or third helpings.

The distribution goes so fast that we barely have time to speak to beneficiaries. Many are the walking definition of world-weary. They avoid my gaze, as if the burden of their circumstances has denied them of their dignity.

 I try and make eye contact, smile, ask Ça va ? or wish them a Bon Appetit.

The afternoon shift draws to a close before we know it. There are plenty of left overs, long after redistributing extra helpings. The rest is to be deposited at another centre to minimise any waste.

All the volunteers are dying to taste the tantalising, still-warm soup on offer.

At home time, I’m shown more backstage bounty by a confident young Anglo-Belgian man. He has a fascinating hybrid accent, that at first makes him hard to place. I’m not tempted by the sandwich bags so much as wanting to give some away en route home. Murphy's law, of all the many homeless in Brussels, I’d see none on my journey. I decide not to risk it. There are indulgently large bags of brownies and muffins on offer that I manage to resist. I take a respectable portion home and no more.

I’m on a high from this fulfilling start to my day. I’ve also been enjoying the respite from Rob the Frenemy. That afternoon will be the first time I’ve been in contact since taking a break from the drama. I send him a carefully curated email, hoping that we can come to an entente cordial. Or at least I'll understand why his overtures of friendship are so conflicted. I have to manage my expectations. Emotional intelligence is not one of Rob’s strengths. I hope nevertheless that being earnest might get us somewhere…

Instead he makes a glib comment about having ‘ulterior motives’ after all. I’m an Aphrodite Kallipygos, according to Rob. I have to look up the term.

Once apprised, I explain that I choose to overlook this remark. Considering he’s spent the last couple of months protesting his innocence; even when unsolicited. I re-direct Rob's attention to the rest of the email’s content, which he ignores.

So what if I’m attracted to you? Is it really a problem? he shoots back. He claims his admiration of my rear is the same as some women appreciating his height. 

No. It's not the bloody same.

Seeing we won’t have an adult conversation by email, I decide to call. I’m not prepared for what turns into an hour plus of drunken confessions. I don’t pick up anything untoward at first. I’m used to Rob mumbling. It’s only when he admits that he’s been drinking all evening; at first with a guest and then on his own, that I peg just how wasted he is. He proceeds to send me photographic evidence.

Alcohol notoriously loosens the tongue. Heck, Rob doesn't have much of a filter when relatively sober.

 Time won’t allow for me to go into the half of what he says. He tells me things that I know he’d regret in the plain light of day. Pretty much every suspicion I’ve had about his intentions, he confirms. He itemises all the ways he finds me attractive; physically, intellectually and spiritually.

 Half-way through inviting me to the park the next day, he mentions he just broke up with one of his girlfriends. As if that has anything to do with me. 

Rob admits that his hitherto refusal to meet up for a platonic walk is little more than petulance. He resents that I wont come round for dinner or invite him to mine; something on which he still insists. He claims that he doesn't have a history of sexual assault (how comforting). Besides, he says, if I try anything you can just push me off.

Likely flipping story. He's 6"6. It'd hardly be a fair fight.

Don’t take it personally, I say. Just ask your South American friend. This is a segue for Rob to begin some emotional exposé on my former crush that makes little sense in his intoxicated state. Something about the South American being ‘confused’ and hung up on an old girlfriend. Tempting as it is, I have no time for these revelations. It’s none of my business.

Then in probably the most startling admission of all, Rob interjects

You know, a girl like you, you shouldn’t even give a second thought to [men like] us.

Many a true word spoken in drunkenness. There’s a poignancy to the obvious complimentary element of Rob’s statement. I find it depressing that under current virus-related circumstances, my friendship options are so minimal that my most regular contact is with a man who has such muddled motives. Moreover, it appears Rob prefers some idealised version of me in his head than the one in the real world. He questions why his being attracted to me should pose a problem. Normally it wouldn’t. Except he seems less respectful towards me than other female acquaintances such as Carol; to whom he’s much more like a model friend.

Seeing I’m getting nowhere, I leave Rob to sleep off what is sure to be the mother of a hangover. His communication over the next few days is predictably sparse, although doesn’t drop off altogether. Our paths cross-again the following week at an online quiz he's co-organised.  On a couple of occasions he sends 11^th hour invitations to hang out with a variety of acquaintances. I demure. I’m not about to drop everything at the last minute for him.

