Fulani Book 1 Hausa Novel Complete
He stood at the living room window, watching the rain cascade into the courtyard. Each drop splashed and blurred his vision, as if the rain carried the weight of his thoughts. His mind was consumed with longing for his triplets, whom he had left behind when he resigned from his job in Sokoto to return to his parents' hometown, Yola, his birthplace. Yet, despite being back, he hesitated to approach the Emirate because of his mother, Hajiya Kilishi.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone and found the number Nana had sent. He dialed, and it rang twice before being answered.
“Hello, Ya Shattima,” came the voice on the other end.
“Big Brother, where are you? Are you alone?”
“Yes, I’m here in Lafia. How about you, Ya Akien?”
“I miss the triplets,” he said, his voice filled with emotion. “For God’s sake, steal them for me and bring them to my guest house. I’ll even reward you!”
“Oh, sorry, Shattima. You’re back? That explains why Ammy sent a messenger, warning me not to go out with the triplets,” Akien replied.
Shattima’s eyes widened slightly, a sly smile spreading across his face. “She knows I’m back?”
“Maybe, but if she gave that instruction, she must have found out,” Akien replied.
Shattima chuckled, his laugh revealing perfectly white teeth, and then hung up. He marveled at how sharp his mother was, predicting his every move.
Baba Adamu suddenly
Wasim opened his eyes slowly, his fingers dancing expertly along the flute. As the final note faded into the cold wind, he sighed with contentment. The forest below stretched endlessly, shrouded in mist and mystery. This was his sanctuary, where no one could intrude on his solitude—neither the burdens of his lineage nor the expectations that weighed heavily on his shoulders.
But today, his peace felt fragile. His thoughts wandered to Garuk, the town that both shaped and haunted him. Being the son of a renowned archer and the grandson of a sorcerer came with its share of whispers and fear. Many admired him; others feared his bloodline. Wasim cared for neither.
He leaned against a jagged rock, closing his eyes again, the flute resting in his hands like a trusted companion. Suddenly, a rustling sound from below broke his reverie. His sharp instincts kicked in.
"Who's there?" he called, his voice firm yet calm.
Silence.
Wasim descended the icy cliff with practiced ease, his bow slung across his back. He moved swiftly but cautiously, his eyes scanning the dense forest. A shadow darted between the trees.
“Show yourself!” he commanded, his voice cutting through the stillness.
The shadow stopped moving. From behind a thick oak tree, a figure stepped out. It was a woman, her appearance striking yet unfamiliar. Her long, dark hair cascaded down her shoulders, and her piercing green eyes glowed faintly in the dim light. She wore a flowing crimson cloak, and in her hands, she held a staff adorned with glowing runes.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said, her voice melodic but laced with authority. “I was drawn to your music.”
Wasim studied her carefully, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his dagger. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
The woman tilted her head, a small smile playing on her lips. “My name is Zarya. I’ve been searching for you, Wasim Rau.”
Wasim’s grip tightened on his weapon. “Searching for me? Why?”
“You may not know it yet,” Zarya replied, stepping closer, “but your destiny is intertwined with mine. Garuk faces a threat unlike any it has seen before, and only you can stand against it.”
Wasim narrowed his eyes. “Destiny? Threats? I don’t believe in such tales. Whatever danger Garuk faces, it’s none of my concern.”
Zarya stopped a few steps away, her expression calm but determined. “You can try to run from it, but fate will find you, Wasim. You are more than the son of an archer and the grandson of a sorcerer. You are the bridge between their worlds.”
Her words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. For a moment, Wasim considered turning away, dismissing her as another dreamer seeking to pull him into a battle he wanted no part of. But something about her—the conviction in her voice, the power in her presence—made him pause.
“Speak plainly,” Wasim said finally. “What do you want from me?”
Zarya’s green eyes met his, unflinching. “I need your help to stop a force that will consume Garuk and everything beyond it. You may not believe in destiny, but it believes in you.”
For the first time in years, Wasim felt the stirrings of something unfamiliar: a sense of purpose. Whether he liked it or not, the peace he cherished seemed to be slipping away.
