Summer in Full Effect: Part 2

 5 min. read

Aerial view of Namur's Citadelle
(courtesy of Ville Namur)

Part 1

Mini-Europe is one of the smoother excursions on mine and mum's itinerary. Others aren't as auspicious. Our plans to take a brief boat trip to enjoy supper at the Chalet Robinson island restaurant (Bois de la Cambre) are scuppered on arrival, for instance. Just as we’re about to board, the boatman informs us a private party has monopolised the premises. Mum and I, a couple on a date and a smattering of others are sent on our way. Trying to reserve in advance doesn’t help either. The restaurant is fully-booked for the rest of the month. 

A day out in Namur is also waylaid for reasons beyond our control. It’ll be my third trip to the Wallonian city and mum’s first. I’m keen to show her the landmark Citadel but this time, unlike my first visit, with the help of professionals. Things are off to a ropey start when the bus to the site shows up late. We’re almost booted off for not having the right change. Although I’ve apprised him of our destination, the driver still does a loop around town and takes us back to our starting point. My memory of the route is too hazy to be of much help. 

By providence, we bump into Yves, a colleague from the Red Cross. Or former colleague, I should say. He left the job almost six months ago. That will explain why our paths haven’t crossed in a while.

 Yves is only too happy to show us the way to the Citadel by foot, serving as a self-appointed tour guide in the meantime. The cityscape starts to become familiar once more, as we cut through side streets. When we eventually arrive at the Citadel, we walk past a young man smoking a crack pipe at the entrance (there’s a depressing motif of disaffected youth around town). At the top, we are told by a slightly sheepish-looking security agent that the venue is unavailable for the day because – wait for it – the local council have booked it for their employees’ summer party. Yves finds this more of an affront than the youngster getting stoned in broad day light. 

I thought in June we were still safe from this kind of disruptive summer madness. 

By now I am hungry or rather, ‘hangry’. I’ve been saving my belly for a post-tour lunch. The day is already fast spent.

 After sweet-talking the security guard into giving him a pass to the private event, Yves changes his mind when we mention we’re off to look for lunch. What initially seemed like Providence is starting to feel like a mixed-blessing. I realise how superficial my working relationship with Yves must have been. I’d always found him affable and easy-going. To an extent, that remains true. He’s also generous with his time as well as money, insisting on paying for our purchases in a local café. On the other hand, Yves is a blagger and a know-it-all. We waste more time than we should because he refuses to admit he's not sure where he’s going. He also overstays his welcome. Whilst I’m already irritable with hunger, he launches into a condescending lecture about the virtues of planning for eventualities and adapting to unexpected circumstances. Don’t even get me started on the mini-debate that ensues when he shares his casual attitude towards his supposedly ‘complicated’ marriage. It wasn’t hard to get along with Yves when I only saw him in fits and bursts at the Red Cross. Spending an entire afternoon with him is another matter.

@The Illusion Museum 
(image by MFD)

Meanwhile, mum sees the cup as half-full. The weather is better than forecast. She’s enjoyed what she has so far seen of Namur and appreciates Yves makeshift tour. My quibbles notwithstanding, I am relieved mum manages to have a good time. 

In contrast to the mishaps, other moments go better than planned. One Sunday we visit my life coach, Rev. Pieter’s parish after a successful morning of bargain-hunting at Midi market. We have a lovely exchange with some of the Reverend’s colleagues after the service, before wandering down to The View Ferris Wheel nearby, close to the Palais de Justice. Mum overcomes her vertigo with surprising ease, to take up my challenge to go on a ride. 

Hopes of getting some takeaway from a Palestinian restaurant in the vicinity fall apart on discovering it's closed, exceptionally. A blessing in disguise nonetheless. Whilst waiting for my order outside another Middle-Eastern restaurant near Grand Place, mum and I are approached by Bailey; a sweet acquaintance who attends my regular church, FWM. Whilst studying, she holds down several jobs, one of which is as a guide at the Illusion Museum. It happens to be just behind where we're waiting. Bailey invites us to check out the attraction for free, in exchange for a positive review.

I initially demure. I'm a little tired and not usually a fan of museums. I'd only go as a favour to Bailey. I suggest we return another day. Mum eventually talks me round and I will not regret that she did. We have so much fun with the tromps-l’ɶil and mind-scrambling gadgets and gizmos, we are the last guests to leave.  Mum will later describe the day as her favourite of that trip.

