Wind of Change Part I

5 min. read

Whilst I have indeed been quiet on these pages of late, life has been anything but.  In the weeks going on months that have elapsed, I’ve squeezed in a refreshing if hectic trip to the UK, visiting cities and people I hadn’t seen IRL since before the pandemic. As has become my post-lockdown tradition, I purposely schedule the break to coincide with Mothering Sunday in the UK. The day itself is lovely. I accompany mum to her church where I receive a guest-of-honour welcome, not to mention an unexpected gift. In the evening, on mum’s suggestion, we dine at a popular new-ish Turkish restaurant in the neighbourhood that comes with her hearty stamp of approval. Given that I’m usually more of a fan of Levantine cuisine than my mother, that says a lot. The establishment is heaving with activity. A lone vocalist plays inventive acoustic guitar covers, in between choice late 90s/early 2000s R&B being blasted through the speakers.

 A few weeks later, mum will spend a week and a half with me for the Easter period. It’s a relatively smooth trip but for a fairly heated set-to that is settled within an evening. Highlights include a moving Good Friday service at Holy Trinity Brussels that has us both in tears, and a visit to Ghent; mum’s first, my second. We continue our custom of signing up for a walking tour of the city, which gives me a renewed appreciation for it. I wasn’t all that impressed when I passed by for the first time in 2016. I realise that back then, I hadn’t really seen Ghent proper. If the guide seems a tad disconnected at the start, he becomes more committed as the tour progresses.

A major snag is the town's counter-intuitive layout. Getting from the main station to the city centre is fairly straightforward, the return journey not so much. We are amongst a number of day visitors, roaming around for an inordinate amount of time looking for the bus to take us back. Asking locals is mostly futile. Their English levels are not up to the task (surprisingly for Dutch-speakers) or they are none the wiser. I’m especially frazzled after a frustrating conversation with a hotel clerk who, rather than just admit she can’t assist, wastes my time with instructions of which she herself is not sure. We eventually make it back with the help of some kindly and better informed locals, one of whom explains that the recent modifications to the layout even confuse residents.

Ghent City Centre (courtesy of Visit Gent)

In other news, my activism is infusing my time in Belgium with meaning that I would have otherwise struggled to find. The Intal coordinating teams have entrusted me with increasing responsibility. In March, there are demos for Palestine and against structural racism more widely. I’m also part of the working groups for a forthcoming European election related-event, as well as Intal’s programme for the annual Manifiesta festival in September.

Elsewhere, I have a difficult but necessary conversation with one of my pastors about the church's silence over Israel’s barbaric assault on Gaza. I am given an impetus on meeting Lys, a young woman whom I spot wearing a Keffiyeh at a Sunday service. I’m so heartened and relieved to meet someone at Fresh Wine Ministries openly showing their support for the Palestinian cause, I give her a warm hug.

We both lament the general lack of engagement at FWM. Whenever I do hear the crisis mentioned, say at prayer meetings (which I have been frequenting less for this reason), it’s usually someone with Zionist leanings, whitewashing Israel’s oppression and ignoring the Palestinian plight altogether. (Of course, I don't allow that to pass without a corrective).

Lys intends to speak to Pastor Mike about the church’s lack of response. So do I. Let’s talk to him together. I suggest with enthusiasm...

...Except she means straight after that Sunday service. With all the post-service buzz, it's not the ideal time to have such a heavy discussion, to my mind. I only find out from Lys later by text that she’s already had a word with Pastor Mike. She seems too easily pleased with what sounds like cop-out reasoning. Perhaps Lys doesn’t feel comfortable probing the pastor further. An age difference and linguistic limitations could be a factor.

I feel I have no choice but to meet with Pastor Mike myself. I would like us to speak online but he prefers we convene at church.

In the lead up to the meeting, I am incredibly nervous. I shouldn’t be. Pastor Mike is effusive and easy-going. And yet, it is a highly sensitive subject. On the day itself, in a wonderful show of solidarity, my good friend Karin calls me to bounce off ideas. She credits me for helping her evolve her own understanding around the Palestine issue. I am profoundly grateful for her support.