Thankfully, not all my efforts to socialise are so fraught. I have female acquaintances round for late lunch on two consecutive Sundays. First it’s Brenda, a sweet 20-something Austrian sister from FWM. Having moved to Brussels around the same time, she’s one of the few other consistent contacts I have in Belgium.

I take care of starter and mains, whilst Brenda brings over a more-ish homemade trifle. My spinach soup entrée and main fish pie dish go down very well. She’s appreciative to the point I feel a tad embarrassed. With both of us stranded in Belgium for Easter, I suggest she comes over again for Resurrection Sunday lunch. The offer is accepted without hesitation, her enthusiasm reiterated by text a fortnight later.

The following week, I’ll be pleasantly surprised to find a ‘thank you’ card in my letter box courtesy of Brenda.

That Sunday, it’s the turn of mutual friend of Rob, Auntie Carol. Her being of West-Indian extraction, I’m especially keen for my flat to be in good order when she arrives. Nobody keeps house like Caribbeans. It’s mixed-meat tagine on the menu this time, albeit not as warm as I would have liked despite being fresh out of the oven. My lukewarm flat is also too chilly for Carol’s through-and-through tropical blood. She hops from one foot to the other. There’s not much I can do to alleviate her discomfort. The living room heating is on a timer.

Notwithstanding my eagerness to share my Rob-related gossip, I learn more about Carol’s adventures as a student in Spain, our shared faith, various exes and suitors as well as work-related drama. I’ve lived a sheltered life in comparison. As Carol recalls her pre-COVID nights on the town, I rue how much this bloomin' pandemic has robbed me of Brussels’ life.

By the time we’ve exhausted this round of conversation and I accompany Carol to the metro station, it is nightfall.

Soundtrack: Expansion by Speech

...Evolution (Part 1)

Whilst the world undergoes a very necessary upheaval, I am negotiating one of my own; albeit of a far less dramatic kind. It’s still significant on a personal level.

La Vie Strasbourgeoise is in need of a name-change. After six months of unemployment, despite living through what could turn out to be one of the worst economic crises for several generations, I have experienced a miracle first hand. I have been blessed with the opportunity to join a trade union organisation in Brussels. From this summer I’ll be working on projects relating to marginalised groups in the heart of Europe and around the world. 

Relocating is challenging at any time, let alone during a pandemic. My former employer, The Human Rights Organisation (THRO) have agreed to pay for my goods to be transported. First, I have to procure three quotes. Pinning down removal companies isn’t as straightforward as I hoped. 

The task feels overwhelming. COVID-19 quarantines notwithstanding, mum would have crossed the Channel to help. It intensifies any sense of loneliness. My sleep becomes even more disrupted than it already has been for the last year and a half. It’s taking its toll on my short term memory. I struggle to be coherent in my already fragile second language as well as sometimes being at a loss for words in my first.

Out in the real world, France is adapting to post-lockdown life. The Strasbourgeois take it slowly. I meet up with a former colleague for a farewell in the Parc Orangerie, surprised by the calm considering the fine weather.

When I catch-up with Catarina later that week, we have trouble finding an open café. Two of my usual haunts are closed. The third has the same name but under new management. I note other establishments are closed or open at reduced hours. The detrimental economic effects of the necessary lockdown have already started to show. I feel a wave of melancholy. It's the nature of change, Catarina consoles.

Another source of dolefulness is the lack of physical contact. As I meet up with friends for goodbye drinks, I ache to embrace. There are awkward moments of not knowing what to do with our hands. The safe elbow-bump du jour isn’t really cutting it. I miss hugs. One evening, whilst meeting up with former HRGS choir director, Kiasi at Café Jabiru, Gael greets us at the door. I lament once more about the absence of embrace.

You should just go for it, then, he advises, ever-daring.

Thus I do. It feels so good. It’s contagious. I extend the bear-hug love to Kiasi. (As my departure date draws ever-closer, I’ll throw caution to the wind and hug anyone who is willing)

Kiasi has been eager to meet since I announced my official departure date. My French is relatively free-flowing for a change, which isn’t always the case faced with his easy bilingualism.We pass a very enjoyable few hours in candid conversation. It’s the first time we’ve had a chance to clear the air since that infamous choir meeting. Opinions diverge but there’s no animosity.  At least we have had our day in court. 

