THE WAGES OF HATE - CHAPTER ONE: THE RETURN

THE WAGES OF HATE

I CAME AS FAST AS I COULD.

The hours went by like aeons as the big Jumbo Jet wended its way across the Atlantic and across Africa towards Pakistan...and my mate, Mustafa.

I had been planning to return there for weeks but the sound of his voice on the phone yesterday had unnerved me. I had not liked how he sounded and told him so.
Of course, he tried to reassure me that all was well, but I know my Mustafa very well...and I could tell it wasn't.

Mustafa hadn't wanted to return home to the village where he had  grown up. He had found himself in a new life in Islamabad, and now Karachi and knew going back to his roots might be detrimental. But his father was ill and, well...

There was only he, his mother and father, and an older sister who had moved to London several years ago and who had stopped communicating over a year ago. She had always hated Pakistan and the culture and her life there, and so her returning was definitely out of the question, since nobody really knew where she was anymore.

I tried to occupy myself on the plane...not easy considering lap dancing and going out for a walk were out of the question. 

Screaming LOUDLY to escape the 10 hours of boredom was also not going to be acceptable to the other passengers, so reading and listening to DVD's and trying (and failing) to sleep...nothing was working.

I couldn't stop worrying about my mate. I had tried calling him but he kept dodging my concerns and I knew I wasn't going to break through that barrier wall until we were face to face. I knew he wouldn't be able to hide from me then. Neither one of us could when together. 

How now I wished I hadn't had to go back to the U.S., but it had not been avoidable. Three months away from Mustafa and now I knew something was wrong.

"WHY WON'T YOU TELL ME, DAMMIT?

SOMETHING IS WRONG, FUCK,"

but he wouldn't talk. 

DAMMIT ALL.