Rites, Rituals and Milestones

7 min. read 

Image taken from Wedding Sparrow

The month of May is engulfed in busyness and significant events before I know it. Most notably, I return to the UK for the wedding of a dear friend, Winston. It’s such a special occasion that sis flies in for it from East Asia. Mum – an ‘adopted’ auntie of Winston’s - is also invited and thrilled at the prospect.

The trip has been on our radar for several months.

By the time the travel date rolls round, I’m in another deep life funk. I need the excuse to step away from the impasse in Belgium. What better reason than to celebrate with Winston and his soon to be bride, Shingai. I have already had the privilege of meeting this quietly remarkable woman last Autumn. I envisage myself appropriating her as a friend by virtue of their union.

Winston is from the Midlands, Shingai London-born and bred. To my great relief, the wedding will also be London-based. For entirely selfish reasons, it’s a load off not having to consider further travel and accommodation costs.

I book my ticket with a view to being gainfully-employed and having to work from home during the break. Since that doesn’t materialise, I’m left with a few extra days in London town. On the outbound journey, I arrive too late for plebs like me to board the train. It’s the first – and I pray only – time this has occurred. I underestimate the timing of the commute and encountering issues in transit. To my disgust, I learn that Eurostar’s early-boarding requirement has nothing to do with safety. The rules are different for those affluent enough to pay for business class.

Fortunately, I am able to rebook on the next train without extra cost, although it means arriving at St. Pancras very late.

The first few days of the trip are largely devoted to putting the finishing touches to our individual wedding styles. I’ve decided to go in traditional West African attire. My cream and violet outfit is already good to go. Little do I know mum and sis have been conspiring on how best to accessorise me.

On the morning of the wedding itself, our best laid plans to make the ceremony on time go awry. It takes substantially longer to prepare than we anticipate. Sis helps me and mum with some final make-up flourishes. The results are pretty spectacular, if I must say so myself. Our cab pulls up to the church just as the bride is making her entrance to Boyz II Men’s version of Ribbon in the Sky. We’re not the only stragglers who are made to drop back, so that we’re not caught on camera during this magical moment.

We’re permitted to make a mercifully discreet dash upstairs to the gallery. We spot Winston down below, dressed in an unconventional groom suit. Good for him. No hint of hesitation on his part regarding the commitment he’s about to make.

The building is filled to the rafters. The jubilation is palpable. Guests whoop and cheer as if we’re at a rock concert. With Winston and Shingai both being musically inclined, it’s no surprise that their guests are also. The officiating minister bursts into song at some point, demonstrating his own mellifluous tenor. I spot superstar choir director, Karen Gibson, amongst the crowd. A small (professional) Gospel group leads the praise and worship. I’m in my element as the harmonies from the audience sore up effortlessly. It’ll be the same during the reception.

The euphoria is tempered by a memorial segment dedicated to the couple’s late fathers, Winston only losing his dad a few months prior.

During the sermon(s), there’s more talk about wifely submission than is comfortable. (Funny how ministers readily overlook the same scripture’s admonition for couple’s to submit mutually.) As the couple are about to kiss, sis reaches for her phone to immortalise the moment. It dawns on her that the device has slipped out whilst leaving the taxi. Initially quite Zen about the temporary loss, she’ll become less serene as the day wears on. It’s a lot of palaver arranging the phone's return, which will have to wait for later that weekend.

Aside from this mini-drama and the cold overcast weather, it’s a glorious day. Mum, sis and I have made it on to the guestlist for the reception many miles away, in deepest darkest North London. It’ll take us the best part of an hour to get back by cab at the end of the night.

Caribbean delicacies and much joyous singing and dancing await. The reception overruns by two and a half hours; a surfeit of speeches, spontaneous merriment before the dancefloor is officially open, and so on. Please bear with us, Winston implores, This is nearly 40 years in the making.

We’re seated at a table with Winston’s old university friends, including Tonderayi; his now married-ex and (by coincidence) mutual friend of Shingai. Tonde and I have met and spoken several times. She once provided graphic design support way back when I used to run musical showcases in the Big Smoke. We’ve lost touch over the years, however. Given the current life season I’m in, I’m reluctant to engage in much conversation.