All in all, she spends just over two weeks with me; her longest visit so far. Towards the end, I feel a familiar funk start to hover. Loneliness crouches at the door, ready to pounce once mum steps onto the Eurostar back to St. Pancras.

Fortunately, I have a few bona fide reasons to be out and about in the coming days and weeks. 

There’ll be more job interviews in the offing. On the socio-political front, there are various seminars organised by or involving Intal to look forward to. I gladly take up the invitation to a post-service lunch arranged by a Japanese couple at FWM. The food is delicious, even if some of the social interaction leaves me fatigued and prone to over-scrutiny. 

Whilst the Afro-Jams in Marolles appear to be on hiatus, I become acquainted with a similar event up the road, hosted by one of its alumni. That weekend I’ll pass by Sylvia and Steve’s before they and the tribe disappear for summer holidays. The next day after church, I’m off to the Brosella music festival at Parc Osseghem. It just about goes ahead, with the local authorities ready to cancel because of stormy weather. When the heavens clear, a modified programme proceeds. 

With the changed timetable and some of the performances I hoped to catch no longer on the roster, it’s a truncated musical excursion. I restlessly sit through some experimental elements I could have done without. Later that evening, settling into my deck chair for a performance by British-Nigerian saxophonist Camilla George, I catch sight of an errant acquaintance, originally from the UK. He's accompanied by his new girlfriend- one of the few other brown faces in the mix -herself a fellow Brit. After months of radio silence on his part, the encounter is a chance to clear the air.

Soundtrack: Sim, Sim, Sim by Bala Desejo + Small Axes by Kris Tidjan.

Summer in Full Effect: Part 1

 4 min. read

Image courtesy of fr.depositphotos.com

The month or so between my last trip to the UK in May and my mum’s next visit to Belgium flies by. Mercifully. Once again, I’m in need of the moral support. I welcome being able to busy myself with hosting. When I have visitors, whilst not completely suppressing my feelings, it serves as a dam to them becoming overwhelming. I’m particularly conscious around mum. She’s naturally wont to take on my burdens. She has been a rock through this season. At the same time, since it's been more protracted than any of us anticipated, I am aware that it’s also started to weigh on her.

Mum’s early summer trip coincides with an especially hectic period in my calendar. The week of her arrival I have various important activities, including an inaugural community event held at my church and an interview all on the same morning.

The interview regards a job for which I've only applied reluctantly. It's brought to my attention by my life coach, Rev. Pieter. His support has been invaluable during this wave of job hunting. He’s relentless in putting me in touch with like-minded individuals, those who know the Brussels work terrain fairly well and/or those who might be able to offer something concrete.

A couple of his Church colleagues are looking for an administrator. The good Reverend knows enough about the position to send me the advert but is not at all involved in the recruitment process. (So much so that he's not even in the loop when I’m shortlisted for an interview.) 

I drag my feet in applying. The salary is modest. I’ve also been doing my best to avoid returning to admin. Recent circumstances nevertheless mean I’ve had to be more flexible in that resolve. In the end, I figure the role can serve as a stop gap, at least for the summer. 

The interview process itself is a confidence boost. The two-man panel gush over my skills and experience, effectively telling me I’m over-qualified. There’s a French language test which seems to go well. On seeing my voluntary experience organising webinars on decolonisation, they embark on a culturally-sensitive conversation about how unrepresentative religious leadership is in Europe (predominantly white and male, when global communities of faith are not). I am pleasantly surprised and (cautiously) impressed that they’re engaging in at least this much self-reflexivity. 

The job has some other attractive components, such as possible lobbying experience. It also turns out to be part-time, which means the salary is proportionally decent for the hours. As the interview concludes, one of the panel remarks that it's been an 'inspiring' conversation. Goodness. 

I am told it could take up to a fortnight to let me know the outcome. Unlike some, in that regard they under-promise and over-deliver, getting in touch after a week to let me down gently. They have chosen a polyglot (probably a Dutch-speaker, which I am not) who also has EU citizenship. There is apparently a legal obligation to prioritise candidates who are still part of The Club. The panel deliver the news in a measured and reassuring email, with the expressed intention of keeping me on their radar. In some ways, mum finds the news more difficult to take than I do. She and sis hoped it would be a good transition role. I am more disappointed in the immediate term. If successful, I’d have been in the rare position of choosing a start date before September. Very few organisations recruit during July and August because of the socially-reinforced lull. That puts paid to my summer job plans, at least for now. 