I’m saddened to hear Kiasi has no plans in the near future to return to the chorale. It shouldn’t matter, since I will no longer be around either. Yet there's a part of me that'll remain attached to HRGS. Kiasi maintains the choir is still like family to him. I joke that I will have to edit out the last couple of months. He long predicted that a break would be good for the group. He couldn’t have anticipated it would be enforced, however. We both agree this unexpected sabbatical might signal a fresh start. For now, it’s not known exactly when that’ll be.

As the evening progresses, whilst working our way through Afropean snacks, we talk life, relationships, family, his future career plans (PR in the humanitarian sector) and extra-curricular activities (21^st century talk show) and of course lots and lots of music. We gush over Fred vs Kirk legendary lockdown livecast, dispute the Teddy Riley vs. Babyface showdown and converge naturally over the musicality of Brandy…

Perhaps emerging from lockdown has renewed my taste for the simple pleasure of good company and good conversation. 

Maybe not. I don’t want to reach for lazy clichés. I do know that relocating during a pandemic complicates the process.

On one level, having mentally prepared to leave Strasbourg since last year, I’ve had time to grieve the loss of my new familiar. Add to that being separated from my social circles for months, to an extent I’ve made my peace with disconnection. Not being able to meet in the conventional sense means there’ll be a lot of folk I won’t physically have the chance to see before I leave. In some ways that takes the sting out of it. At least there’ll be no tearfully dramatic scenes, I tell people. On the other hand it does distort any sense of resolution.

Some days I feel fine. Some days I am more lachrymose, as I fill up cardboard boxes with trinkets encased in bubble wrap and reflect on my two and a half years living in Strasbourg. It’s no small thing saying goodbye to my first proper flat. My first experience of not sharing with family or an assortment of strangers.

After a rather lengthy, bureaucratic process THRO select a removal company using the quotes I forward. If I’m not packing I’m meeting more friends and former colleagues around Strasbourg. We talk about life during and post-lockdown. Some single. Some in relationships. Others with children. Some working. Some retired. The cross-section of my Strasbourg community is a testament to the better part of the experience. 

I have also been fortunate enough of late to bump into fleeting local acquaintances. The kind where you stop to chat but don’t necessarily exchange numbers or even names. I’m pleased for the opportunity to inform them of my move rather than disappear into the ether. I hand out by now rather weathered business cards, having been gathering dust in my bag. I don’t expect them to be used but it makes me feel better.  As much as possible, I try to pass by the local businesses I've patronised to also let them know I'm on the move. That's still feasible in Strasbourg. It might have city status but it's more like a large-ish town.

I head to the newly re-opened Temple Neuf for a workshop with Pastor Rohan on the origins of the Gospels. It’ll be one of the last occasions to stop by before I leave. As we wrap up, I tell him of my imminent move, to which he responds with his habitual affability. On the way to the bus stop, by sweet serendipity, I bump into Kiasi once more.

A couple of days later I am back at Temple Neuf for a moment of quiet at the weekly meditative sessions. Considering it’s my last it’s far from the best. I arrive just a little late, after an afternoon of enriching conversation, as usual, with Stacee.

There is very little available seating in the main hall given the imposed physical-distancing. A woman confusingly removes a ‘do not sit’ sign from a seat then rather coolly informs me it's not free. By the time one of the young pastoral assistants brings out some extra chairs, my mind is elsewhere. On top of the existing mind traffic, I’m already distracted by the cold reception from the largely older, culturally homogeneous attendees. This is not the respite for which I came. 

I’ve long thought it pointless for churches to re-open whilst the virus is still active. Physical-distancing and over-preoccupation with disinfecting shared spaces aren’t conducive to a warm welcome and easy-going fellowship. Sadly, this episode doesn't prove me wrong.

Soundtrack: Classic Boyz II Men albums, La Vita Nuova by Christine & The Queens, Irreplaceable Love by Commissioned

April in Lockdown

The end of April marks the first full month in lockdown for several parts of Europe; particularly those that were slower to react to the pandemic. This sombre milestone has brought with it much psychological drain and I am sure I am not the only one.

