جوعان وناوي يفتري

Jaber sat by the dusty road, a fixture of the city's marketplace. His clothes were rags, thin and worn. His stomach was a hollow drum, aching with hunger. Most men in his position dreamed of a hot meal, a warm blanket, a roof over their head. Not Jaber. Jaber dreamed of power.

He watched the city's tax collector, a portly man named Hisham, swagger through the market. Hisham’s robes were clean, his voice loud. Fear followed him like a shadow. People scurried to pay their dues, their faces tight with worry.

Jaber didn’t envy Hisham’s wealth, not truly. He envied his control. He saw himself, not just collecting, but squeezing. Punishing. Making others feel the sting he felt daily. His mind played out vivid scenes: merchants pleading, debtors trembling. He would be the one with the loud voice, the one to inspire fear.

He imagined the faces of the vendors who had ignored him, the women who had turned their heads away. He would make them pay, not with money, but with deference. He would make them bow. His hunger was not just for bread. It was for vengeance against a world he felt had actively wronged him.

Jaber’s desire was not to build a home, nor to help his family, nor to contribute to his community. He saw success as a weapon. A tool to inflict the same pain he believed others had inflicted on him.

A kind-hearted baker, Abu Hassan, once offered Jaber a fresh loaf of bread, still warm from the oven. Jaber snatched it, his eyes holding no gratitude, only a flicker of contempt. 'Soon,' he thought, biting down hard, 'they will beg me for crumbs.'

His ambition was a dark thing, fueled by resentment and a craving for dominance, not dignity. He spent his days visualizing his future tyranny, meticulously planning the small cruelties he would unleash. He wasn't just poor; he was poor with a venomous heart.

While other beggars spoke of hopes for charity or a simple job, Jaber would mumble about justice, but his definition of justice was twisted. It meant others suffering as he had, if not more so. His dreams were not of rising, but of pulling others down.

Old Abu Khalid, the spice merchant, had seen many seasons come and go. He understood the desperate hunger for food. He also understood the far more dangerous hunger of the soul. He watched Jaber, day after day, not begging with humility, but observing with simmering resentment.

One afternoon, a young woman, new to the market, dropped a few coins into Jaber’s outstretched hand. She smiled kindly. Jaber took the money, but his gaze was cold. Abu Khalid saw it. He saw the man imagining a day when he would demand far more from her, and her smile would vanish.