It helps that mum’s in town. It might have hit me harder otherwise.

Elsewhere I busy myself with the aforementioned community outreach church event. It goes well, in spite of a slow start. I am in and out of the kitchen during proceedings so have to rely on the little I glean directly and the appraisal of other participants. 

Mum’s stay also overlaps with the annual Fête de la Musique in late June. I find a local performance to attend, assuming it’ll be easier to convince mum to tag along. To her credit, she’s game. The concert line-up is less diverse than the previous year. We land upon a showcase for young Brussels-based Hip-Hop artists. After hearing a few acts indistinguishable from the last, it’s difficult to pay attention. We have a good time nonetheless. It’s sunny and warm and the show allows me the opportunity to introduce mum to a part of my locale with which she was not previously familiar.

Mini Europe
(image courtesy of Visit Brussels)

During mum's stay, we also pass by the Mini-Europe theme park in Heysel for the first time. In the shadow of the landmark Atomium edifice, the attraction should really be called Mini-EU – if that. It still features the UK, despite the acrimonious break-up. Under the guise of family fun, it's a most political display.  It is telling that their vision of Europe excludes anybody who is or has not been part of The Club. 

The day is so hot and languid that we spot another guest lying horizontal in the shade of what looks like a small gazebo on the grounds. 

Mum and I take the exhibition seriously, studying our booklets to avoid missing any of the miniature monuments or skipping over the relevant info. After a good few hours and sore feet, on exiting we splash out on the customised photo we took at the entrance with an employee dressed as a tortoise; the attraction’s mascot. Le Pauvre ! I exclaim. That get-up must be punishing in this heat.

Part 2

Soundtrack: Samba em Kigali by Tapioca + Sim, Sim, Sim by Bala Desejo

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.

King Leopold’s Coastal Vanity Project: Reflections on a Decolonised Guided Tour of Ostende

 

Ostende Train Station
(courtesy of Visit Ostende)

5 min. read

I disembark at Ostende station one sunny but fresh Sunday morning in late Spring. The Belgian coastal city has been a source of fascination since author, photographer and founder of Afropean.com, Johny Pitts recommended the documentary filmed here during the last days of Marvin Gaye’s life. The tragic soul man escaped to Ostende whilst trying to wean himself off substances.

Yet despite my interest, in the almost three years since moving to Belgium, this will only be my second time in the seaside town. Both visits have had some political connection. The first was during an intemperate weekend in September 2022, for the international Manifiesta festival. Today, I return for an historical tour of the city through a decolonised lens. The trip has been organised by Intal; an anti-colonial, internationalist peace initiative based in Belgium with partners throughout the Global South. I’ve recently become a member.

These alternative history tours are fairly commonplace in Brussels, where I currently live. The organisers at Intal want to redress the imbalance. I myself am used to doing regular old city tours in countries with heavy imperial baggage. More than once, I have felt frustrated by the scant reference to their colonial past.

An old view of the Royal Chalet, Ostende

The Ostende tour is guided by one Michael Meeuwis; a professor in the department of African Languages and Cultures at Ghent University. Flemish Meeuwis has stayed in the DRC several times; enough to have become proficient in Lingala. He also has an excellent command of French, in which the tour is conducted. Nevertheless, given this is a de-colonial tour, I wonder out loud during an earlier Intal meeting if nobody indigenous to one of Belgium’s former colonies could have led it. I am informed that only Meeuwis has the availability and expertise on Ostende. This says as much as anything about how academia is yet to reckon with its own colonial overhang.

The tour begins at Ostende train station, where Michael recounts the infamous King Leopold II’s ambitions for the old fishing town. His parents, Leopold I and Louise-Marie, whiled away their summers near the sea. Leo Jr wanted to turn the once sleepy bayside village into a coastal city to rival Brighton, Nice and Monaco. He poured the blood money procured from his brutal exploits in the Congo into the town’s infrastructure. Buildings all over Ostende bear the double-L insignia of two generations of Leopolds. Aspects of the cityscape are ‘L’- shaped by design, such was the magnitude of the younger Leopold’s conceit.