Holy Week provides a respite from the gloom. Christians find parallels of suffering in the life and Passion of Christ; God amongst us. I come across a number of positive reflections of faith in mainstream media. In the context of COVID-19, there’s not the same wariness and cynicism that might accompany these op-eds.

In the lead up to Easter, there’s an inevitable increase in demand for goods. I end up making two trips, not having had the presence of mind to bring forward my shopping schedule. The supermarket queues are intimidatingly long and stock runs out early. I am also still awaiting a package from the UK that has been re-routed. After a long and futile wait at La Poste (still yet to arrive), I head to the closest supermarket. It’s another long queue in the unusually warm spring sun.

Inside, I see my former boss Lucia from The Human Rights Organisation. She’s one of the last people I’d expect -or want- to come across. It doesn’t help that I’m still in professional limbo.

We don’t make direct eye contact. I decide that I’ll make polite conversation if we do. If nothing else, I'm genuinely concerned for her family in Italy under lockdown. At the same time, I’m too tired and dehydrated to go out of my way to talk. I don’t know whether it’s the ‘right’ Christian response. I can say that it’s sincere.

Easter/Resurrection Weekend is an oasis of hope and spiritual introspection. Having gone vegetarian for Lent, I treat myself to a mixed meat grill; still with a healthy portion of veg. Not long after the holiday, my choir HRGS release their video for the medley demo we recorded late last year. I forward it to family and friends. Sis comments on the timeliness of the upbeat message. None of us could have planned it.

Easter Monday evening, President Macron announces a provisional date to relax some of the lockdown measures; Monday 11 May. If that infamous curve is sufficiently flattened, resumption will still only be tentative. Schools might open but tertiary academic institutions would remain closed, as would cafés, restaurants, bars and clubs.

During the Easter season, I’ve given myself a rare weekend off. Ish. The real world hits the Tuesday morning after.  The return to some sort of routine brings with it fresh anxiety over what lies ahead. The carpet of pink around cherry blossom trees outside my flat signal the end of one of my favourite seasonal transitions. It adds to the melancholy. Sigh.

Later that week, I meet some church sisters online for a cyber aperitif. They rather glibly speak of the possibility that internal borders in Europe will remain closed until autumn. They are, for some reason, surprised at my horrified reaction. I was aware that southern European borders might be closed for that length of time. That's understandable given the severity of the crisis in Spain, Italy and yes France. I’d hoped there might eventually be freer circulation in North Western Europe. Both from a personal and professional perspective, the idea of not being able to move beyond the French frontier for most of the year fills me with some dread.

After the call I pray. I phone my mother, in need of her stoicism. My mood nevertheless goes on a downward spiral. I feel more cut off geographically and psychologically as weeks go by. Cleaning my guest bathroom has become an act of faith. I don’t know if and when I’ll next have someone round to stay before I have to move on from Strasbourg. Whenever that might be.

The prolonged locked down is having contradictory effects on my psyche. On one hand, I feel the isolation more acutely and recognise my need for human contact in whatever form. And yet I find myself reluctant to speak on the phone.

When I do bump into people from my Strasbourg network, I feel caught off guard. One sunny Saturday afternoon, stepping out for my daily ramble before night fall, I run into a neighbour and then a member of my choir within the space of a short jaunt. It triggers a neurotic crisis over my French. I’m gabbling. I’m dressed in any old thing. I'm feeling less confident without make-up. Or rather, more exposed. I refuse to be a slave to cosmetics during lockdown. It seems pointless to apply make-up when my only trips are to the shops or a walk around the neighbourhood. I’ve all but abandoned it. However, judging from my (over)reaction on that particular occasion, I’m not as liberated as I thought.

(courtesy of Le Monde)

Out in the wider world, some are putting their faith in #11Mai. The population is growing restive, particularly in neighbourhoods where the majority don't have the luxury of working from home and/or live in cramped conditions. There are pockets of civil unrest, following an incident in which a policeman allegedly caused a motorcyclist to collide with his patrol car on purpose. Meanwhile, others scrutinise France’s own mismanagement of the crisis; namely the lack of responsiveness since at least the early January pandemic warnings. During his Easter Monday speech Macron positions himself with the public; somewhat indignant about the shortage of PPE. As if the country’s lack of preparedness for the crisis was a policy decision with which he had nothing to do with.

