CHAPTER 1
DEPARTURE
The shadow from the mouth of the ferry shrouds our car in fuzzy darkness. Up ahead are fierce-looking headlights belonging to the car in front of us. We creep forward and dim, overhead light emerges to soften the darkness.
I stretch my arms wide, yawning until my eyes water. “Finally,” I mutter.
We left home for the Port of Dover at six in the morning and were on the road for just shy of four hours. I’d spent most of that time thinking about how to get through this holiday: Dad and I keep butting heads over my future, while Dapo and I are in the middle of a cold war.
Nothing a week on a tropical island resort won’t fix, I think, with a wry smile. I’ll just have to keep to myself as much as I can. I purse my lips and roll my eyes. This whole trip was Mum’s idea. All the top shareholders of Jenkins & Children were told to attend a mandatory conference on this tropical island or risk losing their shares. Dad was prepared to go alone until Mum intervened. “You and Dapo should go with your dad to this resort. It will be good for you to bond,” she’d said, knowing full well things had shifted between her “three favorite men.” Knowing she’d booked a girls’ trip to Malta at the same time.
It’s not all doom and gloom, though. The resort in question—on the island of Darlenia—is an enigma. Its official website is a black page with words, in white, that say: EXPERIENCE PARADISE, REIMAGINED.
Beneath them is the logo of Jenkins & Children—a pale face gazing at its reflection in the mirror. Everyone knows that five years ago, Richard Jenkins, the CEO, introduced the island he’d discovered to the world. The press coverage was extensive yet vague, and within the year he was Time magazine’s Person of the Year. Since then, Richard Jenkins has been everywhere. Countless profiles, documentaries, and books.
The only people who know what the words Experience paradise, reimagined mean are those who have been to the island, and they’re silenced by an NDA. The night before we signed our NDAs—with two witnesses present—I dried out my eyes googling everything and anything I could find on the island. Reddit threads, wiki pages, and video exposés all have their own theories. Some claim the island has an artificial climate, with manufactured clouds and rain and rainbows appearing on demand; another rumor is adamant the island is an immersive experience, populated with actors like those on The Truman Show; while a minority believe it’s full of advanced androids and AI. Every theory is an outlandish derivative of the former. The one unifying thread I managed to find, that I’m sure is true, because it has to be, was that, on arrival, every expectation of the island is shattered.
My expectations are high. I’m thinking never-been-released technology, amazing scenery, and attractions that put Disney World to shame.
Craning my neck, I peer through the back windows and see the last bits of the land we’re leaving behind. I deflate, but refuse to sink, shaking my head and taking a deep breath. I might not like the situation, but I’m going to enjoy myself by fire, by force. My toes scrunch in my shoes, and I turn over the phrase Paradise, reimagined in my head.
A sharp tap on my knee jolts me. Dapo twists around in his seat to hold out a couple of fancy-looking earplugs.
“Here, Femi. I got these for you. For your tinnitus.”
I go to reach for them but hesitate. Dapo’s been in the habit of keeping score and reminding me of his good deeds when we clash. “Thanks, but I’m fine,” I say, focusing again on my phone screen. “No humming or buzzing for months.”
“Sure. But I read that ferry terminals can be quite loud, and better safe than sorry. You don’t want to be without them when your tinnitus inevitably spikes. Plus, I did a lot of research to make sure these would work a treat.”
“Do you want a medal?” I regret the words immediately. There’s no reason to escalate things when he’s trying. “Sorry. I appreciate it, but I just don’t need them.”
Dapo sighs, then thrusts his hand into my eyeline. “I’d feel a lot better if you would just take them. I paid a fortune, and I can’t take them back, so…”
Not my problem.
“Okay, how about this: If my tinnitus acts up, I’ll come find you and claim them.” His hand continues to hover and I frown. “Seriously, why can’t you just—”
I catch Dad looking at me through the rearview mirror, his stare as intense as clashing cymbals. “Fine,” I say under my breath, taking the earplugs from Dapo. “Cheers.”
“They’re high fidelity, which means you can reduce—”
“Reduce the sound levels without distorting it, I know. Not my first rodeo.” I’ve been dealing with tinnitus for the past few years.
Dapo opens his mouth to say something, but instead he swallows his words and fiddles with the collar of his hideous polo shirt before turning back around.
