Exiled Princess Book 1 Hausa Novel Complete
Not more than ten minutes after Zayd’s arrival, a young man entered the living room, holding a restaurant card and waving it lightly.
Zayd didn’t move or acknowledge him, not even to return the gesture, as if uninterested in the exchange.
The young man smiled faintly, walked over, and took a seat on the same two-seater sofa Zayd occupied, placing the card on the table before him.
“Al-Amir Nawfel, here’s your food,” he said casually, glancing at Zayd from the corner of his eyes.
Zayd sat up straight, his expression sharp. He leaned closer to the young man, pointed a finger at him, and said in English, “Don’t let me hear you call me Diya again. If you do, there will be consequences.”
The young man laughed heartily, also in English. “Then stop calling me Diya! My name is Moussa now,” he replied, his tone playful yet firm.
Zayd hesitated for a moment before setting his phone aside and leaning forward to open the food container Moussa had brought. He pulled the table closer and began eating in silence.
Moussa watched him with a bemused smile. After a few moments, he said, “Zayd, there’s news—”
Before Moussa could finish, Zayd raised a hand to silence him.
“Oh, Amir,” Moussa continued, lowering his voice. “It’s been four years since we started this life. Don’t you miss Al-Amira Tesnim and Malikat Al’Umu? Do you ever think about their situation, or have you forgotten Malik entirely?”
Zayd didn’t respond. He ate quietly, his expression unreadable.
When he was finished, he stood, walked to the dining room, opened the refrigerator, and poured himself a glass of water. He returned to his seat, drinking slowly, as Moussa observed him with a knowing look.
“Truly,” Moussa said, almost to himself, “the blood of royalty doesn’t change, even when removed from the kingdom.”
Then, in a softer tone, he added, “Amir, this life… it isn’t ours. We’re warriors by blood, not civilians.”
Zayd placed his empty glass on the table, stood up, and started walking toward the corridor. Without looking back, he said, “If you know the way back, you’re free to take it. I won’t stop you.”
With that, he disappeared into the corridor and entered the bedroom he had come from earlier.
Moussa smiled faintly to himself and muttered, “I’m not the daughter of the man he first loved. They say love is the slave of kings.” He let out a quiet laugh, stood up, took the glass from the table, and carried it to the kitchen before retreating to another bedroom nearby.
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8:00 PM at Inaya’s House
Inaya sat in the living room, dressed in a dark blue hijab that flowed to the floor. Across from her was a man reciting the Quran aloud, his voice steady and melodious. She bowed her head, listening intently, while her mother, seated beside her in a white hijab, did the same.
As the serene atmosphere enveloped the room, a young man emerged from the room across from Inaya’s.
He bore a striking resemblance to her, his skin a rich chocolate tone similar to hers, though hers was slightly lighter. His features were sharp—a long nose, a thin mustache, and piercing dark brown eyes. Slim but fit, he appeared no older than 26, and his undeniable charm was accentuated by his confident presence.
Dressed in white three-quarter pants and a blood-red shirt, he held a Tecno Pop 6 phone in his hand, scrolling through it absentmindedly. Without acknowledging the others in the room, he walked straight to the door and left.
Malan, the man reciting the Quran, paused and glanced at the young man as he left but said nothing. Once he finished reciting, he looked at Inaya.
“Auta, we’ll stop here for now. We’ll continue tomorrow,” he said.
Inaya nodded, gathered the books, and retreated to her room to put them away.
Ten minutes later, she emerged, now wearing a long sleeping gown and a short scarf draped over her head. As she stepped out, a voice greeted her from the doorway.
She paused, turned toward the door, and her face lit up when she saw her brother standing there, accompanied by Zayd.
A small, joyful smile spread across her face as she ran toward her brother, embracing him tightly. “Brother Abdoul, you brought him! Brother Zayd is here!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide with excitement as she glanced at Zayd.
Breaking away from Abdoul, she turned to Zayd. “Welcome, Brother Zayd,” she said warmly.
Zayd nodded in acknowledgment but remained silent.
Throughout the exchange, Malan observed them quietly, a soft smile playing on his lips but offering no words.