There are nonetheless those who are relieved to have a focal point on their calendar for deconfinement. On entering a newsagents, having gone through the meticulous social distancing requirements, I overhear presenters on a radio show prematurely celebrating an ‘end in sight’.  Guests interviewed on talk shows from their homes are already being asked what their post-11 May plans are.

They’re not the only ones counting their chickens. I note a number of non-essential businesses have re-opened. In France, wine shops and cheese makers might be considered 'essential'; a part of the national heritage. It's however more difficult to justify when such products can be acquired at the supermarket. I spot a (masked) optician, welcoming an (also masked) client into their empty and darkened premises. I note a café I used to visit on occasion has converted itself, rather dubiously, to get around current restrictions. Whether Turkish pastries count as indispensable at this time would be harder to defend, if some French patisseries weren't also circumventing the lockdown.  Other arguably essential services that opted to close up early on in the lockdown are cautiously opening their doors again, albeit for fewer hours.

(courtesy of HansLucas.com)

Whilst my French church are prudent in announcing a possible return to services offline in the summer, the main protestant church in my vicinity organises unofficial nightly services. I come across one such during an early evening walk. I plan to spend some time of quiet contemplation, alone in the pews. Should the urge to sing overtake me, as it has before, the acoustics are fantastic. To my slight dismay I see a handful of parishioners scattered around the premises. The vicar is in full regalia. I hover, wondering whether to enter. Curiosity gets the better of me. I slip into the back; half-expecting the authorities to shut down proceedings at any moment. A song is raised in Latin. Four-part acappella harmonies ricochet off the walls. In that blissful moment, my apprehension is suspended. I ask myself if this has been rehearsed. It’s rare in any setting to find that kind of spontaneous but accomplished musicality.

After grace, my quick exit is interrupted when the pastor gingerly heads towards the door. I can't resist asking him why he’s holding a service, considering the current prohibition.

After ironically making a great show of keeping a safe distance, he explains how he’s getting around the restrictions by way of a technicality.

Places of worship can still remain open, he reasons. There are of course people like yourself who might wander in. It’s an informal moment of prayer...

As much as I've benefited from this illicit gathering,  I won't take the risk of attending any more.

I hear some are growing weary of cyber-activity. I am not one of them. As I discover speaking to a few of my UK church family, some of us are welcoming the break from the usual, often hectic, Sunday routine.

Between the tears and mild panic attacks, there are plenty of informative webinars and online fellowship to keep my mind and soul occupied. I don’t mess with the daily devotionals, online prayer meetings or weekly socialist campaign updates. These are lifelines without which, I am convinced, soundness of mind would have gone out the window.

Soundtrack: Alewa by Santrofi, It Is What It Is by Thundercat.

Sign of the Times: Part 1

‘...Come now, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we will go to such and such a city, spend a year there, buy and sell, and make a profit”; whereas you do not know what will happen tomorrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapour that appears for a little time and then vanishes away. Instead you ought to say, “If the Lord wills, we shall live and do this or that.”…But as it is, you boast [falsely] in your presumption and your self-conceit. All such boasting is wrong. ’

James 4:13-16 (NKJV + AMP)


‘God willing’...’By God’s grace’...’Par la grâce de Dieu’...’Se Deus quiser’. Anyone with whom I’m reasonably acquainted would have heard me utter some variation of the above or sign off a text. It’s become a running joke with one friend in particular. He often responds ‘God does want it, so it will happen’.

It’s akin to a verbal tick. Africans and Caribbeans who have grown up within a Judaeo-Christian context would not be strangers to the habit. Some cultures are more familiar with the precarity of life than others. Similar to the Inshallah of Arabic/Islamic cultures, it’s a recognition that even the simplest plans aren’t guaranteed realisation. It’s not supposed to be an act of superstition “just say these words and nothing bad will happen” (although sometimes it unwittingly veers towards that.) It’s meant instead to be a humble acknowledgement that life is fragile. Every day a gift.

These utterances have greater salience now during the existential crisis humanity is currently facing.

