Remel Brathwaite attends Cembling University. The university is failing and will possibly close before Remel’s three-year course finishes. He is studying computer science. The date is September 20th.
It was Remel’s first day at university, and the sun was blazing hot. Every September was like this in London. The heat wave mimicked the temperature of the Caribbean. Sandals, crop tops and sunglasses came out of the closet for a month before the English weather took a drastic U-turn into arctic frost. Cembling University was uninspiring. The building was modern yet mundane. Remel stood in front of the office, analysing his future university. This was his fault. His expected grades were extremely high, but for him, they were tangible. He was the brightest in his year during his GCSEs and A-Levels, but he let bad company bring him down. Remel Brathwaite was the smartest and most dedicated student, but his intelligence could not be quantified by the ’F’s and ’U’s he got for his exams, so instead of going to the top universities in the world, he went to a failing university in London. He had been distracted his entire school life by his friends in gangs and used to leave school to smoke marijuana. He regretted it all. He walked in to the university office and filed in some quick administrative forms.
Apart from welcoming speeches, lectures and introductions, Remel remembered nothing about his day. The only message he retained was that ‘Cembling University do things differently’. He told his mum about his tedious first day at university, and she laughed. It was a unique laugh that only parents like his did. It wasn’t a laugh in response to a joke. His mother was reprimanding him for his behaviour in the past years and the trouble he put her through but mocking him at the same time. Yes. It was possible to say all of this with a slight chuckle. Remel laughed as well, showing that he fully understood.
By the beginning of October, Remel had settled into university fairly well. He had only made a few friends, but he concentrated during lectures, and he was dedicated to his work. He tried hard to avoid bad company. All of that went down the toilet when he met Jordan. Jordan Jones was a young man also in his first year of university who was studying cinematic and music production. His course was one made by the university. Jordan Jones smelt of pungent marijuana. He was bad news. On the first day of October, Jordan came into school just after smoking some skunk. After leaving the lecture hall, Remel bumped into Jordan accidentally and dropped his books.
“Sorry bro,” said Jordan as he stood tall, looked down on Remel and didn’t help him pick up his books.
Remel was about to walk past Jordan until Jordan put out a hand for Remel to shake. He shook Jordan’s hand firmly.
“My parents are going to Italy in three weeks so I’m having a party. I don’t know you, but you seem calm G. Write down your contacts, and I’ll send you my address. Everyone’s going to be there,” Jordan explained out of the blue. His right hand was outstretched with his phone in hand. It was open to notes and several social media names and phone numbers were already written.
Remel wrote in his social media details then spudded Jordan’s fist before walking away rapidly. He pondered whether he would actually go to the party or not.
He did.
It was the 27th of October, and Remel had a ton of assignments due on the 29th that he hadn’t touched. He was still fully aware of the importance of the date 29th October. The time was 6pm, and Remel was ready to leave to go to the party. Remel told his mum he was going to study at a friend’s house. She didn’t believe him, but she didn’t think her son could get into much trouble, in addition, at the age of 19, parents started to give their children more freedom no matter how strict they were. Before leaving the house, Remel looked in the mirror. His aesthetic was the epitome of cool. His hair was still perfectly styled after the low skin-fade haircut he had three days before. He wore a designer denim jacket with matching carrot-fit jeans, a black top and his favourite sneakers. To ornament the outfit, he wore a small gold chain. Remel checked his phone for the address of the party and made his way there.
Wild bashment music was blasting out of the speakers in Jordan Jones’ house. The lights were off so people could barely distinguish each other in the cacophony of grinding bodies.
“Yo bro!” shouted Jordan in Remel’s ear whilst greeting Remel, his honoured guest. Jordan shook Remel’s left hand whilst offering him a blunt.
In Jordan’s right hand was a half-empty bottle of alcohol. Jordan jumped away, shouting in unison with the music. Remel tried hard to recognise the voice of the person who had just greeted him. He realised it was Jordan, the host of the party. Remel took the thick unlit blunt in his hand and smelt it. He instantly had a headache from the pungent smell of the drugs and threw it on the floor: his smoking days were over. The music stopped. The whole house moaned in annoyance. Jordan’s voice came through the speakers to announce a short break as if they were at a concert. During the break everyone in the house reverted back to the nomophobic people that made up the younger generation. The screens provided light for everyone to see.
Remel looked around and recognised a few people from the university. There were around a 100 people in the house and more were upstairs in the bedrooms. Unsure of why he had come, Remel roamed around the living room forcing himself to make small talk with people he knew. After escaping unscathed from the unnecessary conversations, he walked past a table where his hand brushed the side of a bowl of pills labelled ‘X’. The bowl fell on the floor and caused a mess, but no one saw.
