The Prince and the Puppy

By Jon Ahmad

A powerful and honoured kingdom shattered apart by greed, jealousy and the evil of black magic. When Akeem, a supernatural prince with a miraculous ability is born in Northern Africa, his sworn enemies are determined to destroy him. His father's best friend and honoured servant Hasan, is forced to go into hiding and raise the baby prince.

With Akeem's mother, the beautiful Queen Malika imprisoned for life in a dark dungeon with her only companion, Obi the puppy, will their treacherous and callous enemies ever face justice for the ultimate crime of treason?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jon Ahmad
• Release date: Oct 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311701244

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Copyright © Jon Ahmad 2015

The moral right of this author has been asserted.

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

All characters and events in this book, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Published by UK Book Publishing

UK Book Publishing is a trading name of Consilience Media

www.ukbookpublishing.com

Special thanks to Chris Clausen-Sternwald

The Prince and the Puppy

Jon Ahmad

Foreword

I was born in a large village in India in 1935 to a poor Muslim family. My parents had very little and they could not even afford toys for us, which were made from wood or clay. We had never seen money but only grain, which was used to buy simple food or the odd treat. My father’s wages for work were also paid in grain by the wealthier farmers. The story you are about to read, dear reader, was my favourite bedtime one. I’ll never forget the night when I was listening to my mother narrate it – my eyes closed – when she got up and looked from behind to see if I was asleep. I felt her tear fall on my cheek.

‘Mother, why are you crying?’ I suddenly whispered. ‘It’s only a story.’

She smiled sadly. ‘My son, reality is a lot different to a story.’

Then she asked why I would not go to sleep.

‘Mother, if you are crying and tears are in your eyes, then how can sleep enter my eyes?’ I replied.

She soothed me and so I pretended to go to sleep so she could tend to her nocturnal chores.

When I was approximately ten years old, I was a shepherd in our village. Although they worked very hard, my parents could never afford to buy animals. Those who were fortunate enough would often give us theirs, to graze and nurture. After a time, and upon returning the animals back, the owners would then split the profits with my parents. It wasn’t much, but it helped to put food on the table – which my parents were very thankful for.

Before I was a young shepherd, my family were so poor that I was always hungry – wandering around, my stomach growling for food, though I never showed it to my mother. If she asked whether I was hungry or not, I would always say no because I knew we had so little to begin with. She knew I was hungry and it must have hurt her. So I would often visit the local Sikh temple, where the kind people there would offer everyone who came, food and drink. The Sikhs welcomed me dearly, even though they knew I was a Muslim boy. I think they were happy that one day I might convert to their faith but this often worried my mother. However, I could not tell the Sikhs that I only visited their temple for the food. It would have been insulting. Even though my mother suspected me of going, I always refrained from telling her. It was my little secret.

Over time, I got to know the village, its residents and all the surrounding villages nearby. I became popular, and I was the youngest shepherd in our village.

The horrific killings began in 1947 when Pakistan became an independent state (at that time, we did not even know what ‘independent’ meant). There was an uprising among the Sikhs and Muslims. Many Muslims were attacked every day in smaller villages and killed ruthlessly – men, women and children. My village was the largest and it was populated by several different faiths including Hindus.

Every day, there was an increasing amount of new faces entering our village, just to escape the mindless slaughter. My best friend Bashir (who had the same name as me) went to visit his dear Auntie in a nearby village but sadly he never returned. I remember his mother holding me so tight, wailing and shedding tears that words fail to describe that feeling of loss. My parents welcomed many to our house, day and night for those who were being persecuted. My mother stopped me from going out for it was far from safe. I used to ask some of the strangers to reveal their awful stories of woe. Many were badly injured and barely survived. I will tell you one story of many, so you can imagine how terrible the circumstances were at that time.

There entered in our village a young mother with her child. She was bearing a bad injury and I had felt sorry for her. I will never forget that awful image. I was trying to ask her what had happened, but she would not stop crying. My mother berated me and told me not to upset her but rather to say something positive to cheer her up. So I sat down and remained silent. After a short while, the young woman spoke with tears falling down her cheeks.

‘Son, I will tell you what happened. We were in the next village and as the evening sun set, a group of Sikhs jumped over the walls before forcefully gathering every Muslim and marching them to the open fields. They were carrying large swords and spears. They swore and insulted us using gutter language. After the command was given by their leader, we were mercilessly attacked. I fell on the ground, clutching my child before one of them struck me with his sword. Luckily, I was still alive because the blow struck my arm. Suddenly, before I knew, a couple of dead bodies fell one after the other on top of me and my child. I do not know how I survived, but the Sikhs must have thought I was dead. They killed everyone and finally, after the massacre, I heard one of them shouting, ‘We have done our job – let’s go. Let the locals remove these corpses. Now we’ll go to the next village and wipe them out too.’