In the wake of the COVID-19 or Coronavirus pandemic, the collocation of the words ‘unprecedented’, ‘crazy’, ‘mad’,'extraordinary', ‘strange’,’bizarre’,’frightening’… and ‘times’ have become grim clichés.

As I write these words, I am sitting in a quiet residential corner of Eastern France, close to the German border. Like the other 64 million-odd inhabitants of the country, I am on heavy lockdown. Following a recent national address by President Emmanuel Macron, we are under strict orders to only leave our homes for ‘essentials’; necessary food shopping, medical appointments and limited physical exercise for example. Visiting family and friends is prohibited bar a few exceptions. We are to venture outdoors with a signed and dated government-issued form or face a fine of up to €135. These measures are projected to be in place until at least the end of March. Places of worship, libraries, cafés, restaurants and most shops had already been obligated to close their doors until further notice. Weddings, baptisms and other rites are suspended, funerals restricted to brief grave yard ceremonies.

Like some of its other European neighbours, France has closed its borders for a month, with possibility of extension. The country is surrounded by the states most affected by the crisis on the Continent, alternating positions with Germany as the third worst hit after Italy and Spain. A planned visit to the UK was indefinitely postponed as a result. A blessing in disguise. By all accounts, cities across the Channel are turning into ghost towns. In the face of the Johnson government’s comparatively sluggish, apparently economically-motivated response, organisations and individuals have been using their discretion. Even if I’d somehow made it over to the UK before the borders shut, it would have been nigh on impossible to do anything or see anyone.

Globally, things have escalated so rapidly that it's enough for an Oscar-winning actor , returning from a fortnight's remote retreat, to be out of the loop.

At the start of the COVID-19 outbreak and for the ensuing months I maintained what I thought was a healthy scepticism. Bad news sells, I reasoned. It was in the interest of media outlets to sensationalise. After all, the flu can claim up to well over half a million lives a year. If I paid any mind, I too would succumb to panic and paranoia. Having mostly afflicted the Far East, it was somewhat abstracted; even with my sister living in Japan-not trusting the statistics put out by Shinzo Abe's government.

 I didn’t remain glued to the numerous news updates on the evolution of the disease, even as the confirmed cases soared and moved geographically closer. For a time, I paid more attention to the twists and turns of the hopeful, then ultimately frustrating, US Democrat race to select a presidential candidate.

I tried to ignore the ominous, ever-spiralling statistics. For weeks, I drew guilty and perverse comfort from knowing that most victims were elderly and/or already of fragile health.

I am inevitably drawn out of this self-imposed bubble after the ramifications spread closer to home. I am at a gathering of street outreach volunteers when I hear that a church in Greater Alsace has experienced a major COVID-19 outbreak. My own church starts to take precautionary measures. Public health posters near the entrance and a compulsory squirt of hand sanitiser at the door. I still maintain it is all a bit too much.

There remains some morbid humour about it; perhaps as a means of staving off the dread. I hear jokes about having Coronavirus when someone coughs or closes in to give the bise. Eventually, the more physical contact is discouraged, the jokes centre around fist-bumps and finally, not making contact at all.

My church takes the pre-emptive step of suspending all gatherings within its four walls and moving services online. Members are informed that there have been dozens of cases in our midst, some hospitalised. As the French government’s measures become more severe, the pastoral team put a halt to even small group meetings at home.

I notice music venues are emptier. That is, if the gigs happen at all. At one of the last events I attend before the total lockdown, the bandleader thanks the audience for showing up. Life has become very hard for musicians, he explains.

=
Still, I am determined to hold onto a semblance of normality. When a friend cancels a meet-up because of her COVID-19 related fears, I am irate. It is the latest in a long list of flimsy excuses for being a no-show. She’s a former colleague. She still works at the large-scale international NGO where we met. I hear that the Organisation has all but ceased activity in light of the health crisis. You have more chance of catching it at the office than a café, I tersely remind her.

An evening out with an acquaintance becomes awkward as soon as I mention I have a cold. He eyes me as if I were a suicide bomber. I attempt unsuccessfully to move the conversation away from the virus. He is stockpiling for Armageddon, he tells me, with only a little irony. 

