Chapter 155 : Ibrahim's childhood - Part one.

Ibrahim's mind drifted back...back to a time....

The year was 1993. Ibrahim was just a four-year-old boy back then, a world away from the hardened mafia leader he'd become. His family, the Rahmans, consisted of his loving father, Zafar, his mother Aliya, and himself. 

Little Ibrahim was the apple of his father, Zafar's, eye. They shared an uncanny resemblance, both with brown eyes and same dark black hair. And Ibrahim mimicked everything his father did, from the way he sipped his morning tea to the way he held his head high during a walk. Despite the weight of his mafia world, Zafar always made time for his son. They were two peas in a pod. 

Zafar wasn't just a loving father, he was a hero to young Ibrahim. In Ibrahim's eyes, his father was larger than life, strong and capable. When Zafar returned home after a long day, his laugh and playful behaviour filled the house with warmth. He'd regale Ibrahim with stories (carefully edited, of course) of his "business".

Zafar Rahman lived up to the meaning of his name - "victory." He was a man who thrived on success, driven by an insatiable hunger for wealth and power. Back then, his illegal activities were confined to only to Malaysia and his operations limited to arms trafficking within the country's borders.

But Zafar craved more. He craved an empire. He craved for - more success, more power, more wealth. However his ultimate goal wasn't just for himself. He envisioned a world perfectly crafted, a life of luxury and privilege, for his beloved family. 

Aliya worked as a skilled surgeon at a government hospital back then. The Rahman family was about to get even bigger – Aliya was three months pregnant with Ibrahim's soon-to-be brother, Samir.

One fine morning little Ibrahim stirred awake to find himself alone in the bed with his father, Zafar. Usually, the three of them used to sleep together. But this morning, Aliya was absent. 

Disappointment pricked at Ibrahim's heart. A little voice piped up from beneath the covers. "Dad," Ibrahim mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "When is Mother coming home?"

Ruffling his son's hair, Zafar said reassuringly, "Don't worry son, Your mama's just working a night shift. She'll be here soon."

Ibrahim sat up in bed, a thoughtful furrow appearing on his brow. He'd noticed his mother being sick lately, especially in the morning. Concern washed over him, a concern that was bigger than his four-year-old mind could fully grasp.

"But Mother's been throwing up a lot," he said. He pointed a small finger at his stomach. "For the little one, right? Why can't the little one just wait and come later? Then Mother won't be sick anymore."

A chuckle escaped Zafar's lips at his son's innocent logic. Explaining pregnancy to a four-year-old was no easy feat. He scooped Ibrahim into his lap, gently brushing the sleep from his eyes.

Zafar told, "The baby isn't making your mother sick on purpose. It's just getting bigger and stronger inside her tummy, and sometimes that makes Mommies feel a little yucky. But it's nothing to worry about. The doctors are taking good care of her, and the baby will be here soon and healthy as can be."

Ibrahim's brow remained furrowed. The idea of a tiny creature living rent-free inside his mother was still a bit of a mystery to him. "But I don't want. The little one is making Mommy sick. Tell it to go back from where it came from! Tell it to go back its own home."

The worry for his mother overshadowed any excitement about a new sibling at the moment. Suddenly, the sound of a car engine approaching the mansion cut through the air. Ibrahim scrambled off the bed and raced towards the window. Peering out, he saw a familiar car pulling into the driveway - his mother's car!

A wide grin lit up his face. "Mama is home, yay!" he shrieked, excitement bubbling over. Without waiting another moment, he bolted out of the room and down the hallway, his excited cries echoing through the Mansion.

The sound of his excited cries reached Aliya even before she entered the house. With a tired but loving smile, she stepped through the door, greeted by a movement as Ibrahim flung himself into her arms. Despite the weight of her growing belly, she effortlessly lifted him off the floor, his small frame swallowed by her warmth. 

 Looking at her, it was impossible to believe this 25th years old woman was not only the mother of a rambunctious four-and-a-half-year-old but also carrying another child. Her youthful features and flawless skin made her look more like a college student than a woman. 

"You shouldn't hug me so tight, honey," Aliya chided gently, "I just came from work, and I might have germs."

But Ibrahim clung to his mother, burying his face in her neck. "I missed you, Mama." 

