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.

Hope Springs Eternal

 

7 min. read

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

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

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

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

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

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

(image courtesy of The Bouqs. Co)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Koekelberg Basilica, Brussels
(stock image)

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

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

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

Une Touche-à-tout Incorrigible...and Proud of It

 6 min. read

One sure sign of the advent of Spring is that my diary fills up with no great effort on my part. Not that I’m ever at a loss of what to do. Je suis touche-à-tout incorrigible et j’en suis fière. Staying busy for me is not a form of avoidance. I am able to sit with uncomfortable feelings if need be. It does help me to avoid being consumed by them, however.

Towards the end of February, I have a couple of interviews within the same week. If I look at the cup as half-full, at least it shows I’m still an attractive prospect to recruiters. Alas, the most recent callbacks have been for unfulfilling roles that are not well paid, and/or I have it on good authority that the working environment is unpleasant. 

I still give it my best as I’m wont to do. The first interview for a Christian NGO, goes well; enjoyable even. Some of the questions take a philosophical slant. I manage to hide my wariness, based on what I’ve heard on the grapevine about high turnovers and a volatile GS. The other interview later that week is online and, well, a bit strange. It must go down as one of the shortest I’ve ever attended; 10 minutes of questions, if I’m being generous. The rest is spent discussing the practical aspects of the role. 

At some point the panel inform me that the role will begin on part-time (50%) hours and salary; roughly the same, if not less than unemployment benefit. This is a detail that has been studiously omitted from the vacancy on the organisation’s own website. I already had reservations about the job. The post itself is good but I’d struggle to be motivated by the organisation’s main campaign area. There’s a damned-if-I-do/damned-if-I-don’t aspect to both these employment prospects. In the end, the decision is made for me. Neither of them translate into a job offer. 

I’ve now reached a juncture where the adage (incorrectly) attributed to Einstein is becoming more pertinent. Something needs to change but I don’t know what and how. To complicate matters further, my attempts to obtain justice from the Belgian state against my former General Secretary for moral harassment leads nowhere after months of investigation and – to my mind – damning evidence. I can take small comfort in pursuing it as far as I could go, despite not having the means for legal support, my union’s refusal to support me and everybody from former so-called friends and my own mother wanting me to drop it. I feel overwhelmed, trapped and furious with God. I am not here because of any misdemeanour on my part. Even if there were, I could appeal to Divine Mercy.

So yep, staying busy prevents me going over the edge.

Solidarity demo for migrants
(image courtesy of Sudinfo)

I spend a few weekday evenings in February at coordination meetings for the launch of my Church, FWM’s compassion ministry; a pilot social action/justice project. 

I attend a fascinating debate on the ongoing crisis in Eastern Congo one evening at a VUB campus. I’ve been invited by one of the organisers, Elisabeth -or Lisa - an eloquent human rights lawyer. We meet at another highly informative event by the Belgian Workers’ Party (PTB) on ‘uberisation’ and the gig economy in Belgium.

The discussion about the present Congolese conflict and the interference of international actors becomes heated. One Belgian gentleman’s remarks have such a neo-colonial undertone, the panel – not to mention many of us in the audience – aren’t sure whether he’s earnest or a troll. His exquisite significant-other – resembling a cocoa-coloured Joan Collins – keeps trying to catch my eye. My shallow admiration for her incredible bone structure turns to suspicion as she appears to be supporting her husband’s questionable POV. I refuse to meet her conspiratorial gaze.

I show solidarity at demos in early March for Migrants Rights and to commemorate International Women’s Day. I confess to being frustrated with my current level of activism. The symbolism of street demonstrations is all well and good but I’m on the lookout for opportunities to make a long term tangible difference.

My spiritual mentor Vinoth pays a visit to the low countries around the same time. He’s staying with a friend in Antwerp but has some business in Brussels, including catching up with me. 

The day he arrives, it’s sunny with a strong chill. 