I, on the other hand, have not been stockpiling. Currently in between jobs, I have a tighter budget to consider. Neither do I observe the shopping frenzy this side of the Channel that I’ve been hearing about in the UK. With the exception of less hand sanitiser and wipes on both sides of the Franco-German border; even with buying quotas imposed. My local chemist sells sanitiser at exorbitant prices. I discover this whilst on the hunt for masks which, I am promptly told, have been requisitioned by the French government for front-line medical staff.

As the situation in neighbouring Italy continues to rapidly deteriorate, I contact my acquaintances with a link to the country to ask after their families.

Meanwhile, I have been struggling with cabin fever, long before the lockdown. Months of uncertainty over my employment status have taken chunks out of my morale. I have had a head start on the post-COVID-19 economic instability that sadly now confronts many.

I enjoy my own company but I am a social animal. I fill my days with as much activity as possible but miss the consistent interaction of the workplace. The light depression I’ve experienced a number of times since relocating, begins to creep around the edges once again. I’m tearful for days at a time. The task of job hunting starts to overwhelm me.

I have outlets at least, like a community Gospel choir, church, volunteering, occasionally meeting up with friends. The Médiathèque in central Strasbourg is a sunlit sanctum; an alternative space to write and study.

One by one, these lifelines disappear within a couple of weeks. The virus’ impact on the French Grand Est region has been especially hard. The Prefecture clamps down before Central government does. Libraries are closed, as are arts and culture venues. The choir's administration team decide to indefinitely postpone rehearsals. I stay connected with church through Sunday morning livestreams.

At that moment, my planned trip to the UK becomes a distant beacon of respite from the solitude. I am even more preoccupied than usual about the details of the visit. If friends are slow to respond, it makes me disproportionately anxious.


The night before I am due to leave, I receive a cancellation email from the coach company. Another journey is suggested which I am unable to reserve. The system is in freefall. I have a mini meltdown. For the past week, this trip has been the one thing to keep the melancholy at bay. I have to escape.

It’s around midnight. I call my mum, shaking and crying. She keeps her sang-froid, calmly telling me to persist. If I can’t re-book now, I can try later. Suddenly, there’s a system breakthrough. I manage to reserve a journey a day after the original. Less reassuring, I am sent two tickets for two different itineraries.

The next morning I break out of self-isolation to print my ticket at the Post Office; one of the few places still operational. Whilst getting ready, I listen to reports on BBC World Service Africa.

It’s been encouraging to hear of so few confirmed cases on the African Continent so far. I had hoped citizens had not capitulated to the hysteria. But no. Panic buying occurs in countries whose confirmed cases are still only in the single digits. Ethiopia, Tanzania and Ghana close schools days before the more-at-risk UK population are instructed to do the same. Kenya’s Catholic churches no longer use holy water. Holy Communion is adapted to avoid contamination. South Africa, the hardest hit on the Continent, instates a wide-ranging travel ban. 

Later that morning, there’s a queue when I arrive at the Post Office. Only five customers allowed at a time. A staff member stands by the door, controlling it with a remote. It reminds me of the ‘two schoolchildren’ in some British newsagents.

As usual, the PO's printer doesn’t recognise my USB (although still takes my money). It would have been a wasted trip except for bumping into a former colleague en route. It’s through him that I hear the rumour of a heavier lockdown.

Earlier that morning, I had another meltdown over my forthcoming UK trip. Slowly but surely however, I start to make my peace about not going. I’ve had a stubborn cough for nearly a couple of weeks. An older friend with a history of heart problems asks me if it’s safe to visit. I reassure him as much as I can but I too have my doubts.

I pray the final decision is taken out of my hands. I don’t trust myself to make the right choice.

On the way back from the Post Office I take a detour to a local Catholic church. I don’t care about the denomination. I just need tranquillity. It might be the last time I have the opportunity before the major lockdown. The building is calm; modern and inviting.  I notice the holy water fonts are inaccessible, as in other parts of the world. It’s blissful inside, even if my thoughts are not.

I pass a woman on the way out. It turns into a spontaneous moment of solidarity; both of us admitting our initial incredulity, since turning into anxiety over the unknown.

We don’t properly introduce ourselves. I’m terrible at that sort of thing. I leave without knowing her name. I do thank her for the warm interaction. It helps me come to terms with this new reality. Thank God for faith.

(This post also features on my I Was Just Thinking blog)

Part 2