Olivia: Most travel books are about escape. But what if a journey across Europe wasn't about finding beautiful new places, but about discovering the ghosts of an old, brutal history hiding in plain sight? And what if 'belonging' wasn't a destination, but a fight? Jackson: That's a heavy way to pack a suitcase. It flips the whole idea of a European backpacking trip on its head. Instead of finding yourself, you find the history everyone else is trying to forget. Olivia: Precisely. And that's the journey we're on today, through the pages of a book that has been widely acclaimed, winning a Jhalak Prize and a European Essay Prize. We're diving into Afropean: Notes from Black Europe by Johny Pitts. Jackson: I love that title. It’s so evocative. Olivia: It is, and what's so compelling is that Pitts writes from this incredibly specific place—he's the son of an African-American musician from the 70s soul band The Fantastics and a white, working-class English mother. He calls himself 'born black, working class and northern,' which gives him this outsider's-insider perspective on everything. Jackson: Okay, that title, 'Afropean.' It sounds cool, almost like a brand. Is that what he was looking for? A kind of cool, new identity?

Olivia: That's exactly where he starts. His initial vision for the project was, in his own words, a kind of celebratory coffee-table book. He imagined showcasing stylish, successful, creative Black Europeans—photographers, artists, musicians in Paris, Berlin, Stockholm. He was drawn to the word 'Afropean' because it felt whole. It suggested you could be Black and European without being 'mixed-this' or 'half-that.' It was an identity that wasn't defined by being an immigrant or an 'other.' Jackson: I get that. It’s an aspirational idea. It’s about claiming a space and an identity that feels modern and integrated, not just a footnote in someone else's history. Olivia: Exactly. It’s a beautiful, utopian idea. And then, almost immediately, that utopia collides with a brutal reality. Before his main journey even begins, he visits the 'Jungle' in Calais in 2016. Jackson: Right, the infamous refugee camp. That is about as far from a stylish coffee-table book as you can get. Olivia: Worlds away. He's there as a journalist, and he meets a young man from Sudan named Hishem. Hishem is running a small, makeshift café out of a shack. He's intelligent, articulate, but he's lost everything—his family, his home. He's stuck in this limbo, this muddy patch of land between the continent he fled and the island he can't reach. Jackson: Wow. What happens between them? Olivia: They talk. Hishem shares his story of fleeing war, of hiding in shipping containers, of arriving with nothing. And then he makes a simple request. He asks Pitts to write about his story, to tell people what life is really like in the Jungle. And in that moment, Pitts's entire project is thrown into question. The idea of a glossy book about Afropean style seems utterly hollow in the face of Hishem's suffering. Jackson: That's a powerful moment. So he goes looking for high fashion and finds profound human suffering. That must have been a huge reality check. Does he abandon the term 'Afropean' then? It seems almost frivolous after an experience like that. Olivia: That’s the fascinating part. He doesn't abandon it, he redefines it. He realizes 'Afropean' can't just be about aesthetics or individual success. It has to be political. It has to be about community, about solidarity. It has to include Hishem. He writes, and this is a key quote, that 'Afropean' had to be more than a search for the self, and "something more like a contribution to a community." It had to build a bridge over that dividing fence that says whether you’re in or out. Jackson: Okay, so the term gets tested by reality and becomes stronger, more meaningful. It’s not just a label anymore; it's a mission statement. It’s about connecting the person in the Parisian art gallery with the person in the Calais mud. Olivia: That’s the perfect way to put it. And that tension, between the idealized image and the complex reality, drives his entire journey across the continent. He’s constantly navigating his own position. He has a British passport, he’s 'in' Europe. But as he says after being stopped and searched by French police for no reason other than his skin color, he's constantly reminded that he's "not all the way in." He lives with this 'liminality'—this state of being on the threshold, both inside and outside at the same time. Jackson: That idea of building a bridge over a 'dividing fence' is powerful. It sounds like he's not just crossing geographical borders, but historical ones too. You mentioned ghosts earlier...