Trap music started playing out of the speakers suddenly and energetically. A girl just shorter than Remel walked up to him. He didn’t recognise her. Even in the dark, her make-up managed to glimmer and showcase the most attractive elements of her face. Glitter sparkled on her eyelids just under her faultless eyebrows. She had beautiful chocolate skin and light hazel eyes. Remel fell into her gaze and smiled out of politeness. In return to his greeting, she placed her left hand on his stomach and rose it upwards towards his chest. He felt uneasy. She used her other hand to caress his face and then leant in to kiss him. He tried not to resist in order to not make a scene. Her acrylic nails crept up to the back of his head and tickled his neck. She released and smiled back at Remel seductively whilst biting her lips. Something sparkled in her hand. Remel stood there, unsure of whether he was excited or confused at what had just happened. A group of her friends, who had obviously instigated the kiss, sat gossiping and laughing in the corner of the room. He looked down, about two feet away from him, to where the bowl of pills had dropped. They were all crushed.
A man who looked about two or three years older than Remel looked chemically exhilarated. The man looked down at the mess with a hammer in his hands, which had come from nowhere. A crowd insphered around him whilst the individual distinctive chatter of the crowd had an enormous crescendo. The noise then formed itself into the words ‘do it’ which were repeatedly shouted in unified approval. Remel joined the audience to see the man at the centre of the crowd dive on the floor and suck the powdered mess into his nostrils like two hoovers.
“Woo-oo-oo!”
The crowd cheered like dogs in approval.
Remel stood in shock at what he had just seen. He was frozen until a camera light shone in his eyes. Remel had to leave. He left the house as quickly as possible. Once he had left the house, he was hit by the cool breeze in contrast to the stuffy environment which had just ensnared him. He took the first bus going to his house. Once he was four stops away, Remel decided to check the time. It was 23:30. He turned the screen of his phone off. When the screen was black, he looked at his reflection. He gasped in shock at the sight. He looked fine, but there was one thing missing: his gold chain. A knife was shoved straight into Remel’s mood, killing the sliver of happiness he had left.
Remel got home, had a shower, brushed his teeth and then went to bed like a robot—void of emotion—following a simple routine programmed into him.
Remel had woken up at 7am the next morning after the party to start working on his assignments. He had his laptop next to him, and he typed faster than light speed about computers. His mother came down the stairs. He recognised her footsteps. She was storming.
“Mum, I made breakfast!” Remel shouted.
The door to the living room flung open, and his laptop was yanked out of his grip so quickly it was almost simultaneous. Remel looked at his mother who still looked half asleep. Fury radiated dangerously under the bags under her eyes. With one hand she held Remel’s laptop and the other her hand was clenched tightly into a fist. The fist-clenched hand released to reach into her pyjama pockets. She took out her phone, unlocked it and turned it towards Remel. He was watching the video of a wild rave. The rave was taking place in a house where people crowded together to see a man, who looked chemically exhilarated, snort a heap of crushed pills. In the seconds that followed, the camera focussed on the crowd who cheered ecstatically. The camera then caught the glimpse of a boy who looked like he didn’t want to be there at all, and his eyes squinted as the flash of the camera shone directly in his face. Remel recognised himself and looked up to his mother with puppy eyes.
“Junior! What is wrong with you? Your father and I raised you better than this. You’re in university. You’re a man, and you still can’t see the effects of your actions. Your father may not be here anymore, but I have tried my best to emulate the example he set. I have tried my best to lead you on the right path. I have supported you financially and emotionally all your life. I work as an accountant not because it’s fun, but because I needed to make sure you have everything you need. My job is boring. I have tried all types of parenting styles so that I could be the best mother possible, and all you did was constantly defy my efforts with your unruly behaviour at school and on the streets. Think hard about the places you’re going to!”
Ms Brathwaite’s speech wasn’t just in reaction to the past night. The speech was a raw, unrefined extract of her emotions diluted slightly with tears.
Remel stared at his mother remorsefully, unable to speak. He held back the tears until his mother dropped the laptop on his lap and stormed out of the room. He wiped them quickly before they could travel down his face. He then referred to his usual coping mechanism. He returned to typing at light speed and did so emotionlessly, like a robot. He listened to the local radio.
“Hello! It is news time here at frequency station. We are receiving reports that a young man aged 22 died tragically at a house party last night. Causes of his death are unknown, but people at the party told police that he had taken an accumulation of several different substances last night. A lot of which were hallucinogenic. The young man had a severe nose bleed after snorting the wrong type of chemicals before passing out.”
Remel felt sick.
He could no more be the robot. Remel’s body sunk in on itself as he carried on typing (but no more at light speed). A few months ago, this would be the perfect moment for Remel to smoke and forget all his problems. He considered it, but he ignored his vices and carried on concentrating on his essay. Besides, he didn’t even have any weed or tobacco on him.