Sanyi Da Zafi Book 1 Complete Hausa Novel
He entered quietly after offering greetings, stepping into a grand hall they called Shakallo—a chamber so private that only the select few were permitted inside. The architecture of the room resembled a museum, wide and majestic, adorned with glittering ornaments. A massive carpet covered the entire hall, and scattered across it were plush cushions, decorated with royal embroidery.
Five people sat in the hall: four men and one elderly woman. The old woman—the Matriarch of the House—was clearly the most senior. She looked no less than seventy-six years of age, her eyes sharp and piercing. She wore a flowing Alkyabba, holding a tissue and a string of prayer beads in her hands. Alongside her sat Waziri, Wambai, Makama, and Sarkin Dawaki. Not long after, two elderly men who bore a striking resemblance to the Matriarch entered and took their seats.
The weight of their presence hit him; these were not just elders but the king’s closest council, second only to the ruler himself. Fighting his nerves, he moved to the center, found a spot, and sat. Facing the Matriarch, he asked,
“Grandmother, was it you who sent for me?”
She shook her head slowly, dabbed her eyes with the tissue, and wiped away tears before replying:
“It was your father’s companions who insisted you be summoned—as the first son of Prince Kabeer.”
Startled, he lifted his head, looking around at the faces fixed upon him.
“I see,” he muttered softly.
Makama, the most senior among them, leaned forward.
“Have all your brothers arrived? By four o’clock we must crown the successor.”
With composure and calm, he replied,
“Prince Halilu and Ibrahim are already here. Munir just called me—his flight has landed in Abuja. As for Umaru, his plane has only just taken off from Lagos, and…” He paused briefly.
As if on cue, the entire hall asked in unison,
“And Prince Riyad?”
He exhaled a suppressed sigh and answered,
“I’ve tried calling him countless times, but I can’t reach him.”
The Matriarch let out a heavy lament.
“I have never seen such a restless child as Riyad. Today he is in Egypt, tomorrow in Cyprus, next he’s in Oman, then Zanzibar, another day in China or Iceland. Oh, my Shatu! Today, I hear he’s in France. Try his number there. If not, go through Fulani; she always has a way of reaching him.”
Prince Kabeer, in a subdued tone, replied,
“Grandmother, even you know Riyad has never stayed in one city for a full month. His own mother, Fulani, doesn’t even know his whereabouts. She’s tried calling, but he ignores her too. I cannot understand what problem Riyad has that makes him prefer roaming the world instead of living in his own land where his umbilical cord was buried, where he was raised…”
Wambai raised a hand, cutting him short.
“That’s enough.”
With another sigh, Kabeer bowed his head as Wambai continued:
“For his sake, we cannot delay the rites of kingship. Wherever he is in this world, he will hear of his father’s death. He will return. For now, rise and go.”
Slowly, Kabeer stood, bowed slightly, and left the hall, muttering under his breath as he stepped outside.
Inside, one of the elders spoke bitterly,
“Grandmother, I’ve told His Majesty countless times to call Riyad to order. Among all the princes, none is as reckless as he. He refuses to learn our traditions, refuses to settle. Now, what will people say when they learn that he alone is absent?”
All eyes turned toward him, but before he could continue, another elder, Usmanu, spoke up,
“No, brother. Riyad is not reckless. He is calm, and we all know his businesses take him to these countries. His Majesty himself approved, giving him the go-ahead when he saw Riyad’s passion for trade. He is a good-hearted man, full of compassion, and we all here know it.”
The first elder, Hambali, shot back angrily,
“Who gave you the right to answer me, Usmanu?”
The two nearly quarreled, until the Matriarch’s voice rang out sharply,
“Enough! Hambali, Usmanu—do you not realize your brother has died? And here you are, ready to fight over his son?”
At once, silence fell over the hall.
Prince Kabeer proceeded directly to his mother’s flat. She was the senior wife—the queen mother. Her residence was nothing less than a palace itself, so grand it seemed like entering a whole district. Wealth radiated from every corner; one glance revealed the true power of royalty.
Inside, women mourned loudly, but their wails did not stop him from heading straight into her chambers. She sat surrounded by attendants, weeping bitterly. Their eyes met, and she gestured discreetly for him to follow. Rising, she adjusted her wrapper and entered her private room. He closed the door behind them and locked it.
Then, dropping her tears like a mask, she whispered slyly,
“What happened? What did they tell you?”
He smiled faintly.
“They still haven’t found Riyad, Mama. That gives me comfort.”
Clenching her fist, she raised it into the air,
“Excellent! Alhamdulillah! Riyad has always been my only obstacle. You outshine all the princes in wealth, in knowledge, in influence. And you are of noble lineage—my lineage. Everyone in the palace knows you best. Only Riyad dares to rival you, flaunting his fortune and his PhD. But apart from that, what else does he have? Rumors say he’s even unwell—that’s why he hasn’t married. When the nobles and the public are asked, most would choose him, but mark my words, I will not allow it. Hambali may be another contender, but I will clear him out too.
“Listen, my son, once the king is buried, I myself will speak to the Matriarch. Forget Riyad. Show love to your brothers and sisters, embrace them, win their hearts. Stand firm as leader of this house. That will make you even more beloved. The throne will be yours, for you are my firstborn and the rightful heir.”
He laughed lightly, “Mama, you are truly a queen in this life.”
She stroked his face quickly.
“Enough. Stop showing happiness openly. Wear a mask of sorrow, as though you alone have lost the most.”
He nodded, adjusted his face to a look of grief, and left.
Outside, crowds had gathered. His brothers Halilu, Ibrahim, and Shu’ibu were all present with their families. Soon, Munir—the last to arrive—came rushing in. Spotting Kabeer, he asked immediately,
“Did you reach Riyad?”
Kabeer shook his head solemnly.
“No. Since you’re all here, we’ll proceed with Baba’s funeral. We cannot delay for Riyad, even if he is on the way.”
Munir said nothing, but quietly stepped aside. He dialed Riyad’s number—it did not connect. He remembered their call just last night around 1 a.m., yet now the line was dead. He typed a quick email, sent it, and returned.
The ablution was performed, prayers were offered, and His Majesty was laid to rest within the palace grounds. Rumors spread quickly—every prince had attended the funeral except Prince Riyad. Whispers filled the air, and anger burned in Kabeer’s chest, though outwardly he wore a face of sorrow.
Inside the palace, the princes joined the royal wives—each seated in hijab, eyes swollen from tears. They greeted Fulani first, then the other senior wives, offering condolences and prayers before moving on to receive the nation’s top dignitaries and international guests who had come to honor the late king.