Early on in the visit, Prof. Meeuwis highlights the Belgian monarchy’s blood links to that of the UK. Leopold II and Queen Victoria were cousins. Empire was a family business.

In the vicinity of the oft-renovated Ostende casino, running parallel to Marie-José Square, is Leopold II Avenue. Michael mentions that campaigns to have the street renamed in honour of the slain first leader of an independent Congo, Patrice Lumumba, have so far fallen on deaf ears.

Prof. Meeuwis lingers near the bust of Auguste Beernaert; erstwhile Belgian prime minister and Nobel Peace Prize laureate. Beernaert had a turbulent relationship with Leopold II. The two men were initially confidantes, Beernaert believing that the King’s plans in Africa were of a philanthropic, liberating and ‘civilising’ nature (and so many other colonial clichés). Auguste swiftly became disillusioned when the extent of the horrors in the Congo came to light. He went from being the King’s close friend to one of his fiercest critics. During his time as Belgian premier, Auguste attempted to mitigate some of the violations by officially recognising the Congoleses’ human rights in parliament. It was a mere sticking plaster, admits Prof. Meeuwis, but it reveals how much Beernaert had turned against his one-time ally.

Auguste is also credited with laying the foundation for what would become the International Court of Justice at the Hague, Netherlands. Our tour guide rues that Beernaert remains somewhat an underrated historical figure.

The group moves nearer the bay. Close to the beach is Paris Road (Rue de Paris). Now a nondescript street obscured by road works, it was once the haunt of Leopold II’s private bankers. There are no exact figures for the fortune Leopold II amassed from his exploitation of the Congo. Modern estimates suggest it would be worth at least several hundred millions of euros today.

A stone’s throw away from Rue de Paris stands the King’s old chalet, which included an underground passageway connecting him to his mistress’ lair, also in the vicinity.

We pass by what was the Royal Villa. Michael draws our attention to the astral motif that adorns the gates, as well as other former colonial buildings we’ve seen en route. He points out that stars also feature on the present day Congolese flag. The idea is said to have come from Henry Morton Stanley, Leopold II’s man on the ground (The King himself never set foot in Congo). Stanley in turn is believed to have been inspired by the Texan flag, during his time as a confederate soldier in the American Civil War. For Prof. Meeuwis, it’s incongruous that this colonial symbol is still part of the Congolese flag.

It was at this Royal Villa that the first map of the Belgian Congo was said to have been drafted. It’s also where dignitaries were welcomed to discuss the apparent scourge of the Arab slave traders in the West and Central Africa region. This formed part of Leopold II’s elaborate PR campaign to justify his incursion into Congo to the Belgian public.

Prof. Meeuwis leads us to the largest statue in Ostende dedicated to the king for whom the term ‘crimes against humanity’ found one of its earliest uses. The now-discoloured bronze edifice shows Leopold II mounted triumphantly on a steed. To his left are fawning members of Ostende’s fishing community, offering up their children to the monarch. The tableau is mirrored on his right. This time the grateful supplicants are Congolese, overseen by a stern colonial official. Observing this scene is a woman in a long flowing robe – representing Belgium itself- with a flame in her right hand, also gesturing towards the mounted king. The sculpture was created in the 1920s/early 30s – decades after Leopold’s death. For our guide, this exemplifies the cult of Leopold II; a type of deification of the depraved sovereign.

In 2004, a group of Ostende-based anarchists insisted that the sculpture more accurately reflect what really went on in Congo during Leopold II’s reign. The group eventually decided to effect the change themselves. The authorities acquiesced. A Congolese statue is now missing a limb, to represent one of the most notorious acts of butchery by Leopold’s colonial forces. This small but significant change is indicated in Dutch on a modest, easy-to-miss plaque.

The Ostende decolonisation movement scored a greater victory elsewhere. Five to ten minutes away by foot, lies a park where a bust of the King proudly stood. It was removed in the wake of the 2020 global anti-racism uprisings. According to Michael, the local authorities – a conservative coalition of the centre-right Flemish Liberal Party and the Christian Democrats – have grown even more recalcitrant regarding any further decolonisation of public spaces. The professor adds that there are many amongst the political class with historical colonial connections.

We end the tour back at the ignominious monument in memory of Leopold II. We have returned to observe a minute’s silence for the victims of the King’s barbaric regime. We gather solemnly around the Congolese figures, to give honour to whom it should be due.

