Chapter 24
Remel is in a session led by PC Connor: a chief inspector with a scar from his forehead to the bridge of his nose. The time is 12:00.
The officer had begun by explaining that he had been working with young people in ‘troubled’ neighbourhoods for the past 20 years. He went through slideshows of statistics, concerning knife crime and gun violence that were slightly biased against certain minority groups (who he claimed were unarguably the biggest perpetrators of the crimes) and not exactly true. At the beginning of his fifth slide, PC Connor erupted with vim and vigour.
“Fifteen years ago, I was dealing with some sort of street fight in Blackpool, where I’m from. There were these four blokes who had been quarrelling for hours outside the pub over something stupid. I think it was football or something stupid, as I said, and by the time we got to the scene, these blokes had started becoming proper aggressive, and this guy goes in his duffel bag and pulls out a baseball bat with metal spikes coming through the top, and he starts waving it all over the place. I was trying to stop him, and a metal spike cut open my face. That’s how I got this scar here—he said whilst pointing at his face—and ever since that moment, I’ve been working with stations across the country in our ‘vaccination programme’. The idea is to stop all of these issues of pointless violence before it starts just like vaccines prevent diseases before you catch them. Our main course of action at the moment is increasing stop and searches across the count—” PC Connor was cut off by a woman in the front row.
“With all due respect, Officer, I have a lot of trouble with the idea of stop and search, considering the fact that coloured people are much more likely to be stopped and searched because of racial stereotypes on their skin colour. How are you planning to solve this issue?”
A couple of people around the woman started clapping and nodding their heads in agreement. The police officer’s expression showed that he hadn’t been expecting any questions. Remel didn’t like the look of the man, and for some reason, he couldn’t believe that the officer’s anecdote was real.
“That’s a great question, madam. Errm, at the moment, we’re still testing the idea across the country. If it is true that this is an issue that is troubling people across the country, then I would be happy to bring it up at our departmental meeting,” replied PC Connor.
Remel was disgusted by the officer’s response. The phrase ‘if it is true that this is an issue…’ showed that the officer was truly ignorant to the effects of his ‘miracle solution’. As the officer himself had realised that the rest of the attendees of his session didn’t like the sound of his response, he toned down the vim and vigour that he had hailed upon for his anecdote and returned to his mundane statistics. Another member of the session interrupted him again.
“With all due respect, Officer, what do crime statistics have to do with a charity event?”
Some members of the session began to chuckle away.
A disgruntled PC Connor replied:
“The aim of this event is to bring all of these ideas to progress our society towards the greater good into one event and branch out more ideas that will hopefully inspire more people to take action. We, the police force, may not be a charity, but our goals are the same as any of the other organisations here like the Great Ormond Street Hospital, Crisis, Macmillan etc. We all just want to make the world a better place. I hope that answers your question.”
Remel’s phone rang so he left the room to answer it. No Caller ID had returned to speak to him. He made sure the hallway was empty before answering the phone. A deep, coarse voice which almost sounded familiar was on the other end.
“Remel, don’t talk. The line might be bugged. We’re your friends. At this moment, we’re sending you messages telepathically through your friend here. Once this call is over, you’ll know what to do when the time comes, and you’ll know who we are.”
The line cut just as a buzzer went off for a quick break before everybody had to return to the auditorium. The people on the other end of the line had not lied to Remel. His brain was colonised with an army of words which had gathered together into a simple plan. He assumed that his alleged ‘friend’ was King Keys. At that moment, he remembered that his speech was coming soon. He needed something to take his mind off of the moment which he was still experiencing so he found Juliana and went to the main hall to eat lunch.
Lunch was a feast of sandwiches, scones and cakes with various other snacks like biscuits and crisps. Juliana and Remel sat together on a table where they had hoped to be undisturbed. Adira had seen Remel and waved at him but had chosen not to sit on the same table as them. He wanted to ask her what had happened to her ankle, but it didn’t seem to be the right time. She grabbed a scone and a juice before taking a call outside the venue.
Femi Koleoso and James Mollison, the musicians who had played at the beginning of the event were sitting on an adjacent table with TJ Koleoso, Femi’s younger brother. Unintentionally, Remel’s ears captured each word of their conversation.
“It’s all about sowing seeds, man. When I was younger, I would’ve never been able to even think of putting myself in situations where I would be able to take someone’s life. Firstly, it was because I was raised properly and secondly, because there was the seed sown in me from day one. We had aspirations and a good foundation which is what kept us on the right path. We had that seed sown in us from when we were doing Tomorrow’s Warriors. That’s what these youth are lacking. That’s why you can never hear a headline like: ‘young tennis player takes a life’ because once you have that seed or that ambition, losing out on your opportunities is not an option.”
Remel tried hard not to gasp in sudden incredulity and jump out of his seat when he realised that this is the Femi Koleoso that King Keys had referred to when he quoted the phrase: ‘being lost is a state of mind like a man finding himself in the wilderness and deciding that the wilderness is his home’. Resultantly, he thought deeply on the fact that there may have truly been sense under Keys’ proverbs.