I also consider it providence that Elodie, a member of my house-group, happens to be hanging around church that afternoon. She’s sympathetic to the Palestinian cause herself, although not the most vocal about it.

Pastor Mike is relaxed and receptive, at least at first. Whilst he remains convivial throughout, there are tell-tale signs that he’s not all that comfortable with the conversation. He insists he needs to collect his children from school, for instance. I assume the meeting is over, only for Pastor Mike not to be in a hurry to leave after all.

At one point, he tells me to ‘climb down off my soapbox’. It’s said in a jovial tone but I don’t think it’s wholly meant in jest.

I like to believe nevertheless, that it's an instructive conversation for both of us.

Pastor Mike’s views in private on any number of issues are comparatively more radical than he lets on in public. Our discussion is too extensive to go into detail here but it does cover a lot of themes beyond the Middle East to encompass the DRC, double-standards over Ukraine and anti-migrant sentiments. We converge on a number of topics, even if our approaches are significantly different. Some of our conversation takes place in Elodie’s presence. I’m mildly irritated by what seems to be an inconsistency in what she says when Pastor Mike is in the room and when he’s not.

I encourage Pastor Mike to be more explicit about social justice matters as well as other delicate issues that affect congregants, especially those on the margins. He says that it shouldn’t all come down to him. I agree. However, he does have a platform and it contributes to church culture.

I don't attend service at FWM the following Sunday but I'm told that Pastor Mike's sermon reflects some of what we've discussed. Several weeks later, a day after Iran responds militarily to Israel bombing one of their consulates, Pastor Mike begins his sermon with intercessory prayers for the nations including Palestine, Congo and Sudan; a direct application of a suggestion made during our meeting.

Soundtrack: Ye Ankasa|We Ourselves by Jembaa Groove, Grupo Ébano by Grupo Ébano

Next Stop: All Change

 3-4 min. read

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life, Destiny, God had other ideas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soundtrack: Volcano by Jungle

Hope Springs Eternal

 

7 min. read

March turns out to be a funny old month (she says, euphemistically). Most notably, my job hunt stalls completely, not for lack of trying. Whilst they have not all made me jump for joy, I did have a spate of interviews in the preceding winter months that gave me cause for cautious optimism, perhaps unwisely. Nothing but tumbleweed and crickets in March. The only responses I receive are negative and, worse still, for roles with which I could really engage. 

One was personally recommended by an activist I've met more than once, at various events related to migration rights. He’s well connected to the recruitment team and offers to put in a good word for me. I’m initially hesitant, as I don’t want any special favours. I merely ask that he informs them I’ve applied. I also happen to have met a number of the organisation's board members in the recent past. I apparently made a positive impression and I hope this will stand me in good stead if/when my name pops up. 

None of this works to my advantage. My acquaintance is seemingly as surprised as I am that my application doesn’t go beyond the initial stage.

Clearly, this is all very demoralising. I’m due another existential crisis and it doesn’t fail to show up in the first month of spring. A planned trip to Blighty for Mothering Sunday weekend thus comes as a mercy. Pre and post-COVID, my trips to the UK have proved to be a solace when I’m going through a difficult season on the Continent. This is no exception. Without a herculean effort on my part, I’m able to suspend most of my malaise. The comfort of being ‘home’; mum’s welcome and quality time spent with her and old friends… A little goes a very long way.

 Continuing my resolve not to overload my London diary, I plan select few meet ups around Mother’s Day, which is completely set aside for mum. I accompany her to her own church that morning, where I’m treated like the guest of honour. Afterwards, it’s back home for an indulgent Continental brunch and siesta. We’re back out that evening for a screening in the Greenwich area of Broker; a beautiful and affecting film with, incidentally, a strong motherhood theme. I have booked a table for two at a new Turkish restaurant nearby, which turns out to have a fantastic menu and solid customer service. 