A version of this piece also appears on Afropean.com. The piece has further been edited on 24 June 2023 to reflect the precise circumstances in which a part of a statue from the bronze monument was removed.

A Jazzed-Up Spring

 7 min. read

Two years on from the last lockdown, there are things I am still discovering about life in Brussels. It’s been nearly three years since my relocation but it feels that I’ve only properly started to get a measure of the socio-cultural calendar as of 2022. One thing I’m coming to understand is how much the brighter, warmer seasons are accompanied by music. Beyond what have become my regular haunts, there are numerous festivals. These include the Brussels Jazz Weekend at the end of May, as well as the Fête de la Musique in late June. Jazz appears to have pride of place during this seasonal shift. Well-known establishments like L'Archiduc launch a programme of weekly (mostly free) concerts featuring artists from all over the world, for instance. I take advantage of this gratis entertainment; whether flying solo or with acquaintances. 

One weekend at the end of April, I drop in on a live competition for young, up-and-coming artists at Le Senghor cultural hub. I recognise most of the Jazz contingent from my relatively brief exposure to the scene so far.

Whilst I’d always have been keen on such artistic indulgences, they have been a lifeline as I navigate the limbo that is currently my life.

As I write, I’m still waiting for the outcome of an interview I had on Good Friday. It’s been well over a month. At this point, that’s just plain rude. 

The interview itself seemed to go well enough and the panel appeared eager to fill the role quickly. I suspect they’ve gone with another candidate and simply forgotten to inform me. It's unprofessional, not to mention inauspicious. Seen in that light, it might turn out to be a blessing in disguise that they didn't recruit me. 

Still, the lack of clarity is unsettling. I wasn’t over-invested in the job but neither was I indifferent. I thought I’d struck a good balance. 

A few days after mum returns to the UK following her Easter visit, I realise that the uncertainty has affected me more than I thought. I increasingly struggle with gut-churning angst at the start of the week, to the point of having physical symptoms. The Monday after mum’s departure, and a few days past the deadline given by the potential employer, my psycho-emotional state takes a slow but noticeable dive. This depressive episode takes longer to lift, despite my efforts. There’s not much that can be done but to ride it out as best as I can.

And so I return as always to music as a solace. It can be as much a means for me to connect with the Divine as more traditional Christian fellowship. 

I don’t confine my appetite for live music to Jazz. For one thing, that crowd is too exclusive. Jazz musicians -and to an extent, audiences - tend to be withholding in their affirmation. 

One evening, after a meeting with the social action team at church, I pass by central Brussels for the monthly Brazilian jam at Café Merlot. I don’t necessarily intend to sing that night. However, the atmosphere is so laidback and conducive, I end up performing a couple of Lusophone classics. 

I frequent the weekly Afro-Jam in Marolles at least once a month. One of the regulars, a Belgo-Cameroonian curiously called Roland-Heinrich – has taken a shine to me. He has committed to memory almost everything I’ve said to him, whereas our interactions have barely registered with me. When he asks to swap numbers, I’m apprehensive. I’m not romantically attracted to him and our exchanges are unremarkable. Then again, it’s better if I’m not overly-committed. I can chalk it up to experience; a social experiment. 

Roland-Heinrich wants to meet up immediately. I tell myself it’s better to get it out of the way. I have a window that Sunday afternoon, anyway. The Belgian Workers’ Party (PTB) have organised a solidarity barbeque that same day, focusing on the cost of living crisis. I can meet Roland afterwards.

The BBQ itself is more relaxed and informal than I expect. There’s more emphasis on food and fraternising than political education. I’m just content to be a member of a party that isn’t afraid to embrace radical policies and denounce imperialism. Whilst the PTB proudly owns its Marxist roots, you don’t have to be one to find a home here. If the present British electoral system allowed this choice, such a party would surely attract anybody to the Left of the current rightward drift in mainstream politics-the Labour Party included. Parties like PTB appeal to those willing to challenge the Neo-Liberal consensus or left homeless after the Pasokification of so many mainstream centre-Left European parties; socialist in name only.

(Image courtesy of Thermo Fisher Science)

Guests leave the BBQ promptly once sufficiently fed. I stick around until the end, more out of politeness. My interlocutors have drifted off and I don’t fancy trying to integrate myself into groups already deep in conversation. I’m not a fan of small talk, especially in French.

