Solo Debut: Part II

 5 + a 1/2 min. read

Part I

(c) Brett Jordan

The morning of my presentation, I arrive later than I’d have wished after too little sleep and unrealistically attempting to complete some life admin first. Fortunately, my intervention isn’t until after lunch. I’ve finetuned my slides to make them as user-friendly as possible. I’ve rehearsed, rehearsed and rehearsed again the paper itself. My only concern is timekeeping. I warn the moderator I might go over the designated 20 minutes, despite my best efforts.

As I’m being introduced I notice slight panic amongst the tech team. They appear to have ‘misplaced’ the final presentation I sent a few days ahead. The delay is eating into precious presentation time. Not to worry. I have a Plan B. From the mixed experience I've already had with the organisation of the conference, a contingency plan is basic wisdom. I brought the latest version of my talk on a USB stick...

...Except a Plan B isn't enough. Someone seemingly neglected to download a PDF reader on the in-house device. I have a possible Plan C. My latest presentation is also ready to go on my own laptop. However, we can't switch devices, since one of the participants is joining us via Zoom from the US (Trump-Vance migration law antics).

Now I'm starting to worry. Times is of the essence. All these decisions are having to be made in split seconds. I also have a PowerPoint version of my paper on the USB. Alas, I realise part way through that it’s not the update. For a second, I think of stopping and recommencing but time constraints won’t allow. My paper doesn’t correspond with much of this now outdated version of my slides. I apologise profusely. I proceed as seamlessly as I can but I’m rattled and very annoyed. If anger is a secondary emotion then beneath it I’m crestfallen.

I poured my heart into making the visuals of my presentation as engaging as possible, only to be sabotaged by administrative incompetence. This hasn't happened with any of the other papers I've observed. I recognise mistakes happen but with more than one person on the case, this was wholly avoidable. The recovering perfectionist I am, it would have always bothered me but less so if I were more seasoned.

Raphs and others will later commend my paper (although I feel they're just being nice). The moderator allows me to complete my presentation and I only skip very little. After a slow start, with my co-panellists seeming to attract more questions, the Q&A becomes more favourable for me. The salient questions permit me to address things I was forced to jettison with earlier drafts because of time considerations.

In the scheme of things - war, inequality and climate breakdown - sure, a cock-up over slides is not a big deal. Still. To say I’m gutted about the mishap is an understatement. It’s coloured the experience.

I’ve learned a valuable lesson. I won’t leave it to chance that conference organisers have got their proverbial together. Even if I make a nuisance of myself, I’m going to double-check everything of importance.

The next morning I’m greeted by warmth and sunshine. I throw on some summer gear and head out for the final day of the conference. Unlike many fellow guests, I’m not in a rush. My return train to Brussels leaves the following day. That will also give me time to hit some of my favourite German general stores to purchase inexpensive toiletries, as usual.

To my surprise, the good weather and stimulating interventions that morning help lift me out of the hangover funk from the previous day’s debacle. Sally gives an unexpectedly memorable paper on how apiculture is emblematic of all that's wrong with late-stage capitalism. Her fellow speakers on the Plantation Capitalism panel - both Europeans whose scholarship concentrates on populations from the Global South - welcome my (by now) standard question about how not to replicate extractive dynamics in academia.

(c) Tamas Szabo

During the break before the last keynote speech, I converse with special guest, South African polymath, Uhuru Portia Phalafala. GAPS has invited her to do a reading from her new book, Mine Mine Mine; an epic poem about the deleterious socio-cultural effects of the South African mining industry past and present. It’s told from the perspective of one of her grandfathers. Phalafala is genuinely intrigued by my project, especially my research on the late and underappreciated anti-Apartheid activist and midwife, Blanche La Guma.

