Chapter 159 : Ibrahim's childhood - Part five.

Time flowed like a river. Ibrahim and Samir were growing up happy and healthy. By 1998, Ibrahim was 10 and Samir was 5.

 Zafar, wanting to mold his son into his successor, started to include Ibrahim in his world - in parts of his mafia work. He'd take Ibrahim along to meetings, not necessarily important ones, but enough to expose him to that world. Sometimes, Ibrahim even accompanied Zafar during deliveries of weapons. 

Though little Ibrahim could sense the secrecy and tension surrounding these encounters. He didn't fully grasp the details – the arms deals, the illegal nature of it all – but he understood one thing: this was how his family made their money.

Ibrahim wasn't like other kids who loved stuffed animals or toy cars. For him, the most fascinating things in his father's world weren't the piles of money or the fancy cars. It was the rifles.

The first time Zafar let him hold one, it felt different from anything he'd ever touched. The smooth, cool metal felt solid in his small hands. It wasn't just the weight; there was a power in those rifles, something exciting, something dangerous. The world seemed simpler when he held a rifle, like everything could be solved with a clean shot and a quiet bang. It was a feeling he craved more and more.

Then came another joyous news that year. Aliya gave birth to a healthy baby girl, a beautiful daughter they named Zainab. It was a time of celebration for everyone. But for Zafar, a dark cloud hung over his heart.

He hadn't anticipated a girl. In his world daughters were seen as vulnerabilities. Zafar believed his legacy could only be carried on by sons. Ibrahim and Samir, strong and capable, fit that mold perfectly. Zainab, to him, was an unwelcome complication.

Ibrahim was old enough to notice the difference. Zafar used to be like a giant playmate to Samir and him. Now, though, Zafar seemed distant. His face etched with a frown whenever her cries pierced the air. He barely held her. He wouldn't change her diapers, wouldn't sing her silly songs, wouldn't even crack a smile when she cooed. He wouldn't play with her, his touch reserved for quick pats on the head as he hurried past. It was like Zainab wasn't even there for him.

So, Zainab never felt the warmth of her father's love. While Ibrahim and Samir enjoyed roughhousing with Zafar and getting the latest gadgets, Zainab had her mother Aliya and her brothers' love to fill her days.

However, their luxurious life didn't extend to everything Zainab desired. The lifestyle Zafar provided for his sons – the expensive clothes, the latest toys – didn't extend to her. If she ever wanted a sparkly doll or a pretty dress, things most little girls loved, Aliya would secretly ask the guards to buy them for her. Zafar couldn't stand the sight of such "girly" toys. Whenever he saw a Barbie doll or a princess dress or a plastic tea set, his face would contort in anger, and he'd yell at Zainab for no apparent reason. It felt like having those toys was somehow wrong. So Aliya usually bought stuffed animals, colorful blocks, anything that wouldn't arouse Zafar's anger.

The reasons for his scolding never seemed clear, leaving Zainab confused and heartbroken. It was a strange, lopsided reality that she, as a little child, was slowly beginning to understand. 

Despite the coldness that permeated their home, Ibrahim became Zainab's sunbeam. Four-year-old Zainab adored her big brother Ibrahim. At 14, Ibrahim was practically an adult in her eyes.

Every morning, Zainab would wait impatiently at the bottom of the stairs, her tiny hand clutching the railing. The moment she heard Ibrahim's footsteps thumping down, a warm smile would light up her face. 

Zainab worshipped Ibrahim, her tiny hand slipping into his giant one whenever they ventured outside. He, in turn, cherished his little sister. He'd shed his usual teenage grumpiness whenever Zainab was around. He'd spend hours to play with her, patiently listening to her tales (real or imagined) about the day's adventures.

One time Ibrahim and Samir had saved their pocket money for three long months. They'd skip buying candy at the store, opting instead to collect coins in a piggy bank. Finally, the day arrived, and they presented Zainab with a beautiful, bright red bicycle with a shiny bell.

Ibrahim became Zainab's cycling instructor. He held onto the back of the bike, patiently guiding her wobbly movements as she pedaled awkwardly.

 Samir zoomed past on his own bike. "Come on!" he shouted playfully. "Let's see who can reach the end of the driveway first!"

She pedaled with all her might, her little legs churning furiously. But compared to Samir, who was already a seasoned cyclist, Zainab was like a turtle next to a hare.

She wanted to win so badly! She gritted her teeth and pedaled even harder, but her wheels just couldn't match Samir's. But despite her valiant effort, Samir reached the end of the driveway first.

Zainab wobbled to a stop, "It's not fair!" she cried. "You cheated, brother!"

Ibrahim rushed over, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Hey," he said gently, "Samir didn't cheat. He's just faster because he's been riding longer."

Zainab sniffled. "But I wanted to win," she mumbled.

Ibrahim smiled. "Don't worry, little sis. You'll get there. Just keep practicing, okay?"

Aliya watched them through the window of the bedroom. 

"They get along so well," she said softly, turning towards Zafar, who was engrossed in the newspaper on their bed.

Zafar grunted noncommittally, not looking up from the paper.

Aliya took a deep breath. "There's something I want to talk about. I think it's time to consider schools for her." 

Zafar finally lowered the paper, his expression unreadable. "Schools?" he scoffed. "What kind of fancy schools are you thinking of? She can learn just fine at a regular one."

"But wouldn't it be nice for her to go to the same school as Ibrahim and Samir?" Aliya persisted. "They could learn together, share friends..."

Zafar slammed the newspaper down on the bed, a harsh sound that startled Aliya. "We don't need to waste money on fancy education for a girl," he said, his voice cold. "She doesn't need all that." 

Aliya took a deep breath, trying to control her rising anger. "Why, Zafar? Why can't Zainab have the same opportunities as her brothers? Why can't you accept that she's your daughter? You even tell people you only have two sons!"

"The world I live in, the things I do… they have no place for a girl. She'll be safer, happier, if she doesn't get any ideas." Zafar replied. 

"But Zafar," Aliya pleaded, "she's your daughter. Don't you…"

"I have two sons," he interrupted, his voice hard. "That's all I need. That's all this family needs."

The conversation about Zainab's schooling escalated into a full-blown fight between Aliya and Zafar. It wasn't just about education anymore. Zafar refused to even consider including her in their plans for the future.

Recently, he'd bought a hospital in Malacca for Aliya, a place where she could return to her career whenever she wished. The grand Rahman mansion was already under Ibrahim's name, and a luxurious villa in London belonged to Samir. Yet, for Zainab, there was nothing. No property, no official recognition as a Rahman. Publicly, and even legally, it would seem there was no Zainab Rahman.

Zainab was a ghost in this narrative. There was no legal proof of her existence as a daughter of a well known wealthy family. Only the maids and the guards acknowledged her presence.

It felt like she was born to be invisible. But Ibrahim and Samir wouldn't let it stand.

The next day. After being dropped off at school, Ibrahim and Samir didn't join their classmates. Instead, they made a detour to the principal's office.

Ibrahim knocked sharply, the sound echoing in the hallway. A gruff voice called out, "Come in."

They entered, the heavy door swinging shut behind them. The principal, a portly man with a perpetually surprised expression, looked up from his paperwork. He was about to ask why they came but stopped as Ibrahim reached into his backpack.

Born to Witnessing their father's world, Ibrahim pulled out a gun – not a bulky handgun, but a sleek silver pistol, a Beretta M9.