Any morose presentiments about going back to Belgium are mitigated by the knowledge mum will be joining me in a couple of weeks for Easter.

(image courtesy of The Bouqs. Co)

I return to Brussels a few days later. To help adjust to the grind, I have scheduled a life-coaching session with a new acquaintance, Rev. Pieter Vanderveld. We meet providentially during a visit from my good friend, Vinoth Ramachandra, who is booked as a guest speaker at the Anglican church where Rev. Pieter ministers. On hearing that I’m in transition, the clergyman reaches out to me of his own accord, offering his free life coaching service - or Christilience. I’m intrigued and assure him I’ll reflect on it. After a few of the aforementioned disappointments, it makes perfect sense to avail myself of the opportunity. It could be a potentially useful addition to my monthly therapy appointments.

 Rev. Pieter is a calm and reassuring presence. He wastes no time  putting me in touch with previous clients who have been in a similar situation in the past. To their credit, a number of them promptly reach out with support, encouragement and information about available posts.

Elsewhere, I continue to nurture my socio-cultural interests and pursue spiritual nourishment. Musical reprieve awaits me at the Afro Jam in Marolles and related events around town. The weekend of Palm Sunday, I attend a timely one-day silent retreat, organised by the same team responsible for the long weekend in Namur last summer. There is no extended retreat planned this year. All the more reason to seize this chance. To my pleasant surprise, the one day retreat is held not too far from my neighbourhood. The sprawling grounds are impressive enough not to be marred by the miserable weather. We marvel at how this rustic oasis remains hidden in a busy city. 

Quite a few familiar faces are present; past and current members of my church, FWM. 

Rather awkwardly, a former potential recruiter is also in attendance. She happens to be a parishioner of Rev. Vanderveld as well. It’s a small world. Too small. Nevertheless, the short retreat proves to be a safe place to be vulnerable and gently wrestle with God in peace and quiet. (Mis)perceptions of the Almighty are a thread that run throughout the day. It chimes well with the current season in which I find myself on my spiritual and emotional healing journey.

The following day, I attend the second part of a bilingual (French/Dutch) political education weekend organised by Intal. The conference is aimed at those interested and/or engaged in decolonisation activism and international solidarity. I have Lisa, another new acquaintance, to thank for that invitation. Lively and stimulating conversation abounds, as do the food provisions. I find myself having heated discussions about the role of China in Africa, with me holding a much more sceptical position than many other participants, including Lisa. Before, during and after the conference I connect with fellow political travellers. 

That’s not to presume we’re all exactly on the same page. One participant -a Caucasian from central America - seems to have a hard time accepting the existence of systemic racism in Belgium, despite racialised Belgians informing her otherwise. 

Later that month, Lisa will invite me to a team meeting in Ixelles where a core group strategises on the regular. Lisa and her comrades go to pains to include me. This is exactly the kind of fillip my activism and political organising needs; gradually moving from absorbing lots of theory to praxis. A similar opportunity has opened up elsewhere with a group of volunteers defending the rights of undocumented migrants targeted at MEPs. I pick up one of their flyers at a solidarity demo. After simply making an observation at one meeting, I am drafted (no pun intended) by one of the organisers into the redaction team for campaign materials.

Mum arrives for Easter break a few days after the Intal conference. Once again, I am surprised by my own relaxed attitude throughout her stay. Even if the results seem to manifest at the pace of an iceberg, my self-care and mental wellbeing routines must be having some positive effect.