The reading overlaps with lunch, for which we’re provided with a tasty vegan ‘brown bag’ option. Sat next to me is a veteran attendee of the GAPS. He's a bit of a soft-left provocateur in this (supposedly) radical space, from what I’ve gathered of his interventions. Between the keynote speech and Uhuru’s reading, we have a thought-provoking conversation -or rather a good-natured debate - about the Kenyan literary giant Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o’s ideas on linguistic decolonisation. (Thiong’o passed away earlier that week.) Whilst I have a lot more time for some of Thiong’o’s more hardline views, my interlocutor finds them essentialist and over-romanticised; objections that are not without merit. He’s glad Thiong’o apparently softened his position in later years.

Phalafala’s reading - or rather performance - has the room enthralled. I’m not one to sit and read poetry on my own but I do enjoy it in spaces where it can be collectively appreciated. It’s a heavy text, as would be anticipated. Uhuru’s fully embodied delivery, including the use of sound effects, makes it all the more mesmerising.

Phalafala leans on a traditional spirituality. Whilst some of the animistic practices to which she refers are diametrically opposed to my own Christian worldview, part of decolonising my faith is to resist having an impulsive suspicion of every aspect of indigenous spirituality. It involves finely parsing what to keep and what to reject; discerning what reflects something of God’s truth sans baggage. The same can equally be applied to certain Christian traditions.

This event is one more example of how South Africa, particularly the past and present injustices of Apartheid, have come back into focus for me of late; academically, spiritually and politically. This resurfacing is accompanied by a familiar grief and anger that I’m hesitant to acknowledge fully, for fear it calcifies into bitterness. I ask also how much it is mine to entertain, not being South African myself. Yet, do I need to be from that part of the world for these sentiments to be legitimate? I share some of this with Uhuru during the Q&A after she is interviewed by one of the academics in attendance. 

Phalafala is scheduled to do a similar reading at my university, where I’ll have another opportunity to absorb the text and pick up things I missed the first time. I’m grateful to have caught the preview.

Afropean Wanderers: Highlights from the Looking B(l)ack Symposium, Brussels 19-21 October 2018 (Part 2)

(Read Part 1 here)

My time is so limited in Brussels that I don’t rush back after lunch. I want to briefly take in some of the city during my visit. Back at The Bozar Centre I get talking to the half-Congolese, half-Belgian doorman and globetrotting Brazilian mulatto, Pedro*. He works for a major European institution in Brussels. We swap notes on being one of the few brown faces at international organisations that are ironically lacking in non-European diversity.

Pedro further impresses me with his appreciation for darker-hued women. We need to celebrate black love, he adds, reassuringly. I spent much of that evening in his agreeable company and that of his Caribbean-British girlfriend Sarah, whom he met when they were both working in Brazil. Pedro is squeezed out of the picture once fellow South-East Londoner Sarah and I get talking.

I manage to catch the tail-end of Johny’s interview with his four-square, no-nonsense mentor and fellow Yorkshire-man Caryl Phillips. The following session is a documentary-screening and Q&A chaired by Togolese-Polish journalist Claude Grunitzky with Tété-Michel Kpomassie, an inspiration to many of the speakers. Self-taught polyglot Tété-Michel (to whom I refer to as uncle as a sign of affectionate respect) quit his Togolese village in his mid-teens. He spent the next few years making his way to Greenland via various odd jobs across Africa and Europe. His arctic fascination developed whilst reading a travel memoir he found in a missionary book shop. So strong is Uncle Kpomassie’s affection for Inuit culture, he wishes to be buried in Greenland. It’s not hard to understand why his intrepid Northern excursions have been a catalyst for the careers of other African travel writers. The images from the dated (and occasionally offensive) documentary depicts a gloomy frozen landscape that is plunged into darkness for the half the year . Whereas thought of life in Greenland is depressing, Kpomassie makes adaptation to the climate and indigenous mores look effortless. Not to mention his patience in the face of the locals’ initial ignorance, referring to him as a ‘black devil’.