The young woman continued: ‘So that was when I knew they had gone and the field had become a silent graveyard. I struggled but managed to push the two dead bodies off me, and as you can see, my arm was badly injured so I tied my headscarf around my arm to stem the blood flow. My poor child was very lucky to be alive. He was unconscious, but still breathing, thank God. I got up and looked around to see if it was safe, then stumbled through the fields, watching over my shoulder all the time. It was far too dangerous to walk on the path. As I travelled, I hid amongst the crops and trees. It was roughly seven miles to your village, yet it seemed like a lifetime. I was weak with fear and hunger, but I was worried about my child more. It is not nice to say this, but I thanked God that my child had been unconscious at the time. Luckily, I found some water on the edge of a field and washed the blood off both of us, splashing water on my child in the hope he would wake up. I hid again the following morning and continued to travel and before I knew it, night fell again. So I was so pleased when I saw your village the next morning. I immediately noticed several Muslims walking around. The locals pointed me towards your house and so I came here.’

I was so upset upon hearing her story that I was sobbing with her and my mother.

When the situation became so bad, and the village was surrounded by thousands of Sikhs, the environment became very hostile and, eventually, the Muslims in the entire village had decided that it was time to flee. A long story short, it was difficult to reach the border of Pakistan and for some, it took an entire month to reach their destination. We had all become separated and I lost my parents among the crowd of thousands. It was like the end of the world for me, so I had to follow other families in the hope of being reunited with my family. I had reached the border earlier than my parents and waited eagerly for them at the border every day. There was no food or water along the journey, but plenty of blood and dead bodies. I was lucky to find berries, water and a little fruit to eat. Imagine how I felt as I waited for my dear parents every single day, every minute, every second – for a whole month. I was desperate and worried to see my parents, for I did not know whether they were alive or not. Finally one day, I saw my mother rushing towards me, in bare feet, followed by my father across the border. There were many tears during the reunion, but I will leave it to you, dear reader, to imagine what that feeling is. They had made it, thank God.

I was still very angry upon reaching Pakistan as I had found out that on this side of the border, Muslims had unlawfully massacred many Sikhs. I was about twelve years old but I had been traumatised due to witnessing so many horrific killings. Violence breeds violence. My parents realised how angry I was yet they simply said, ‘Son, the Islamic faith seeks forgiveness not revenge.’

After that day, my anger and temper was beginning to cool down and so we eventually settled in Pakistan. It is truly astonishing how many Muslims the Sikhs had also killed. So I was surprised that our village in India was not attacked and my parents then explained to me that we were actually protected by Sikhs. The reason was that there lived in our village some highly respected Sikhs who were also officers in the British Army and it was the Muslims who had been appointed by them to look after their land, animals and their families.

Thank God I have escaped death several times in my lifetime. One episode in 1956 in Pakistan involved a train. I had to walk along the train tracks for a couple of miles. It was a single open track and there were very few trains running along the line in those days. There were no safety fences or security in those days. For some reason, I started to walk between the tracks, stepping on the railway sleepers, bare foot. I was looking downwards, avoiding the sharp stones, when suddenly, I realised what if a train came…

And believe it or not, when I looked up – there it was in front of me. A huge, monstrous black engine! A split-second later – and to this day I do not know what happened. I must have passed out because when I regained consciousness, and saw the clear blue sky, the trees and the birds chirping, I thought I was dead! In fact I thought I was in the after-world. Gradually, my mind adjusted and I realised that I was alive. I began to feel my arms and legs, wondering if they had been crushed due to the numbness. It was the shock. Slowly, I stood up, brushed myself down and tried to piece together how I had survived and avoided such a tragedy. To this very day, I still don’t know how I escaped death.

I emigrated from Pakistan to England in 1958 and settled in Birmingham. Soon after that, I came to Newcastle upon Tyne because the Newcastle Bus Corporation was the first company to employ non-British nationals with a job on the trolley buses as a conductor. After six months as a conductor, I became a driver. Can you imagine how difficult it was for me? My English was very broken yet my appearance was always very smart and luckily, I managed to get the job. One day, I was travelling through the city centre towards Newcastle Central Station. I was in a rush because I was late and had to meet the timetable. As I was turning the corner of Market Street and Grainger Street, one of the trolleys had come off. It was so high that my conductor could not reach with the bamboo pole the bus company had provided. The trolleys are heavily spring loaded. Then I realised that the only way was for me to get on the roof of the trolley bus. I went to the upper deck, through the emergency door and got onto the roof. Then I managed to get a hold of the trolley quite easily. Not a problem.

