BELONGING - BOOK 1

10. Beyond The General's Expectations

HASSAN

As I dozed off for my afternoon siesta, exhausted from a crazy day at school, I was thinking, 'No way, I'm skipping basketball practice today.' This migraine has been killing me since morning, and I finally felt somewhat relaxed. But, of course, my peace didn't last long.

My phone started blowing up under my pillow, buzzing nonstop like a total alarm clock. I knew it was Zara - she can be super clingy sometimes. Ugh, I groaned, tossing the pillow aside.

"'Hey,' I answered, my voice all groggy and stuff.

The deep baritone voice on the other end sent a shiver down my spine. It was unmistakable, yet commanding.

"Hello."

My heart skipped a beat as realization dawned. Subhanallah! It was my father.

My eyes snapped wide open, and I sat up with a jolt, my surroundings swirling into focus. "Salamualaikum, sir... Dad." The words tumbled out, laced with a mix of respect and trepidation.

"Wa alaikumusalam, Hassan. Hope you're at the Training Center," he said, his tone firm but laced with an undercurrent of expectation.

"Yyyes," I lied, already scrambling out of bed, my mind racing. He was coming home. Six months of freedom were about to end. Our father, the general, had been away in the USA, tackling peacekeeping and conflict resolution with the UN.

I hastily showered, the cold water jolting me awake. My grey shirt and khaki trousers were wrinkled but serviceable. I unplugged the PS stations and TV, eradicating any distractions that might incur my father's wrath. Coach Benjamin's disapproving gaze flashed in my mind; I hoped he hadn't reported my absenteeism.

As a son of a general, military aspirations were ingrained in me. Adam, Adnan, and I had begun training early, preparing for the NDA. But with our father away, I'd indulged in forbidden fruits - parties, PS games, football and basketball.

Downstairs, Souraiya lounged on the couch, still in her school uniform, her eyes locked on the TV.

"The beast is coming back today," I said, using the nickname I'd coined in his absence.

"Yeah, he'll be here in an hour. You're dead, Sultan," she replied, her voice dripping with amusement.

Muneera, my stepmother, intercepted me in the kitchen, her warm smile a brief respite from my anxiety. "Won't you have lunch, Sultan? Potatoes and egg sauce?" The aroma wafting from the pan tantalized my senses.

I shook my head, grabbing leftover pizza and juice from the counter. The cold, congealed pizza tasted like cardboard, but it would have to do.

As I rushed out, Souraiya called out, "Your shirt's inside out!"

I ignored her jibe, pleading instead, "Tell him I've been going for training, please."

"How much will you pay me to lie?" she asked, her eyes sparkling.

I handed over a wad of notes, adding more when she demanded.

The Mercedes Benz, battered from rough drives with friends, roared to life as I sped away from Niger Barracks. I navigated the winding roads, passing rows of barracks and military housing. The Combat Center loomed ahead, its imposing structure a reminder of my duties.

As I parked, anxiety gnawed at me. Coach Benjamin's disapproval loomed, and my father's arrival would bring an end to my carefree days. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what lay ahead.

I stepped into the Combat Center, and the sounds of grunting and pounding footsteps hit me like a punch to the gut. I dropped my backpack, and it thudded on the floor. Coach Benjamin's voice cut through the noise.