Off the Grid...kind of....Part II

 3 and 1/2 min. read

Part I

In addition to my health issues, 2025 has brought with it a body-snatcher style shift in my landlord, Kojo’s behaviour. Up until recently, we've had a decent rapport. Based in South-East Asia, he passes by every couple of years to check on the place, normally during the festive period. He seems pretty pleased after his Christmas 2024 visit, as he did when he popped by two years earlier. I inform Kojo that the cooker went on the blink temporarily on Christmas Day. Kojo casually suggests I have the hob replaced, since it must be getting on a bit. Seeing the modest size of the T.V. (which he bought himself), he offers to purchase a new one - practically insists. I decline. I never watch it, I explain, it’s for my guests. 

On the other side of the New Year, let’s just say things take a sudden and inexplicable turn for the worst. I know at some point over the festive period, Kojo has suffered a bereavement. It's not clear to me if this has happened before he passes by in December - and he was in a state of shock and/or denial during his visit - or if it's occurred shortly after. In my more charitable moments, I try to be understanding; albeit imperfectly. Kojo's sudden about-turn makes it very hard. The acrimonious exchanges and borderline harassment add a great deal of unneeded stress to my already anxiety-inducing health issues. Fortunately, Kojo and I have arrived at some kind of entente-cordiale, although both acknowledging that my occupancy of the flat is less and less tenable. I will need to find alternative accommodation by the time my lease is up in early Autumn.

Thank God, my studies have been an oasis of sorts. The first quarter of 2025 has brought some encouraging news in the form of several of my abstracts being accepted for various conferences. I nevertheless feel I’m always running behind time. It hasn't helped that my recent health problems have slowed me down. 

One afternoon in late February, I attend a session with a new therapist, Sirin.  I’ve started seeing her in parallel to my (now less frequent) appointments with Sandrine.  Walking-dead exhausted, I catch Sirin up on all the drama that’s been going on lately. She advises I speak to my GP about taking a brief period off university to recuperate. I’m initially reluctant. My studies help redirect my thoughts elsewhere. Plus, I don’t want to fall further behind. Sirin points out that it’s better to take a break now as a pre-emptive measure, than eventually suffer burnout and lose a lot more time in the long run.

I come to appreciate this timely wisdom. When I do eventually see my GP, the pressure at uni has started to increase - as has my anxiety - with various deadlines. I must also find a way to pay for all those conferences fees and related expenses. That begins to weigh on me.

I begin to feel a familiar existential anger about moving from one crisis to another. 

'Lord, Jesus. Can't I catch a break?'

My thoughts become very dark at times.

Meanwhile, my supervisor and my teammates are supportive when I inform ahead of my absence.

My sick leave overlaps in part with Lent, as well as my first 2025 trip to the UK. It's a low-key, bus(wo)man's affair; part study and work, and part meeting up with a select few friends whom I haven't seen in a good while. I’ve already sensed that God wants me to slow down during the Lenten period- and beyond. Stubborn as I can be, if life didn’t intervene, it would be harder for me to do it of my own accord.

(c) Elena Mozhvilo

Since my PhD began last summer, I’ve been struggling with fitting the rest of my life around it. I've known several folk who've juggled doctorates with marriage, children and/or full time jobs. I assumed that, as a single person with no dependents, a PhD would surely be adaptable to my schedule. Not quite.

I once heard a pastor from my UK church advise: 'Don't compare yourself to freaks of nature'.

It’s the opposite to what happened when doing my MA. I forewarned my acquaintances at the time that I’d probably go off the radar quite a bit. Instead, my activities continued pretty much as normal until the last six months. I presumed the same dynamic would apply to my PhD. I willed it to. I have so many commitments that are close to my heart, particularly in the activist space and social action.  Some of these open up incredible opportunities to meet and learn from those who have already made a difference. In February for example, I have a great conversation with one-time anti-Apartheid activist, vocal anti-Zionist Jew and Keir Starmer's constituency nemesis, Andrew Feinstein at Intal's annual political education weekend - or Campus.

 I also want to make quality time for friendships; established and embryonic alike, not to mention a glut of cultural events I'd like to attend. Alas, something has to give. When I mention at the start of the year that time management will be a priority in 2025, my sis warns, You can’t simply add your PhD on top of an already busy schedule. Her words echo in my head.

Recent circumstances have accelerated the re-evaluation of how I distribute my time; negotiating what to maintain, reduce or put on hold until further notice. I know that self-care is central to any plan to make the world a better place. If I burn out, I can't show up for anybody. However, it remains a tricky and, at times, painful process. I have outgoing inclinations. Yet, haunted by Sirin and my sister’s admonitions, I’m aware it’s a necessary process too. Notwithstanding the numerous medical appointments or a problem landlord, I have a busy year ahead; purely on the academic front. 

That brings me full circle to my hiatus from this blog. Prior to recent crises, I would be content to meet my minimum of one post per month, all things considered. At the moment, I can’t guarantee that. My primary blog, I Was Just Thinking, as well as my editorial duties over at Afropean.com take precedence. That said, out of necessity, I'm also scaling back on those preoccupations to some degree. 