It took two Corona-interrupted years for mum to visit me in my new-ish Belgium home but she’s made up for it in a relatively short period. It’s her fourth visit since the summer. That takes the pressure off. I don’t have to pack our itinerary with activities, desperate to show her the main Brussels’ landmarks. Mum therefore has plenty of rest time in between outings. She’s keen to accompany me to the Anglican church in town (Rev. Pieter again) for their special Passion week services. We make it bright and early to Maundy Thursday evening service but only catch the tail end of the Good Friday meditations. Mum takes her sweet time at the latter, immersing herself in the liturgy long after everyone else has vacated the sanctuary. I eventually leave her to it, retiring to the back of the church to collect my own thoughts. That evening mum will also accompany me to a vibrant prayer vigil at FWM. My usually reserved mother prays out loud with boldness. She’s also a hit at FWM on Easter/Resurrection Sunday when I introduce her to fellow congregants yet to meet her.

We head to Antwerp on a rainy Easter Monday for a tour by a knowledgeable and zealous city native. I have been underwhelmed by Antwerp on previous visits. Yet the tour helps me see one of Brussels’ main rivals in a fresh light. It’s well-paced and engaging. After the two-hour ramble, mum and I lunch at the House of Waffles, having had our plans to visit the Cathedral thwarted by a long queue and access only granted on payment. Den of Thieves.

It’s a very different experience the following day at Brussels’ Basilica of Koekelberg. Whilst visitors have to pay for access to the gallery and the panoramic rooftop view of the city, access to the main place of worship is free (as it should be). I first visited the Basilica merely weeks after relocating to Belgium, almost three years ago. Back then, the interior was out of bounds owing to COVID restrictions. It’s taken me too long to return. 

I don’t expect to be so impressed by the imposing structure.  A ‘new’ house of worship (early-mid 20^th Century) compared to more ancient orthodox edifices in Europe, I’m stunned by the Basilica’s internal beauty. It has a warm and inviting luminosity, with modern art flourishes and contemporary twists on stain glass windows. 

The Koekelberg Basilica, Brussels
(stock image)

I contrast this with the gothic grimness of the interior of Strasbourg's Notre Dame Cathedral, as magnificent as its exterior might be. The Koekelberg's dome section reminds me of the Cathedral Santa Maria de Fiore in Florence. It’s easy to while away an hour or two inside, even if you don’t make it to the top where a dizzying view of Brussels’ awaits. With age, I’ve inherited more of my mother’s vertigo. We still brave it all to capture some footage, keeping a safe distance from the (admittedly high-walled) edges. The heavens are kind enough not to rain that afternoon. 

It’s not the case on the final day of mum’s spring trip. It's fortunate that I haven’t planned anything beyond the local before her train departs in the early evening. It’s been a pleasant and restful week. Mum and I seriously play with the idea of extending her stay by a few days but it proves impractical. Not to worry. There’ll be other opportunities, inshallah. The year is still young.

Soundtrack: Agora by Cubo Caixo, Young Hearts and various other projects by Benny Sings, Masego by Masego.

Une Belle Échappée Festive: Part I

5 min. read

Happy 2023, readers.

I write this on the other side of une belle parenthèse festive, spent on both sides of the Channel.

Christmas 2022 was always going to be a homecoming of sorts. For various reasons, it will be the first Yuletide I spend in Blighty since I relocated to mainland Europe, over five years ago. It will also be the first time sis would be leaving Japan in well over three years, for COVID-related reasons, naturally. Japan's travel restrictions have been notoriously stringent, particularly for non-nationals. 

Our reunion trip is therefore months in the making. It has been agreed that mum and sis would join me  in Belgium after we all first converge in the UK to celebrate Christmas Day in mum’s new place. For me, her relocation is one of the few significant positive events of 2022. It’s the sole thing that would convince me to cross the Channel during the peak festive period; otherwise too hectic and travel too pricey.

Sis touches down almost a week before I’m due to arrive. I breathe a heavy sigh of relief. I have been anxious that sis would be stranded en route. Perhaps apprehended by some officious personnel at Narita airport, owing to an obscure and unfulfilled administrative requirement connected to the pandemic. Fortunately, there are no such hitches. 