I was still holding the hooked blade of the end of the bamboo pole and tried to give the pole to the conductor so he could connect the trolley back onto the electric cable. And by pure accident or carelessness, he touched the cable with the pole as I was holding the metal blade at the end of the pole!

Can you imagine thousands of volts burning through you? My hand was very badly burned, yet God knows how I managed to put on a brave face. I was in agony inside yet my pride refused to show my pain. One of the senior citizens politely said to me, ‘Son, you have been very lucky. If he had touched the second cable too, you would have been dead in the blink of an eye.’ So luckily, I cheated death again.

Then in the late nineties, I was on pilgrimage travelling with my good friend on an Egyptian airline from Manchester Airport towards Saudi Arabia. As we waited for the plane to taxi, I said to him that it was the first time in my life that I could smell fumes in a plane. As a non-smoker and -drinker all my life, my sense of smell is exceptional. He asked me if we should let the stewardess know. I realised that nobody else was complaining, so if I did suggest it, and it was a false alarm, then there could be a possible delay and embarrassment on my part – so I let it go. Perhaps the smell of fumes was on the runway or a nearby tanker.

Anyway, we finally landed at Cairo and then shortly after, took off again. We were both seated next to the wing and suddenly I spotted a torrent of sparks flying from the edge of the wing! We both said our prayers! The stewardesses were panicking and the passengers were very alarmed. My friend and I could not believe it when the pilot did a u-turn and the plane landed back safely on the runway. Imagine if the problem had occurred at twenty thousand feet? So again, I had cheated death with the grace of God. Now, I’m an old man and still reasonably healthy. I have been driving since 1960 completely accident free. That’s an achievement for fifty six years of driving, yet funnily my car insurance still goes up every year! It must be my age!

So one day, I was sitting on the bed thinking about what was the purpose of me being created by my Creator. After living my life for so long, I had failed to find a single person who could love me more than my dear departed mother. And I always remembered how truthful it was when one elderly Englishman once said to me, ‘There isn’t any other who can take the place of your mother.’ And these very words astonished me. My thoughts went back to my mother and my childhood and it was then – after seventy five years – my favourite bedtime story struck me. So I decided to write a rough copy and place it by my bed so every night and morning, I would remember her as though she were still with me and narrating it like she used to. After completing a rough draft, it was then when I said to my son Jon: ‘Son, read this story and then tell me if you have ever heard a story like it before? Even from your mother?’ (My wife Zaibi). So when Jon read the story, he fell in love with it and thought it was a wonderful tale and suggested that the world would love to read it. My only concern was that perhaps in this modern age, people might not like it but he insisted and told me that the world needed a story like this. My own English is a little broken and I explained that I could not write such a book. So Jon offered to write it and said to me: ‘Dad, this is the first time I will have ever written a book and I will do my best to fulfil your wishes.’

Now as a proud grandfather of eight, I have no anger or hatred towards anybody regardless of their faith, culture or whatever. I believe our whole world is one big family – the children of Adam and Eve – yet the world is riddled with hatred, greed and lack of trust. I do not know why, and so I say to all: live and let in peace and happiness. The planet has a population of over six billion humans, but there are those who lack humanity.

Anyway, enough about me, dear reader, and I hope you enjoy the story. I have tried my best to please you and of course, I understand one cannot please everybody. If I have upset or offended anybody due to their faith or belief, then I truly apologise.

Best wishes

Bashir Ahmad

Prelude: Yusef’s Legacy

The assassination of King Yusef Amirmoez had sent a ripple of shockwaves through Africa, and prompted many revered kings and their wives to travel from afar to such a notable funeral. To pay their respects to a man, whose generosity, courage and vision were amongst his finest traits.

He was a king, who – during his lifetime – had fought vigorously, to enhance the face of Islam in his country, and the wider Middle East, a region notorious for its hot-headed clerics.

Having always embraced his people with a genuine display of affection, regardless of whether they had a faith or not, he had honoured the gift of being born into royalty, which God had granted him. During his time in power, Yusef had used his wealth and privileges wisely, and discreetly, putting his people first and helping the destitute. His mother’s blood ran through his veins, and he had made time for the poor.

His assassin had evaded capture, and was never found and brought to justice, but whispers across the country soon spread that he was a powerful and wealthy mercenary from the Middle East known as Djibril, who detested Yusef simply because of his widely accepted views on Islam: of peace, love and tolerance.

Days later, more gossip spread like wildfire that the ruthless fanatic Djibril had paid off toll-keepers with gold, and swiftly broken the necks of those who had resisted his bribes. The merciless killer had managed to flee the borders of Africa, and with the help of vicious Portuguese pirates, who salivated at his gold, he sailed the Mediterranean to