(image courtesy of Flawless Food)

In many ways, this characterises the day. Bitter-sweet. On one hand, it’s a wonderful occasion. Winston and Shingai are impressive in their own right but together, they are positively dynamic. The amount of love for them in the room attests to that. I can only imagine how much of the community their union will bring together. They are those kind of people. They already have almost 20 godchildren between them. They claim it comes from being single for so long. (Not that that theory seems to have applied to yours truly).

I admire what a well-rounded, good-natured individual Shingai is from the little I’ve observed. Hearing her share part of her story during the reception is a personal highlight. She had all but given up on settling down just before she and Winston became an item. The epic tale of how they came together- several years in the making – reads like a rom-com.

The party element of the reception does not disappoint, thanks to a canny DJ spinning Gospel, classic R&B, Drum & Bass, Dancehall, a slither of Garage and (too little) Afrobeats. He challenges us to a marathon stint of the Electric Slide/Candy dance as he switches tracks. I participate with gusto. It's been too long.

Whilst waiting for our taxi home, I hear strains of Tevin Campbell’s Can We Talk? and rush back in. Unusually, the couple aren’t in a hurry to leave. They’re on the dancefloor, mixing and mingling well into the evening. At almost midnight, the venue are desperate to kick us out. The wedding cake remains decorative as the catering staff refuse to cut and distribute.

Bitter-sweet. The day is also marked by those who could not be there. Sis contemplates the passage of time, whilst watching a group of teenagers on the dancefloor. That was me once, she ponders. Christenings, funerals, weddings, significant birthdays... life's milestones will do that to you. It turns out to be that kind of trip overall. Many a pensive moment. 

I consider all I hoped to be and I’m yet to attain at this stage of life.

Despite my best efforts to cultivate self-care and inner-healing, concern for me is written all over mum and sis’ face. There are a few tense family interactions, for which I cannot solely be blamed.

I do manage to catch up with a number of other good friends. The old question of in whom I should be investing re-emerges when an already elusive acquaintance finds it hard to commit to a meet-up, yet again. 

Nonetheless, when all is said and done, I’ll remember that the wedding itself was a joy. The sweet overrides the bitter. I don’t wish to make it all about the marriage, as much as it is a cause for celebration. It's more than that. Thinking of Winston and Shingai is an instant pick-me-up, especially during despondent moments. It’s not been an easy road for either of them but they’ve remained kind and generous individuals. Whether or not they found it each other, they deserve every happiness. It’s an encouraging story of God’s faithfulness, as well as their own integrity.

Ostende

Apart from weddings and catch-ups, I also make it to a couple of political and economic conferences whilst in town.

Sis and I return to our respective adoptive homes on the same day, purely by chance. Mum escorts sis to Heathrow (since she has further to go). I make it back to Brussels hassle-free, the low level dread of the grind notwithstanding.

On the other side of the Channel, in between the continued job hunt, my political and cultural excursions remain undiminished. After a late and underwhelming spring, the weather is clement throughout this period. 

A few days after my return, I join the Intal group for a decolonised guided trip around Ostende. The following weekend, Flora - a member of Intal - talks me into attending another (this time poorly-organised) meeting on her behalf, arranged by a partner association. It also happens to be the first day of Brussels’ annual Jazz weekend. I’m not best pleased that the meeting overruns and eats into my other evening plans. By the time I make it out, what's on offer doesn't inspire. 

A couple of days later, I’ll be compensated with a rewarding experience at the Bourse free stage in the company of Strasbourg's Emile Londonien’s Jazz-Funk trio and R&B act K.zia, daughter of the renowned Belgo-Congolese artist, Zap Mama.

That same weekend, there are more fun and frolics to be had at the Core Festival, tickets for which are a gift from sis. 

I count all these simple pleasures amongst my blessings. Thank God for small mercies.