I told Mum a boys’ trip was a bad idea.
Dad stops the car and cranks the hand brake. A tall, rake-like man in a dark gray, military-style uniform stands waiting, the dim overhead lighting bouncing off his dark-brown skin. Shiny gold buttons wink as he takes a step toward the driver’s side where Dad sits. There’s a navy-blue acrylic nail on the man’s index finger. Before he can tap it against the glass, Dad’s already rolling down his window.
The man smiles and brings his hands together, revealing another acrylic nail—same color—on the pinkie finger of his other hand. “My name is Cuplow, and I am here to help you get situated. May I take your booking references, please?”
Dad reaches into his shirt pocket and hmms. Then he reaches into both trouser pockets and mutters under his breath. Each second he can’t find what he’s looking for makes him more flustered. “Oh no, oh no, oh no. Where is it?”
I clear my throat. “Dad, it’s all right. I thought this might happen. We can use the email you forwarded us. I’ve got—”
Dad grunts. “Hold on, Femi. Not now, please.”
“There’s no connection here, so your email won’t load,” Dapo states.
I sink my nails into the palm of my hand, not allowing my anger to boil over. Dad’s always going on at me about contingencies and thinking ahead, and when I’ve done what he’s suggested, he won’t listen. No comment on Dapo.
“Where is it?” Dad almost growls. He flashes an apologetic grin at Cuplow whose smile is shrinking.
I take a deep breath and exercise self-control. “Dad, it’s all right, I took a screenshot.” I flash the QR codes on my screen to Dad and Dapo.
“Oh,” Dad says.
Dapo says nothing as I hand my phone over to Cuplow, who scans them. His machine beeps.
“Splendid.” Cuplow reaches into the darkness behind him, and when he turns back, he’s brandishing three smartwatches, the straps navy blue in color.
“These are yours. Their color indicates the level of your guest package. Please do not lose them. They’ve been preloaded with relevant data, GPS, and varying degrees of access to parts of the resort. You may also use them to preorder and pay for items. And yes, you may keep your watch once you leave, though all data related to the island will be wiped, of course.”
I take the watch offered to me and slide it onto my left wrist, noticing it has no buckle. There’s a gentle buzz before it adjusts to hug the shape of my bony wrist. I’m transfixed. There’s no other way to put it—this is the coolest thing I’ve had on my wrist ever.
Cuplow claps his hands. “Now then, on to formalities … yes, formalities.” He takes a deep breath and turns to Dad. “The ferry is expected to reach the island tomorrow. Your designated parking spot on our ferry today is 1010—straight ahead, it’ll be on your left—and your suite is in the east wing, room 237. Once parked, follow directions to the elevators. If you need anything, anything at all, tap your watch against the various help points and someone will assist. It is a pleasure to have you and your family with us, Mr. Fatona.”
Dad smiles. “Where are you from? You look like you could be West African.”
“My family originates from Senegal, sir.”
“Yes. Very good.” Dad tips Cuplow a fiver and drives off toward the designated bay.
* * *
The elevator doors open with a sigh onto an enormous lobby busy with guests motoring to and fro. They’re wearing watches with different-colored straps—I spot navy blue, emerald green, and vivid orange—and I wonder how different the guest packages are.
Just as I step out of the elevator, I’m yanked back by Dapo. A group of staff in the same uniform as Cuplow’s whiz by, carrying a wooden table, an aquarium, and two golf bags.
“Thanks,” I say, smoothing out my clothes and stepping onto the plush carpet.
The forest of people clears enough for me to catch a glimpse of a tall, blond white man with ruddy cheeks. Richard Jenkins. The one who discovered the island we’re headed to. Adjusting the scoop neck of his long-sleeved T-shirt, he yawns and scratches at his neat stubble. Two gym rats wearing earpieces and sunglasses stand on either side of him.
My eyes flicker back to Richard, who stands still as though he’s the sun. I want to feel like that, I think. The thought is quick and intrusive and … inaccurate. I don’t want to be the center of attention—not like him. I want to exist and have people understand me and what I’m about. I glance over at Dapo and Dad, who share a joke, then back at Richard.
A woman enters his orbit, a wry look on her face as she shows him something on a tablet. I can’t lip-read, but his deep frown says enough.