After the session, waiting in the dinner queue I embark on a heated discussion with Uncle Tété and Zap Mama’s photographer about the role of Christianity in African history. I sense a strong hostility towards the faith from Kpomassie. When I mention that Christianity in Africa pre-dates its advent in Europe by centuries, he insists that it’s still not the ‘natural’ religion of the Continent. He shouldn’t romanticise animism, I argue. Neither should you romanticise Christianity, he retorts.

Uncle Tété and I share Ewe heritage (albeit mine is on the Ghanaian side of the dividing colonial line). I am familiar with some of the indigenous West African traditions. My experience makes me wary of what he venerates. (I later think it odd that Kpomassie is so vehement in his support of these religions, having fled Togo partly to avoid becoming a juju priest). I remind him of the ritual murder of twins in South-Eastern Nigeria until the arrival of Christian missionaries or the trade in Albino parts up till today in Tanzania; all part of the traditional beliefs. My two interlocutors speak over me at once in French. Gender issues, religious wars, witch-hunts...The usual suspects; genuine yet oft-rehearsed gripes, not always well-researched by those making them.  In my experience agnostics with more nuanced views or looking to have a constructive dialogue approach the discussion differently. I switch to English to express myself more clearly, not very successfully trying to relativise Christianity’s chequered past (and present) and contrast it with the Gospel message. I add that these problems aren't specific to religion but rather symptomatic of the broken human condition. My efforts are limited. The two men are committed sceptics and show little interest in my responses, Kpomassie leaving half-way through.

Thankfully, my dinner conversation with other guests is tension-free. The officious and irritable venue staff usher us back into the hall from which they not long ago ejected us.

The next performance is a showcase of prose and poetry from some of the UK’s finest contemporary writers, hosted by multi-lingual spoken word artist Elisabeth ‘Miss Elli’ Fernandes. There’s just enough time before curtain call to catch up with featured artist and honorary Londoner, Inua Ellams. Someone takes a group photo of the Afropean crew. It’s a chance for me to quickly touch base with magazine co-editor Natalie and meet some other members of the team.

The hall is now almost full to capacity and buzzing. The happy clamour nonetheless falls to a reverential silence for each performer. Living legend Linton Kwesi Johnson gets proceedings underway. The room collectively holds its breath as Catherine Johnson (no relation) reads a harrowing extract about sexual violence from her historical novel The Curious Tale of the Lady Caraboo. Glimpses of comprehension filter through the sad beauty of Amina Jama’s abstract verses. Ellams and Bernadine Evaristo lighten the mood with humorous contributions. Veterans of the UK poetry scene Roger Robinson and Nick Makoha take over the second half with excerpts from their newly-released mixtape; an enthralling and emotionally-charged multi-media theatrical event. During the break I discuss identity, semantics and Pan-Africanism amongst other topics with Sibo Kanobana and his congenial Moroccan acquaintance, Karim. He wonders if he is also part of the Afropean story.

Of course! Why wouldn’t he be?

Marie Daulne aka Zap Mama
(zapmama.com)

Afropean co-editor Yomi Bazuaye and I have also been conversing intermittently throughout the day, resuming our thread at convenient intervals. He calls me aside to record a soundbite for the website on what it means to be Afropean.

The symposium is brought to a spectacular close by the dynamic Zap Mama! and her energetic band. Since it's also Marie's birthday, the show has an even more celebratory feel. Between shaking my stuff I converse with Johny properly for the first time since I arrived.

You must do this again. I plead.

JP assures me it’s not going to be a one-off.

It’s close to midnight. This cross-cultural Cinderella has a tram to catch back to her Airbnb and a return coach to Strasbourg in the morning. I’ll miss out on the alternative tour of Belgium Johny has organised, to my chagrin.

I reflect on this intense and intellectually exhilarating weekend. It’s been a good while since I felt so completely in my element; fraternising with and learning from like-minded acquaintances and strangers. This is Afropean living at its best.

Part 1.

*Some names have been changed.