Fête de la Musique...and Other Musical Adventures: Part 2

Abbaye de Senones

Part 1

The day after my anti-climactic experience at the Fête de la Musique, I participate in my first wedding performance with HRGS choir. The ceremony is to take place at the Abbaye de Senones, deep in the Vosges mountains located in Alsace’s famous twin region, Lorraine. That morning, the weather on the Strasbourg side of the border is not at all promising for the happy occasion.

Stalwart HRGS member Elisabeth and her husband, Gilles-Pierre give the choral delegation a lift in their people carrier. We take the scenic route in every sense of the word; spending a good deal of time getting lost in ghost towns and villages in the shadows of the Vosges. All the better to enjoy the sumptuous landscape. I’m knackered but fight to keep my eyes open to take in the scenery, as well as avoid any snooze-related embarrassment. Apart from the light-hearted squabbles in front about the unreliability of the GPS, it would be a placid ride. That is, except for the harping of contralto Inès. Any obnoxiousness I’ve observed from afar isn’t purely down to my uncharitable side. In this confined space her screeches- becoming more shrill with each mile- are a true test of the patience. I assume she thinks being loud is synonymous with charisma. She wouldn’t be the first.

At last we arrive at the ruins of the Abbaye, where more stunning views of the surroundings await. The weather has also cheered up.

After several years together, Julien and Josette are finally tying the knot. The civil ceremony is to take place under a portico in one of the Abbaye's vast yards. The choir perform in between speeches and the exchange of rings. I admire the efficiency of the proceedings. The whole affair takes less than an hour. Not at all like a black wedding, I mutter to Elise, mischievously. The bride and groom aren't hours late, for a start. Neither are the guests, quips Elise.

Suffice to say it’s a mono-cultural affair. Scarcely a brown face amidst friends and family. Our multicultural choir adds most of the diversity.

Lifelong friends and the couple's mothers give brief and emotive speeches on the journey J+J have walked together.  It occurs to me that if I were to marry, I have no childhood friends left to bear witness to my journey. C’est la vie. Weddings are a strange cocktail of solemnity and celebration. Nothing like these community rituals to provoke contemplation. 

If Josette is moved, Julien is beside himself. He tries to restrain the tears. By the middle of the ceremony, he’s sobbing with red-faced abandon. Julien’s cheeky groomsmen offer something strong to drink to steady his emotions. When his five-year old daughter gives her short, tiny-voiced tribute, it’s all over. He even gets Inès going. I start to thaw towards her. I ask if she’s all right and compliment her rich-chocolate complexion.

On the couple's request, the choir’s repertoire is also a mix of the solemn and festive. From Cohen's Hallelujah to an especially jubilant rendition of This Little Light of Mine at the end. I manage not to fluff my I Have a Dream solo this time. After, the service I’m starved. Thankfully, there’s an abundance of tasty appetisers that amount to a banquet; if consumed in the large quantities that we do.

On the way back to rainy Strasbourg, choir co-director Evan, Elise and I humour ourselves with impromptu Karaoke. Our unpredictable repertoire encompasses anything from Queen, Tina Turner, The Commodores, Janet Jackson, Stevie Wonder, The Sister Act 2 OST, Celine Dion, The Verve and New Jack Swing. These 90s babies make me feel old. They are surprisingly au fait with some vintage hits but have significant gaps in their knowledge of tunes from the decade when they were born.

I savour this moment of pure, unexpected pleasure. Elise will be leaving us soon to start life again the South. I don’t know either exactly when my Strasbourg adventure will end. I sense nonetheless that it's imminent.

That weekend, I have one more musical stop courtesy of the annual summer festival Pelouses Sonores. En route to collect mum from the coach station for a week long visit on Sunday, I pass by Le Parc des Deux Rives near Port du Rhin for some Afrofunk. The stickly front-man dresses like Fela and writes and arranges tunes like JB.

Pelouses Sonores is one of the few – if only – occasions where I’ve witnessed Strasbourgeois truly throw off inhibition en masse to shake their (often rhythmically-challenged) selves. Arms and legs flailing, lit cigarettes in the air and pre-pubescent girls doing somersaults in the corner.

I make the most of the liberated ambiance to shimmy a little myself.

When the band leader starts to exhort the practice of voodoo however, this church girls takes it as her cue to exit.