The recalibration is ongoing. It might be that some months I’m quite active on these pages followed by several weeks -if not longer - of radio silence.  Either way, it felt rude to proceed without any notice. 

So, until…whenever?

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.

Festive Limbo

 8 min. read

As the year draws to a close and I anticipate the luminous transformation of Brussels, I detect a disheartening trend. In an apparent bid to adapt to punishing energy costs, many of the city’s communes -or boroughs/districts - have minimised the decorative festive cheer. Where there are Christmas lights, they are not lit on a daily basis. Some neighbourhoods have delayed installation, reduced or dispensed with decorations altogether. I’m shocked and disappointed to see the Avenue Toison D’Or, near Louise – previously one of my preferred spots in Brussels for a Christmas stroll – is still dim after dark in early December. 

It’s not all in my head. 

Apart from central Brussels – where the Christmas market is concentrated – and sporadic illumination elsewhere, local authorities are making a conscious decision to save on electricity. It’s unsurprising but nonetheless a little depressing. I can’t be the only one who derives a morale boost from such simple pleasures. 

It also strikes me as ironic. I expected these austere measures during the first year of the pandemic. In 2020, I was pleasantly surprised that the City still made a concerted effort to brighten up an otherwise sedate Yuletide under lockdown. After travel restrictions put paid to plans for my mum to visit over Christmas, I found solace wandering the semi-deserted, albeit well-illuminated, streets of Brussels. Similarly, it was a silver lining in December 2021.

I'd argue we need even more reasons to be cheerful in 2022, despite the Pandemic not presently dominating our lives as much as it did. It’s been an arduous 12 months, amidst an already relentless start to a new decade. Energy crisis or not, this is not the time to dim the brightness. 

Light represents hope. God knows, we all could do with a lot of that right now.

As December nears, the weight of disappointment hits me with unexpected force. It’s not as if I am unaware of all that has gone before. It’s just the realisation of its duration sparks a fresh wave of grief for all that could have been. We hear of a bad mental health day or week. How about a Bad Mental Health year. Help me out here, people. I know I’m not the only one. I sense a collective existential heaviness, and I pray every day it will lift somehow.

Whilst I do my best to avail myself of good resources, continue counselling sessions and apply helpful practices, I have often found myself in a dysregulated and/or lachrymose state.

I have a low level dread as Christmas approaches. God willing, my holiday will be split between Belgium and the UK. Yet my budgetary limitations make me nervous. I am never one to spend outlandishly at this time of year but there still needs to be room to manoeuvre.

Brussels' Plaisirs d'Hiver

To not be consumed by the gloom, as usual I stay busy with as many meaningful activities as I can find. I carry on my shifts at the Red Cross. I attend training sessions to become a volunteer for an excellent organisation that supports women and trans-people in the sex trade, providing safe havens for those desiring to leave it. I join a brilliant, season-appropriate webinar about life under occupation in modern Bethlehem, and the long and rich history of Christian Palestinians. 

Clothilde, Agnès and I attempt to meet again for another sing-along. Unfortunately, Clothilde’s hectic schedule makes this impossible in the short-term. 

In the meantime another of Agnès acquaintances, Andrea, is keen to join the fun. 

Alas, it really isn’t the same without Clothilde. Her sunny disposition is missed, as are her notable musical gifts. Andrea gives us a warm welcome at her family home, and I steal a cuddle from her adorable young daughters. It’s nevertheless an underwhelming experience. Andrea doesn’t have much of a voice and poor musical instincts. Bref, it feels more like work than fun. When Agnès seeks to recreate that particular set-up, I politely decline. I’d rather we meet in our original trio, even if that proves sporadic for now.

Meanwhile, I am still debating whether to join the Gospel choir where all three of us first convened. I sit in on yet another rehearsal, thinking if I catch the chorale on a different day with a slightly different constitution, I might be more convinced. I am not. Membership is not free either. Even if it were, I still wouldn’t be that enthused. The group lacks the soulfulness associated with the genre and message. They are a Gospel outfit in name but an average-sounding chamber choir in execution. Not that I have much to choose from. There are so few options for this sort of thing in Brussels.

I need to face it. In the absence of a decision, a decision has been made. I feel bad. The choir director is kind and easygoing. The ambiance is friendly and the members welcoming...

...In any case it’s there, on my radar, if the urge to sing in a communal context is compelling enough for me to set aside my reservations.

Speaking of the Gospel, I endeavour to stay connected to my spiritual family in Belgium; in particular the midweek house gatherings. One evening when we’re due to meet at Karin’s, I’m in an especially foul mood; as dark as the cold December night. I am feeling atypically unsociable. I am running late to dine with the family before other guests arrive. Karin says the kids are looking forward to seeing me. I too miss them but fear I don’t have the emotional energy to hide my misery. 