Olivia: I did, because that's what so much of the book becomes: a ghost hunt. Pitts travels through these beautiful, historic European cities that present such a polished, modern face to the world. But he keeps finding the ghosts of their colonial pasts lurking just beneath the surface, shaping everything. Jackson: It’s like walking into a beautifully preserved mansion, but the tour guide refuses to mention the mass murder that happened in the basement. Olivia: A perfect analogy. And the most chilling example of this is his visit to the Royal Museum for Central Africa in Tervuren, just outside Brussels. This museum was built by King Leopold II, the man responsible for the brutal colonization of the Congo. Jackson: I know a little about this. It was horrific, right? Not just colonization, but a personal fiefdom of terror. Olivia: Unspeakably horrific. Under Leopold's rule, it's estimated that more than 10 million Congolese people were murdered or maimed. Their hands were famously cut off if they didn't meet rubber quotas. And this museum, when Pitts visits, is essentially a monument to that horror, disguised as a celebration of Belgian glory. It's filled with dusty, propagandistic displays—statues of heroic white missionaries 'civilizing' grateful Africans. Jackson: That is nauseating. It’s not just ignoring the history; it’s actively lying about it. Olivia: It's a complete inversion of reality. And the most haunting part of his visit is when he goes down into the museum's cellars. He finds this vast, dark space filled with the dismembered heads of African animals—elephants, rhinos—and countless other preserved creatures, all trophies from the colonial era. It’s a literal underworld of colonial violence, hidden beneath the sanitized exhibits upstairs. Jackson: So how does he connect that historical horror to the present day? Because a dusty, racist museum is one thing, but how does that ghost affect the lives of Black people in Brussels now? Olivia: He finds the antidote. The antidote to the museum's lies isn't in another official institution. He finds it in Amsterdam, in a place called the Black Archives. It was started by a group of young Afro-Dutch activists called the New Urban Collective. They were given the book collection of an important Surinamese sociologist, and in the process of cataloging it, they uncovered this incredible, hidden history of Black internationalism and resistance. Jackson: They’re literally unboxing their own history. Olivia: Exactly. They discover the story of Hermina and Otto Huiswoud, two Surinamese activists who were central figures in the Harlem Renaissance and the global communist movement. These were people fighting for Black liberation a century ago, with connections stretching from New York to Moscow to Amsterdam. Their stories were just sitting in boxes, waiting to be found. Jackson: Wow. So the official museum in Brussels is telling a lie, while a grassroots archive in Amsterdam is uncovering the truth. The history isn't dead; it's just been hidden. Olivia: And that's the real pivot of the journey. He stops looking for 'Afropean' identity in the grand, official places—the museums, the capital cities—and starts finding it in these hidden, community-built spaces.

Jackson: I was really struck by his trip to Lisbon. He goes to this place, Cova da Moura, which is basically a favela built by Cape Verdean immigrants. It's completely unofficial, off the map. What does he find there? Olivia: He finds a world. Cova da Moura was built illegally in the 1970s by people who had nowhere else to go. It's a labyrinth of self-built houses, narrow streets, and vibrant community life. It has its own economy, its own music—this incredible, energetic funaná music—and its own social codes. He gets a tour from two residents, Nino and Jacaré, who show him the soul of the place. Jackson: Is it an idealized community? Or does he see the struggles too? Olivia: Oh, he sees the struggles. There's poverty, there's crime, and there are deep tensions, particularly between the Cape Verdean community and newer Angolan arrivals. It's not a utopia. But it's real. It's a community that, in the face of official neglect, built its own home. He meets a man named Avelino who runs a cultural association for the youth, and on the wall is a quote from the liberation leader Amílcar Cabral: "The children are the flowers of our struggles and the reason for our fight." Jackson: So the most 'Afropean' place he finds is one that's not even officially 'European' on a map. That's a powerful paradox. It's not about blending in, it's about building your own thing, on your own terms. Olivia: Precisely. And he finds this pattern everywhere. In Berlin, he’s disillusioned by a Public Enemy concert where the revolutionary anthems have become a kind of karaoke for drunk, middle-aged white fans. It feels completely commodified and hollow. Jackson: I can picture that. "Fight the Power" as a beer-soaked singalong. Cringe. Olivia: The absolute worst. But then he connects with a Ghanaian Rasta who takes him to YAAM—the Young African Artist Market. It’s this sprawling, graffiti-covered space by the river, a hub for artists, musicians, and activists. It’s a grassroots, non-profit space that feels alive and authentic in a way the concert never could. It's another community built from the ground up, in the margins. Jackson: It seems like the whole book is a journey away from the center and towards the edges. He’s looking for Black Europe, and he finds it in the banlieues of Paris, the favelas of Lisbon, the activist hubs of Berlin. Olivia: That’s it. He finds it in the places that Europe itself has tried to push out of sight. He talks to former gang members turned activists in Clichy-sous-Bois, the site of the 2005 riots. He meets the descendants of the Windrush generation in Sheffield, his hometown, and explores the complex history of Northern Soul. The book becomes a map of these overlooked, resilient communities. Jackson: And in doing so, he creates the very thing he was looking for at the start—a real, textured, complicated map of Afropea. Not a coffee-table book, but something much more vital.

Olivia: Exactly. And that's the ultimate takeaway. Pitts starts the journey looking for a definition of himself, an identity. But he ends by realizing that 'Afropean' isn't a label you wear. It's a community you build. It's the act of uncovering buried history and connecting with others who are doing the same. The real map of Black Europe isn't in an atlas; it's in these networks of solidarity. Jackson: It's a powerful shift from the individual to the collective. He quotes James Baldwin, who said, "You give me a terrifying advantage… you never had to look at me. I had to look at you. I know more about you than you know about me." It feels like Pitts is using that advantage—that deep knowledge born from being the 'other'—to draw a new, more honest map for everyone. Olivia: He is. He concludes his journey in Gibraltar, at Europa Point, looking across the strait to the shores of Africa. And he has this profound realization. He's been searching for this connection between Africa and Europe, and he finally understands that Africa isn't over there. It was right where he was standing all along. It's embedded in the history, the culture, and the people of Europe. Jackson: It makes you wonder about our own cities. What hidden histories are right under our feet? And who are the people working to keep those stories alive? It's a challenge to look beyond the official narrative. Olivia: A great question. We'd love to hear from our listeners. What does the idea of 'Afropean' mean to you, or what similar hidden histories exist in your own communities? Find us on our socials and share your thoughts. Jackson: This is Aibrary, signing off.