I make the outbound journey by the very wallet-friendly overnight coach. (Not Flixbus this time. I’m not a masochist.) Nonetheless, despite having switched coach provider, the journey is not entirely smooth. In advance of departure, I receive lots of confusing messages from the company about timetable changes. When the bus does eventually arrive, it departs roughly five hours later than the advertised time. There are only six of us travelling in total. The rucksack of a fellow longsuffering passenger mysteriously disappears. At Calais, we are delayed further when the British authorities detain an elderly gentleman amongst our party. His only luggage is a very large plastic shopping bag. His appearance is so dishevelled, I initially assume he’s one of the rough-sleepers who find shelter in and around Gare du Midi.

Mishaps notwithstanding, we somehow make it to London only a couple of hours later than scheduled.

I have the whole day ahead of me to enjoy quality time with mum and sis. We’ve worked out that this is the first Christmas all three of us have spent together since 2015. 

Sis and I natter away for several hours, in spite of my good intentions to shower immediately on arrival. Ahead of the visit, I anticipate being withdrawn and moody, weighed down by the preceding year. Yet, simply being around my closest family, I automatically feel lighter and am able (largely) to suspend worry. It helps that I have not overloaded my Christmas programme. I have a few choice meet-ups on my itinerary – including a sweet reunion with sis and a couple of our mutual friends. The rest is dedicated to family.

Christmas morning is spent at the one hour special service at my London church, conveniently walking distance from mum’s new home.

Sis announces that she’ll be in charge of the festive menu. True to her word, I’m regularly shooed away from the kitchen. My mum’s brother pops round on Christmas day itself, taking a premium rate cab for his efforts. It’s the turn of her younger sister and her son - my cousin, Israel – to visit on Boxing Day. I confess to some anxiety about spending Christmas with extended family. The holidays are infamous for the strain they can put on relations; all that pressure to be cheery and carefree. Thank God, this is as relaxing a break for which I could hope. Sis has the brilliant brainwave of playing contemporary parlour games whilst we graze on indulgent festive treats and leftovers. Much fun and hilarity ensues. I am especially fond of Head’s Up. Mum is astonished by the gaiety – not to mention competitiveness – of her eldest daughter.

I return to Brussels the following evening, ahead of mum and sis’ visit the next day. It'll be the first time baby girl is visiting me in my new-ish home. She coos admiringly at my flat.

Initially scheduled to spend a week in Belgium, alas, sis and mum are forced to shorten their trip when sis realises she’s made a mistake with her return date to Japan. We jettison plans to visit the famous Christmas market in Lille as well as a day trip to the French capital to reconnect with Paris-based acquaintances. 

The weather is not on our side for much of the stay but it doesn’t faze sis. She adores the leisurely stroll through the Winter Wonders (Les Plaisirs d’Hiver) festival and Christmas market in Brussels’ city centre. She says the light rain lends a romantic air to it all; the festive lights reflecting off the glistening streets. It provides many a great photo opp.

Soundtrack: Best of...2020 Part 1 & 2, Best of...2021 Part 1 & 2

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

Summer Diary: Part 2

 6 min. read

Tues. 5 July: I bump into Guy-the-Braggard again at a language exchange. It's my first time at said event. We lock eyes as he speaks to another guest. I pretend not to know him. Not very Christian, I'm aware. Strange, as I had planned to be honest with him about the bad impression he left a few days ago. Perhaps nobody has called him up on it. Or he surrounds himself with like-minded egos. Try to make amends on leaving but he’s long gone. Otherwise, a good night. Get some French practice and a little Portuguese with a Brazilian woman whose attention Guy has been commandeering earlier. A Scot with whom I recently became acquainted, breaks the news that Rishi Sunak and Sajid Javid have walked out on Boris Johnson’s cabinet.
By the end of the week, coordinated mass resignations force BoJo to quit as PM.

Fri. 8 July: Another rewarding afternoon at the Red Cross PSA Centre. Even at my lowest, it always picks me up. Just to be able to meet, in some small way, the momentary needs of those who have suffered – and continue to suffer – more than I can imagine. I understand it’s only temporary relief and not systemic change. But when that merciless system continues to treat certain migrants and refugees with contempt, I like to believe we play our part in affirming their dignity. Besides, meeting short term needs doesn't mean one can't have their eye on long term transformation.