During his moment of eavesdropping, Remel realised that Juliana had been staring at him for the past few seconds. He managed to ask her what she was looking at without sounding like someone who was trying to start a fight.
“The scar on your upper lip. How did you get it?”
Remel had almost laughed at Juliana’s question: he was impressed by her perception. His physics teacher had once told him that scars were important because each of them told a story. The tale of Remel’s scar was one that he would’ve left to rot in the cellars of his mind had it not been for Juliana’s question. The memory of it was a reminder to Remel that he had been accustomed to the extraordinary before he had ever met King Keys. He was not however about to let anyone in on his mysterious tale.
“Fight gone awry,” joked Remel in a secretive tone.
Before Juliana could inquire further, a man in a bomber jacket, fitted baseball cap and jeans made his way to a free seat next to Remel and Juliana. He asked if it was free, and the two of them nodded their head politely as he sat. Juliana began to talk about how much she had loved her previous session. As she spoke, she began to bring out her own beliefs on gender inequality, the idea of hyper-masculinity and female sexualisation. When she asked what Remel had learnt in his session, he shook his head and told her nothing. The man in the bomber jacket tapped Remel and said:
“For the next session, you two should come with me. All these other people aren’t really doing sessions for people of your age.”
Enticed by his invitation, Remel and Juliana followed the man, who had introduced himself as Stevo, to his session. The two of them took their seats at the front next to Humphrey Anit, an old man who was around 6′4″ of Indian descent but had clearly spent most of his life in England. An influx of young adults, a little bit older than Remel, sat on the rows of seats behind them. A woman behind Remel cried the word ‘Spartans’. Another followed suit by shouting the name ‘Stevo’. Juliana jumped up in her seat and st
arted giggling uncontrollably.
“Oh my Gosh. Remel, this is Stevo the Madman! I didn’t even realise,” she screamed quietly.
Remel had heard of the man. He was one of those social media personalities. Remel had assumed that the man was present to advertise himself. After introducing himself, his girlfriend and his children, Stevo began to explain that he had just launched his own program to help young people in London to achieve their dreams. Remel tried hard not to yawn. There was a sense of bias that hijacked his perception of the session.
“All of these youth clubs and local projects that have been made to help the community are being closed. We’ve been looking to the government—the people who are shutting down these clubs and projects—to help us. Each time they reply to our protests, requests and petitions with excuses about financial crisis, and lack of funding. I’m just going to be honest with you people: we are the idiots for asking the people who are causing us trouble for help in the first place. That’s why I’ve been working nonstop, looking out for the community to provide counselling for troubled young people in school, mentoring to provide direction for all the kids who have big ambitions which they aren’t sure how to achieve and just to make sure that all these kids aren’t getting into trouble on the streets. I’m trying to teach them to be businesswomen and men so they can open restaurants like me or start their own clothing brand like Erin or be the next entrepreneur. We all need to build the next generation…”
A small baby in a white top with the word ‘Amaysin’ written on it began to giggle quietly. It was as if Juliana began to melt in response to how adorable she thought the social media star’s daughter was. The baby watched Juliana’s reaction.
Remel was positively impressed by Stevo’s vision, but he left halfway through as the nerves crept over his skin. Juliana followed Remel outside to see what was wrong with him. He explained that he was nervous about his speech. She kissed him on the cheek and led him outside to the steps just outside the venue.
“Do your speech right now,” she ordered.
Although taken aback, Remel did as he had been asked and began from the quote ‘You can never step into the same river twice’ to the end of his speech. Juliana gave Remel a miniature ovation as a pre-cursor to the real response he would receive. The buzzer went off so Juliana and Remel made their way in for the real thing. Remel’s stomach rumbled with unease. He knew for certain that something odd was about to occur.
Chapter 25
After the break, Remel sits next to Juliana in the auditorium as opposed to his initial seat at the front, ready for his speech.
Juliana could feel Remel’s nervous trembling next to her. She turned and asked him if he was all right whilst she watched him fiddling with the piece of paper that he had written his speech on before ripping it to shreds. He nodded his head, but his expression said otherwise. Juliana put her hand on Remel’s knee: a calming gesture. She asked him if he was sure. For a second, he felt at peace whilst the whole auditorium quietened. He nodded again, but this time he was almost telling the truth. Juliana’s aura had somehow resolved Remel’s discord for a superficial moment of comfort.
This was only the calm that came before the storm.
“Here we welcome Remel Brathwaite: Our guest speaker for today. This segment of the day will be recorded live for BBC news,” announced Revd. Kungawo Abongile as he handed the stage over to Remel.
No further introductions or acknowledgements were needed. A drop of sweat trickled down Remel’s forehead, but he stared into the eye of the camera with an expression that boasted of an arrogance and bravery that he could only dream of really possessing. He began:
“We’re living in a war where the soldiers know to fight but don’t know what for. Most of us just fight for the glory, gold and glitter whereas a small few can see the bigger picture. We wield a mixture of strong souls and oppressed voices. My choice is to whisper the news: the revolution will not be televised. The solution is in the sound, and our enemies will leave you mesmerised by the lights and the action!”