I book us a place on a walking tour. Vinoth wants me to show him the city. I’d prefer to leave it to the professionals. The tour guide doesn’t keep things moving along fast enough for Vinoth. He’s eager to pull away from the group to find somewhere warm to sit. After a few attempts to convince him to wait it out, I concede. 

Later that evening, Vinoth has another engagement at the Anglican church Holy Trinity Brussels, where I also occasionally attend services. As he’s not familiar with the city, I accompany him to HTB. It’s an excuse for more quality time. En route, we debate the benefits of observing Lent (he being a sceptic, me fully convinced). 

Vinoth has been invited to discuss his oeuvre, Subverting Global Myths which is the HTB book club’s reading choice for the next quarter. We’re ushered to an upper room by a kindly minister, Pieter and Ronal, the book club facilitator. Vinoth talks me up to them - even though we’ve only all just met – mentioning that I’m in transition professionally. Both Pieter and Ronal are well connected to the NGO sector, it turns out.

Cook & Book literary complex, Woluwe-St-Lambert
(c) by2photographers)

Elsewhere, I am approached by a freelance filmmaker acquaintance, Bonaparte.  He produces online content for a local news and entertainment channel. He wants to do a brief feature on my life as an expat in Belgium. I agree; more as a challenge to myself to do something new and potentially daunting. I’m initially reluctant for Bonaparte to film the main interview at my home but I eventually come round to the idea.

With the bulk of the conversation out of the way, we shift outdoors. Bonaparte takes numerous incidental shots in populated spaces, observed by a bemused public.

The shoot is spread over a couple of weeks. We agree that I’ll take Bonaparte to a couple of my haunts; a literary arts complex in my neighbourhood one week, and B-Mol’s dynamic Afro Jam the next. 

To my consternation, the latter appointment is more frustrating. B-mol is held up for unforeseen reasons and the event starts later than scheduled. 

Meanwhile, Bonaparte is in a hurry to film. He has a date lined up after the shoot. I’m annoyed. He shouldn’t have been so ambitious with his schedule. I worry he's putting undue pressure on the band to have me perform before everybody else. I don't require special treatment. For their part, B-mol and co are most obliging. I’m unhappy about this arrangement nevertheless and let Bonaparte know. 

The stress makes it harder for me to be as relaxed on stage as the previous occasion. I already have enough trouble remembering all the lyrics to my song of choice; Stevie Wonder’s Master Blaster. Quick glances at my crib sheet do little to fill in the gaps. I end up singing with lyrics in hand.

This mild ordeal over, to my surprise, B-Mol requests another. Before I can stop myself I suggest Could You Be Loved? It’s my favourite by Bob Marley but I’m even less sure of the lyrics than Master Blaster. Things turn more awkward still when we segue into Is this Love? and on B-Mol's request, Jammin’; another Marley favourite to which I can only mumble along at best. (I like the odd bit of reggae but I didn't exactly inherit my parents' fandom.) For a couple of the renditions, musically inclined guests provide impromptu harmonies for which I'm most grateful.

Bonaparte leaves for his rendez-vous shortly afterwards.

The rest of the night resumes its pleasantly febrile energy. By some coincidence, there are more Wailers’ covers to come, for which I’m not responsible this time. My mood starts to lift. It really is one of the best night’s out in Brussels; the only dubious aspects being white folk with blond dreads doing dodgy dance moves and me fluffing the lyrics on stage – again! - to Daft Punk & Pharrell’s Get Lucky.

On the way back home I stop off at a Jazz jam at Muntpunt Café. An unassuming young woman does a fine job working her way through some vocalised standards. As usual, the Jazz crowd’s reaction is too tepid for my liking. I come across a talented guitarist whom I routinely bump into at any number of open mic events. I recommend he pops down to the friendlier Afro Jam un de ces quatre.

Rushing to catch the last metro, somebody calls my name. It’s one of the regulars from the Red Cross. I give him a cheery wave before apologising for having to make a quick exit.

Soundtrack: É o que A Casa Oferece by Gabriel da Rosa, Medicine for My Pain and The Other Side by Lynden David Hall