Abu Maleek Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

The Night’s Silence
 
The night was thick with silence in the small town. Despite the darkness, the sky glowed with a strange, ominous hue. Thunder rumbled faintly under the clouds, warning of an impending storm. The air was still, the only sound came from birds rustling in the trees and the gentle whisper of the wind.
 
As the clouds gathered and darkened, the town grew tenser. Birds scattered from the trees, sensing the disturbance, their instincts guiding them to safety.
 
A young boy, no older than fifteen, ran barefoot through the quiet streets, desperate to get home before the rain started. His white sleeping clothes clung to his skin, translucent and soaked from sweat and mist.
 
Suddenly, he stopped—he heard footsteps behind him. Heart racing, he turned briefly before hurrying again toward his house. Just as he reached for the door, a heavy blow landed on his head. He screamed as blood trickled down his neck, blurring his vision. Disoriented and in pain, he staggered in the wrong direction, unaware of where he was headed.
 
The Other Boy
 
Elsewhere, another boy—also around fifteen and strikingly handsome—watched from a distance. Bold and proud, he was known for never backing down. Upon hearing the commotion, he approached, recognizing a girl nearby.
 
She screamed, but he didn’t stop. Driven by something darker within him, he ignored her cries. When it was over, he stood, smirking slightly, and walked away without a trace of remorse.
 
Tragedy in Sahel
 
Far away in Sahel, a Fulani settlement known for its pastoral life, a different kind of darkness loomed. The peaceful village, made of straw huts and surrounded by cattle, was struck with fear. Around 2:30 a.m., gunshots rang out like thunder. Explosions followed. Chaos erupted.
 
The Fulani men rushed out with whatever weapons they could find—mostly crude tools, not true arms. The world often saw them as violent, but in truth, they loathed conflict. They were wanderers of peace, herders who lived in the wild, detached from worldly comforts.
 
A man ran from his hut, holding his pregnant wife’s hand. Her belly was full, ready to deliver any moment. Mid-escape, the man screamed and collapsed. A bullet had struck him.
 
Panicked, the wife turned, only for him to clasp her mouth to silence her. With his final breath, he handed her his talisman—a GURI—and passed away.
 
She ran through the darkness, eyes blinded by tears, praying to God for her survival and that of her unborn child. By a riverbank, labor seized her body. In pain and alone, she gave birth to a baby girl.
 
Despite the horror, the child showed strength. The newborn placed a finger in her mouth as if to comfort herself.
 
Then—voices.
 
Men were coming.
 
With shaking hands, the mother wrapped her baby in her cloth, swapped the GURI with the child, and with a last desperate act of love, tossed her into the rushing river.
 
Gunshots echoed behind her.
 
Twenty Years Later: Kingdom of Kanzaf
 
In the Alaafin of Edo/Benin—Masarautar Kanzaf—a prestigious Yoruba kingdom known for its deep traditions and grandeur, preparations were underway. The palace gleamed with polished earthen walls streaked with white and maroon. At the gates stood guards in royal uniforms, disciplined and firm. This was no ordinary kingdom; it was a realm of heritage and pride.
 
Within the palace walls, Prince Aremo Shakiru, son of the King, moved swiftly. Though dressed regally, his face was tense. People bowed as he passed, sensing the weight of his emotions.
 
He was met by Iyalode, the Queen Mother’s attendant, who greeted him with exaggerated praise.
 
“Oh noble son of royalty,” she said, “the one who inherited greatness from the womb. Tomorrow, the kingdom sees its future king.”
 
Aremo smiled faintly. Her words fueled his ambition—a goal etched into his destiny since birth.
 
Trouble in the Palace
 
Aremo’s face darkened as he whispered, “What of Maleek?”
 
Iyalode’s eyes gleamed.
 
“Maleek is dead,” she replied, “but his chamber remains sealed by Oumuu-Ayman and the Chief Elder. They don’t want word of his death to spread.”
 
Aremo exhaled deeply, relief washing over him.
 
“Good. His death secures my path. Let no one else know of this. If this leaks, it will bring ruin to your family.”
 
He turned sharply and walked away. Iyalode chuckled softly, “You will achieve your goal, but I aim for something greater.”
 
A Mother's Prayer
 
Elsewhere in the palace, Oumuu-Ayman sat quietly on her prayer mat. She had just completed her prayers and sat deep in thought. So much had happened—sudden, tragic events with no explanation.
 
Her heart was heavy.
 
When would the truth come to light?
 
When would peace return?
 
Hadima Akin, her loyal servant, approached with care.
 
“My lady,” she whispered, “do you believe the people will understand what has just occurred?”
 
Oumuu-Ayman smiled sadly, her eyes clouded with sorrow, yet filled with faith.