I take a leisurely stroll towards town and still arrive far earlier than I’m scheduled to meet Roland-Heinrich. He doesn't live in Brussels. I either didn’t know or forgot. 

I pass by L'Archiduc to confirm there’s a free concert that evening. I’d already suggested it to Roland. It saves us wasting time finding something to do. 

Whilst waiting at De Brouckere, a man approaches me. He has that poetic directness that I've come to associate with being chatted up in mainland Europe. His name is Aziz. He’s in a wheelchair and appears to have some kind of palsy, which makes his speech sometimes difficult to understand. We nevertheless have a pleasant and innocently flirtatious exchange, much to the bemusement of a group of men sitting nearby. Aziz asks if his disability would be a problem. Instinctively, I say ‘no’. I’m uncomfortable with the framing of the question. We’re all made in God’s image, I reply. Yet, whilst it’s not the sole consideration, I do demure politely (with a smile) when Aziz asks for my number. I’m wracked by guilt that some ableism might be at play. Either way, Aziz seems quite pleased with how the interaction has gone. I thank him for the compliments and kiss him on the cheek before he moves off.

Roland-Heinrich shows up shortly afterwards. 

A multi-instrumentalist himself, he appreciates the musicianship as we catch the tail-end of the free gig at L'Archiduc. Once the music is over, the venue clears out almost entirely. 

Roland-Heinrich swiftly moves towards making his intentions known. He lists all his credentials (a paediatrician with a MSc from an American Ivy League institution. A stint with UNICEF...). Whilst I welcome honesty and commend his expressed appreciation of black women, I'm unhappy at how quickly the conversation takes this turn. We barely know each other and his interest in me seems largely based on the physical. That's far too little on which to go by for him to be making grand declarations. I feel obligated to itemise all the reasons why I’m not interested in him beyond the platonic. By the end of the night, even vague ideas of friendship are less appealing. 

Roland-Heinrich isn't taking no for an answer. I suspect he plans to bide his time.  I dislike that pressure and let him know outright. Apart from the absence of any physical attraction from my side, I don’t see much compatibility beyond our shared enthusiasm for music. Roland-Heinrich's far too comfortably indifferent about my political interests. He also comes with particular baggage. He has a young daughter living overseas. I love children but have my own personal reasons for not wanting to wade into that kind of situation. Roland-Heinrich replies that 'at our age' (he's quite a few years younger than me), there tend to be more complications. On the contrary, I riposte. I know several childless men in their 30s, 40s and older. Roland's attitude towards the mother of his child also leaves a lot to be desired. He seems to think that by being dismissive of her, this would win me over. Nope. 

Speaking to a dear male friend on the phone the next day, he assures me my appraisal of the non-date was not too harsh. On reflection, I’d rather not hang out with Roland-Heinrich again, even for politeness' sake. It just means things would be awkward if/when we see each other at the Afro Jam.

There’s more political engagement that week at the annual Worker’s Holiday festival in central Brussels (1 May). I’ve volunteered to help run the stand for Intal; an internationalist anti-colonial, peacebuilding initiative that I’ve recently joined. They have no shortage of folk willing to help but it’s a long shift. The more personnel to relieve the pressure, the better. 

I’m new to Intal. As I ease into the task, I need the more experienced members to be at hand. I eventually hit my stride, nonetheless. I feel useful and have a lot of fun. From my experience thus far, the Intal crew are a warm bunch.  I purchase a T-shirt commemorating the 50^th anniversary of Allende’s thwarted revolution in Chile. One lad from PTB’s junior collective approaches me at the stand, assuming I’m only slightly older than his 22 years. 

Why, were you trying to recruit me? I ask, chuffed at the thought. His response is ambiguous, a tad bashful. It’s been that kind of (long) weekend. When it comes to male attention, it tends to be feast or famine.

Later that evening, I connect with Dawn- a good acquaintance from church. Whilst she's lived in Belgium twice as long as I have, we've both had our seasons of feeling relationally disconnected. 

Dawn initially makes plans for a get-together with a larger group. She valiantly perseveres as others drop out. 

And then there were two. It works out fine all the same.

Soundtrack: Love2 by Reel People, Love is Energy by EMAMKAY.