When I arrive at the family home in Schaerbeek, the streets are in a state of happy chaos. Residents of Moroccan extraction shout ecstatically, toot their car horns and set off fireworks. I'm guessing it's to commemorate another successful World Cup match. I've not otherwise paid attention to the international tournament. 

The reaction this time is more wholesome compared to the riots that erupted after Morocco’s victory over Belgium a few weeks prior. I do admire the way Belgo-Moroccans so readily show allegiance to their roots. The few times in my youth that I was caught up in World Cup fever, and prioritised support for African teams over that of the national England team, it was treated as some sort of betrayal. One week later, Morocco's unsuccessful showdown with former colonisers, France will end the dream of an African World Cup victory on this occasion.

(Le Soir)

For now, the mayhem is prolonged. The incessant noise prevents Karin’s oldest, Amos, from falling asleep. At least I am able to wish the little ones goodnight whilst they’re being tucked in by their dad, Felix.

The group bible study is postponed yet again. Too few members are available or are running late, according to Karin. Felix is preoccupied with another World Cup game. 

I have no regrets, however, about surmounting my grouchiness to spend some time with Karin and anybody else who drops by. 

On the way home, a hop and a skip from my front door, a young savage spits on me when I don’t allow him to force his way through the metro turnstile behind me. For days, I self-remonstrate for not having made a speedier getaway.

That weekend, on a bitterly cold Saturday afternoon, the church house group reunite to hand out meals and some festive cheer to rough sleepers and refugees. The sense of teamwork and goodwill abound, if I must say so myself. Out and about doing the distribution at Gare du Nord, I notice a couple of regulars from the Red Cross. Whilst there’s the odd wariness amongst some we approach, the lunches and hot drinks are largely well-received.

Sundays are proving tough on the old emotions. The harder these last months have been, the more difficult I find it to attend main services at Fresh Wine Ministries (FWM). It requires a mental and emotional energy that can be taxing at the best of times. Two Sundays in a row are especially rough. My heart is heavy from relational disappointments, to which I am especially sensitive these days. 

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the few good friends that I’ve found out here. I wouldn’t exchange them for the world. Yet, try as I might, I can’t ignore a relational deficit elsewhere. My modest friendship circle can only provide so much.

I make tentative steps towards befriending an impressive young woman from FWM called Albertine. She's gentle, cultured, well-informed and a dead-ringer for a young Lisa Bonet. Girl-crush time. 

We make plans for a musical outing after church one Sunday. She ghosts me, without so much of a word or an apology.

 Thankfully, my friend Em comes through that evening as planned. We make our way to another free concert at Jazz Station. 

Even whilst appreciating the band, it’s an effort for me to hold it together. My longstanding fears of abandon have been realised too frequently of late. Em can relate. She routinely shares about her disenchantment over some friendship or romance gone wrong. We both have a tendency to go all in too prematurely, and are learning to hold back for the sake of self-preservation. 

That evening, I hope to sing some of the blues away during the post-show jam session. A Jazzy interpretation of my seasonal favourite, God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, would be my first choice. Failing that, a rendition of Donny Hathaway’s This Christmas. Unfortunately, the young cats on duty have too limited a repertoire – or are too unwilling to think outside the box - to comply. Em and I don’t hang around for too long.

The next week, I’m spinning out over some up-in-the-air arrangements to attend a River Jazz Festival gig with Jens. I plan to go with or without him. It’s just frustrating as heck getting a straight answer from him. I don’t know Jens well enough to discern if this is a pattern. I suspect he's also not in the best psycho-emotional state but with only scant communication, I cannot be sure. 

I repeat: I’m still tender. I acknowledge I need to be gracious but again, to muster the energy... 

I want to feel safe in any budding friendship, in order to build trust. Evasiveness and/or poor organisation rattles me. 

Jens drops out last minute, citing ice on the road. I see his text just before the curtain call. I’m not buying it.

I throw myself into the energetic set to defuse my irritation. 

After the show, I take a leisurely walk around the surrounding area – famous for the European institutions. Fortunately, this neighbourhood has not lost its festive vigour. 

The next day I’m still worked up over Jens’ no-show. 

I leave agitated voice messages for sis, explaining my disgruntlement. She’s sympathetic on one hand. Yet she warns that in my current state of mind, I could blow a mere slight completely out of proportion. It has also occurred to me that my perspective is distorted.

That Sunday, after another emotional church service, I walk around Parc Woluwe to calm my nerves. I have my good friend Brenda’s birthday celebrations to attend that afternoon. I must expunge all the killjoy out of me first.

I alternate between listening to my trusty Christmas mix, singing Gospel tunes and weeping. Pale blue skies and watery winter sunshine overlook the vestiges of an autumnal scene. It’s a necessary and cathartic exercise. I’m robust enough to attend Brenda’s low key bash wearing a smile. A cosy environment, classy decorations, a simple but delicious spread and - of course - la chaleur humaine await.

Soundtrack: MLDE by Marxist Love Disco Ensemble, Personal Christmas Mix, California Holiday by Kadhja Bonet.

I'm signing off here for 2022. Wishing you all a peaceful and light-filled Christmas/Festive season.

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