“It’s him,” Dapo says, staring with his eyebrows pushed up by the sheer power of his admiration.
“It is,” I say. “He’s flesh and bone like you and me. Stop drooling.”
Dapo laughs. “I’m not. But I don’t think you understand. He’s a risk-taker to his core—he gave up a high-powered job as an investment banker to pursue a start-up cargo transport business during a recession. And he discovered a new island. Sometimes I wish I could be like that. Take risks like him…”
I’d love to see that. In a blink, Richard and his security are gone, swept up in the hustle and bustle of the lobby.
“Our room’s this way,” Dad says, heading along the walkway. Dapo falls into stride with him.
I adjust the straps of my rucksack and follow. Dad’s laugh warbles through the air, and when he places an arm around Dapo’s shoulder, a lump forms in my throat. I wonder what it would be like to walk a mile in Dapo’s brogues. Would the metaphorical blisters be worth it?
Maybe.
Dapo unlocks the room with his watch. Before he disappears inside he gives me the look. When we were younger, I thought it was him showing solidarity in the wake of a brewing storm. But nah, now I know it was just him being glad he wasn’t the one in trouble.
Dad stands in my way. There’s a look of concern grooved onto his face. “Fems, can I talk with you?”
His rhetorical question grates like a synth being bashed by a toddler.
“Okay.” I answer, keeping my hands rooted in my pockets.
“You had your meeting with that musician before we left, right? How did it go? Have you heard anything?”
“Yeah, with Xavier.” I shrug. “We won’t be making a song together, but it’s fine. It is what it is. I’ve reflected and I think there will be more opportunities.”
“Oh,” Dad says, taking a step toward me the moment I try to squeeze past him. “I’m sorry. What happened? Did he say why?”
“He didn’t get what I was trying to do, so we agreed it was better if we didn’t work together.” I don’t bother mentioning the ultimatum I gave Xavier or the choice words he had for me before our call ended.
Dad tilts his head, his eyebrows bunching together. “Son, you don’t do that. You don’t turn down opportunities because they don’t align with what you want.”
“I said we agreed.” I frown and hold back a scowl. “The decision was mutual and for the best.”
“Sometimes you have to compromise. I compromised just the other day. Your mum wanted to watch a nature documentary. I find them boring, but I sat and watched with her because I wanted to spend time with her. And actually, I enjoyed the documentary.”
“First, not the same. Second, you don’t get it.” My jaw clenches. You never do. I take a deep breath and loosen my curled fist. “He didn’t want to compromise. He wanted to change everything I’d done. My whole sound.”
“Well, uh, maybe he knew what he was doing. I, uh, I mean Xavier won an Oscar last year, didn’t he?”
I close my eyes for a flutter of a second. “He won a Grammy, and that’s not the point. You don’t erase the details that make your sound your sound. That’s like—I don’t know…” I struggle to translate my thoughts into an example he’d understand. Instead I shake my head.
Dad puts a hand on my shoulder, and it takes everything in me to not shrug it off in frustration. “Son,” he starts, “have you thought maybe this whole music thing isn’t … meant to happen?”
Does he even care about me? I don’t get it. He knows this is what I want. He wouldn’t ask me that question if I were Dapo.
“It’s … good to be open-minded,” Dad continues, his cadence slower as he chooses each word. “When I was your age, I thought I’d make one significant breakthrough in the physics world by the time I left university. Then I thought by the time I turned thirty. Then I made it to forty and found my passion in organometallic chemistry.”
“Why did you give up?” I ask. “If you want something, you should keep working for it. Isn’t that what you’ve told us since we were little?”
“Yes, of course, but—I don’t—I mean— Well, that’s life. My point is, there are other things you could be working toward—passions you could be missing out on—instead of spending all day stuck in your room on your computer.”
“Like what?”
“Like”—Dad looks away for a second—“applying to—”
“Applying to the sixth form Dapo went to?” I ask, talking over him. “We keep having this same conversation.” I free my hands from my pockets. My voice is getting louder, but I don’t care. “I’m fine with where I’m at. Can you please—just please—stop bringing it up? I don’t need to take the same path your favorite son took.”
Copyright © 2024 by Tomi Oyemakinde
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