The audience struggled to understand exactly what Remel was talking about. The trickle of sweat that had appeared before his speech had travelled down his face. The arrogance in his expression began to fade and was replaced by inexplicable anger which he made sure to direct at the camera.
“Statistics have repeatedly shown us that advancements in technology have caused people to lose their social skills to the point where some can barely hold face-to-face conversations with each other. Isn’t this terrible? What if I told you that all of this was part of a darker, more serious issue? Phones, tablets, televisions and computers are a means of hypnotism that the big corporations are using to confuse us and influence our way of life for their own selfish gain. You think I sound stupid? Tell that to the politicians who have won their elections by filling your computer screens with targeted ads. Tell that to all the kids who change the way they talk, act, dance or text every month based on the social trends that they see online! Tell that to the celebrities who have been pushed forward to the forefront of the media to promote different ideas that their higher ups are implementing into society.”
People began to listen.
"Today we are here to capture all of the ideas and efforts of the organisations who have gathered here today in order to promote the end of all the issues that are ruining our ever-changing world. I am here to say that our cause can only succeed based on what is in fashion and what is not. This is stupid. How will feminists ever be able to fight against sexism and injustice if the concept of feminism is treated as a trend rather than a just cause that should permanently be defended? How will environmental activists ever succeed or be able to take care of the world when those in power use social media to push forward the idea that things like climate change do not exist? How does anything happen if we continue to let these gadgets rule over us?
“My message to you all is to be vigilant. We truly are soldiers, and we’re losing a great battle at the moment. The only way for us to win is to begin our revolution. We have to campaign for the issues that we believe in and not what the media decides to promote. We must revolt without ceasing: never stop believing in the cause. Revolución!”
The whole auditorium, especially Adira, rose to applaud Remel’s fiery, poignant and eloquent delivery. No one seemed to be bothered by the fact that he had completely ignored his brief. His expression of anger faded. The applause continued for at least two minutes as Revolución made their way onto the stage for a smooth transition into their set. The audience were absolutely clueless to what was coming for them. Amidst all of the diminishing applause, a man named Leroy Kaylan led his procession to the stage followed by a line of approximately 50 kids. He jigged and swayed whilst he played his melodica. The melody was a syncopated and slowed down combination of traditional afro beat and jazz (so out of place for the scenario). It was almost musically perfect, but it sounded as if it was missing the percussion of Tony Allen or another similar musician (which was extremely hard to find). The source of the sound was alien: like the hybrid of a harmonica, accordion and recorder. Helmeria, the young lady behind Mr Kaylan, played a repeating syncopated rhythm on her woodblock. Everyone stopped their noise. They were all mesmerised. Leroy was like a pied piper using music as a mystic tool, leading his audience to quiet and the kids behind him to the stage. A young woman on the stage with a perfect afro, named Nikola West, began playing the most tremendous of bass lines. Adira recognised her immediately. The melodica, the bass, the woodblock and the marching footsteps were perfect for each other. The auditorium was completely unaware of what was happening. Remel stood at the podium and waited for his time to come.
“Sorrow, anger!” cried Lonnie Lynn and Derrick Hodge, two of the members of Revolución, as the drummer, Germaine Cole, came to life, creating the perfect sound that could only have been made by Tony Allen or another similar musician.
“Anger, tears!” cried Dennissa Cole and Robert Dilan, as Nate Smith, equippe
d with his djembe, shekere and cowbells, began a polyrhythmic onslaught that saturated the atmosphere in the auditorium.
“Sorrow, anger, tears! This is revolution!” cried the eight of them (Derrick Hodge, Robert Dilan, Dennissa Cole, Nikola West, Nate Smith, Lonnie Lynn, Germaine Cole and Leroy Kaylan) together, as the camera woman who had come to record turned her lenses to explore what was going on.
Germaine hit the snare drum three times. The musicians and the children stopped in their tracks.
“Who are you? What do you want!” shouted Remel at the top of his lungs. The line of kids stomped their foot down on the ground in unison.
“I am Helmeria; I want a future,” proclaimed Helmeria.
“Je suis Antoine et je veux me retrouver,” stated another child.
“Ben adim Baran ve ben gerçeği istiyorum!” cried a third.
Lonnie grabbed his microphone and screamed:
“Anigu waxaan ahay Lonnie oo waxaan rabaa inaan kula dagaalamo ilaa aan ka madax bannaanahay!”
“We are ‘Uncensored Change’!” declared the musicians.
At this point, the group had captured the attention of the audience. Most did not understand the mother tongues of the group, but they could feel that their message was urgent. Nate Smith returned to his polyrhythms, and the other musicians followed him again. Lonnie and the kids started chanting the phrase ‘acknowledge us!’ repeatedly. Within seconds of restarting their music, the musicians mellowed down again. Derrick Hodge began to play a double bass, Robert began to strum his guitar and Nik began to hum soothingly. Their soft playing served as the perfect background music to contrast with Robert’s message.
“Hi, I’m Bob,” began Robert, still strumming, with his out of place Californian accent.
The Escape Page 10