In the meantime Zafar also approached in the dinning hall. He carefully lifted Ibrahim from Aliya's arms and asked Aliya, "How was your shift, Aliya?"

They had a healthy relationship. With only a five-year age difference between them, Zafar and Aliya were more like partners than simply husband and wife.

 One of the things she most admired about Zafar was his honesty. On the night of their wedding, Zafar opened up to Aliya about his profession, which involved activities as serious as taking lives. He couldn't, wouldn't, start their life together on a foundation of lies.

 Zafar made it clear that day to Aliya that she had the option to divorce him if she couldn't accept his reality. Their marriage had been arranged by their strict fathers, leaving no room for refusal before marriage. But Zafar respected Aliya more than any societal norm and gave her the power to choose though it was after marriage. 

But Aliya, after hearing his truth, surprised him. She didn't recoil in horror, nor did she judge him. Instead, she chose to stand by his side, to accept him for who he truly was. In her eyes, he provided a comfortable life for their family, and that was all that mattered. This loyalty was a gift Zafar.

As the days passed, Aliya's pregnancy progressed, and her belly swelled with the coming arrival of Samir. During this time, Ibrahim, her son, began to prioritize staying by his mother's side and spent less time at school. 

He took his role as his mother's little helper very seriously. He transformed into a mini caretaker, fetching her medication, food, snacks and making sure she had everything she needed.

Nights, however, held a different story. Ibrahim had a strange habit - he couldn't sleep without watching a movie with Zafar. Even if he fell asleep earlier, he would always wake up in the middle of the night and go to the dining hall to turn on the television.

This was 1993, a time before the internet's endless stream of entertainment. Their options were limited to whatever movies happened to be playing on the various channels, but for Ibrahim, that was enough.

One night, as the glow of an action movie filled the dinning room, Ibrahim tugged on Zafar's sleeve. Nestled beside his father on the plush couch, his eyes wide with fascination, "Dad, who are spies? What do they do?"

He asked because in that movie the hero was a spy who was doing a mission. 

Zafar shifted slightly, pulling Ibrahim closer and wrapping an arm around his small shoulders, "Spies are like secret agents. They work secretly, gathering information that others don't want them to know. They might sneak into hidden places, disguise themselves, or even pretend to be someone else." He paused, gauging Ibrahim's understanding.

"Think of it like a game. Imagine you have a secret message for someone, but you can't tell them directly. So, you find a way to sneak it past the other team, past the people who don't want you to talk. That's kind of what spies do, but with much bigger secrets..They use gadgets and tricks to get what they need, outsmarting the bad guys."

Ibrahim's eyes widened further. Gadgets and tricks? This sounded far more exciting than the school lessons he found so dull.

"Do they have cool gadgets like the one in the movie?" he pressed, pointing at the screen where the spy was using a device like bug. 

"Maybe But the most important thing a spy needs isn't a fancy gadget, it's their mind. They have to be smart, resourceful, and able to think on their feet." Zafar replied.

"Can I be a spy when I grow up?" Ibrahim asked innocently. 

Zafar let out a hearty laugh, "That's a very exciting dream. But who will take care of the empire I'm building then?"

Ibrahim's brow furrowed in confusion. "Empire?" 

 He didn't quite understand the concept, but it seemed important from his father's tone. "Can't I do both?" he persisted, a hint of defiance in his voice. "Can't I be a spy and still help you with your...empire?"

Zafar explained carefully, "Spies work for the government, for the good guys. Being a spy means doing only things which Government tells to do. They follow the rules, and our...empire..... it doesn't exactly function with the government's approval."

Ibrahim's brow furrowed in confusion. "Why not? Doesn't the government want an empire?"

Zafar hesitated, searching for a way to explain the complexities of his world in a way a child could understand. "Let's just say the government and...what we do.... They don't match with each other. They wouldn't be too happy if they knew about our work. The Government and we aren't exactly best friends."

Ibrahim hopped off the couch. "Hold on a sec, Dad," he announced, his small legs pumping as he raced up the stairs. 

A moment later, Ibrahim reappeared with a grin. But Zafar's smile vanished within a second. In Ibrahim's hand, he clutched an object. 

It was a gun, a real gun, heavy in his small hands.

Reaching his father, he held out the object in his outstretched hand, "How does this work, Dad? They use these all the time in the movies!"