Today, a healthy café chain has donated posh salads and sandwiches. Warmly received by the beneficiaries. 

Irresistibly cute sisters, Rachel and Celestina are scampering about, very happy with themselves. They're the youngest children of one of the regulars, originally from Albania. There are six older siblings. Their mother is so slight, a strong bowel movement might split her in half, let alone bearing eight children. We're all amazed by this feat.

Rachel insists she’s 7. I'm not buying it. She calls her mum over to confirm. I smile but still not convinced. Rachel is feisty and definitely as sharp as an older child but still...The petite family trait aside, I’d say 4-5 years old, tops.  They have their reasons for concealing her real age.

The RC Centre is en route to my therapist, Sandrine. Recently given to booking sessions the same day I’m in the vicinity. Always an emotional commute. Obligated to pass the neighbourhood of my former Italian friend. Involuntarily stirs all those complex feelings.

The hour flies by. So busy catching up Sandrine on my latest mood dips, don’t get round to the childhood stuff. Still, I’m relieved and grateful to be able to discuss my issues with a professional.

Sat. 9 July: Arranged to meet with Albertina, an acquaintance of Karin who’s involved in disability rights’ campaigns. I'm interested in volunteering opportunities.  It's not as ‘sexy’ as other issues despite the huge number of people living with disabilities worldwide. Often at the back of the queue, even amongst so-called progressives. If the voices of those living with disabilities were at the centre of policymaking, everybody would benefit. Been challenged by an interview I watched not too long ago with advocate Amanda Leduc, where she criticises mere lip service to disability rights without doing the ground work.

Lovely afternoon at a Colombian café with Albertina. Let’s me know the lay of the land vis-à-vis disability campaigning in Belgium. Also an opportunity to hear her own story; her early years in Italy, of how she came to work in human rights, her multilingualism and why she and her Togolese husband relocated to Belgium.

After chat with Albertina, I pass by a funk workshop at Parc Royale. Part of a summer festival. Participants are mainly maladroit Caucasians, excited about discovering rhythm. Tutors are an older African-American and a young Belgian woman. She has a better all-round groove but his popping game is sharper. DJ spins some old school Hip-Hop Funk, including Redhead Kingpin & The FBI's Do The Right Thing. Feels as if I haven’t heard it since Spike Lee’s film of the same name was released. I’m so old, I bemoan.

One of the maladroit Caucasians approaches me for a dance. Apparently, he’s been watching me groove on the sly in my deck chair. I politely refuse. He wonders if I’m shy.  He'd usually be, he confesses. It’s not a question of shyness. What I don’t say is that his over-zealous relationship with rhythm would make for a cringe-inducing dance partnership. I don't burst his bubble, though.

Another dance-related event awaits, at the elaborate beach-themed pop-up bar, Terrasse 02; near Bois-de-la-Cambre. It’s heaving. Most are dressed to the nines. In my usual smart-casual gear and still feel slightly-underdressed. By sheer fortune, I stumble across the activity organiser and a few other guests. Neglectful host... Abandons us to hang out with some mates he knows from Facebook. That’s his style, I'm told. 

A couple of us admire a petite brunette dancing solo, wearing a resplendent coral mini-dress and golden stiletto sandals. 

Seems very content on her own, sipping from her glass of Moet between puffs of successive cigarettes. She warms the dancefloor long before anyone else joins her. She's prematurely aged by sun damage. From the distance, it gives the false impression that she's a much older woman showing the youngsters how to do it.  

She coaxes other ladies on to the floor, doing some suggestive girl-on-girl dancing (clearly for the hetero males in the vicinity). 

I eventually make my way towards the DJ for Daft Punk’s Get Lucky. Speak to Miss Coral-Dress. She confirms she's by herself. Joined by others from our group. We compliment her élan and carefree attitude. It’s for the love of the music. You have to…

...I agree. 

 If Miss Coral-Dress came alone, she doesn’t leave alone; vanishing with an apparent suitor, significantly larger in both height and girth. 

I dance some more and make conversation with a couple of affable guests. A good end to what threatened to be an underwhelming night.

Sun. 10 July: Attend the afternoon service at Trinity Anglican Church for a change of scene. Appreciate the Pan-African style of Praise & Worship. Led by a young woman with a crystalline, baby-doll voice. Gives me a rush of nostalgia as they dust off choruses I haven’t heard in forever. A good break from the Bethel/Hillsongs/Redman Hegemony. Feels as if I interact with God differently, too.

That evening, to stave off the solitary Sunday evening blues, head to Parc Royale for the Kiosk Radio live broadcast. Have Jens to thank for the idea, even though I decide to go without him. 

 Most guests are too busy chatting or poisoning the air with fag and weed smoke to pay attention to music. Whilst waiting for a dance-worthy track, I use the opportunity to practise mindfulness. In the end, I take a leaf out of Miss-Coral-Solo-Dancer’s book and let the rhythm carry me.

Text Jens to thank him for the culture tip. Replies that he’s recovering from COVID. Symptoms began a day after we met at the Brosella festival. Uh-oh.

Terrasse 02 (La Capitale- Sudinfo

Mon. 11 July: After usual morning Zumba and Pilates classes, I catch up with dear friend from Strasbourg days, Gustavo. He asks how I am. I burst into tears. Just received news of another unsuccessful job application. Didn’t realise I was that upset about it. Feeling generally overwhelmed. Gustavo is a man of strong faith and preternaturally easygoing. Says he considers it a privilege that I would cry in his presence. Well, if I had to breakdown in front of somebody...

Some positive news today: I test negative for COVID.

Tues. 12 July: After requesting a GP referral to physio for some tension in my back, have first appointment this afternoon. Expecting a mature gentleman, slightly world-weary (for some reason); stereotypical pale Belgian features. Instead, physiotherapist is an enthusiastic swarthy young gentleman, who happens to be fit in every sense of the word. Great quality skin. Smooth, firm biceps. No tattoos. On one hand, delighted at the thought of a pretty man in his prime giving me a massage. On the other, it’s a heatwave. I’m sweaty. Make-up is running. Worse still, there’s to be no massage. Just strengthening exercises to be practised at home. The kind I’d do in Pilates. Except I’m not appropriately dressed in T-shirt and joggers. Forced to test out exercises in a Baby-T and elaborate summer skirt.

Evening ends more propitiously, thank goodness. Invited round for dinner at Sylvia and Steve’s. Some friends old and new are visiting. In attendance: Charlie, who will be house-sitting whilst Steve, Sylvia and the tribe are on summer hols; the similarly-named Charlene, Steve’s Franco-Belgian language exchange partner (it's the first time they’re meeting offline); Brandon – a childhood friend of Steve’s – and his girlfriend Hannah. Both international school teachers, just moved from Indonesia. Passing through Europe before starting new jobs, somewhere else in East Asia.

The food is sumptuous. A collective effort by the clan. Steve and Sylvia’s eldest, Shireen won’t let us forget it. (Going through the sarcastic insecure phase of adolescence.)

Weather is lovely. The company is great. Meal is healthy. Ideal for my no-meat-on-weekdays policy. Wasn't previously a fan of Indian food but Sylvia could well convert me.

Practise some French with Charlene. Since most of us have a Brit connection, conversation often returns to what’s going on across the Channel; reminiscing about Routemasters and Bendy Buses; lamenting the encroachment of gentrification in big cities, spiralling rent costs and political chaos.

I have to make it work in Brussels, somehow. I think out loud.

Yes you do, chimes in Sylvia.

Soundtrack: My JT Mix, Estrela Acesa by Sessa