Age Mate's Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

Inside the GRA House
 
KT State (behind Jidda Road, GRA, two houses away)…
The room was silent except for the recitation of Sheikh Sudais reading Suratul Baqarah. The whole room was calm—only the sound of the recitation, the ceiling fan, and the cool AC could be heard.
A sweet fragrance from air fresheners and burning incense filled the air.
 
It was a large room furnished with elegant royal furniture in milk color, and a soft, luxurious carpet spread in the center. By the window stood a sofa and a small fridge. Near the mirror, a large table held several Islamic books neatly arranged. Close to the entrance was the TV set.
 
The entire room smelled soothing and relaxing. Beside the royal bed were neatly arranged men’s items—clothes, a black P-cap, and a black leather wristwatch. Under the mirror was a pair of black boots.
 
One glance at the room told you it belonged to a very neat man.
At exactly 11:31 am on Tuesday, the bathroom door slowly opened.
 
He stepped out gently, placing his soft, hairy foot on the small carpet at the bathroom entrance before closing the door. The room filled with the scent of his shower gel.
He walked to the dressing mirror, wearing a navy-blue towel around his waist and another milk-colored towel around his neck as he dried his body.
 
This was Dr. Nura Darma—
A tall, handsome, well-built young man, confident and extremely clean. Some called him “Baban su wanka” because of how much he loved hot showers and neatness.
His natural beauty and perfect composure were striking. He was chocolate-skinned, calm, and never noisy. His face rarely carried a smile. His physical appearance commanded respect—even enemies admitted he was the true definition of a strong, intelligent man with two types of knowledge: worldly and Islamic.
 
He rarely talked unless necessary or work-related. He had zero tolerance for disrespect.
He glanced at his clothes as his phone suddenly rang, stopping the Qur’an recitation. He ignored the phone, combed his soft black hair all the way to his finely trimmed beards, his red lips adding more charm.
He was well-built and athletic due to constant exercise.
 
When the calls coming in refused to stop, he quickly dressed in a red T-shirt, black trousers, and a P-cap. His fragrance filled the room—he looked like a “black Arab.”
With his usual seriousness, he grabbed his motorcycle key, stepped out, locked the door, glanced toward his mother’s side of the house, and walked away with the confident walk people often admired.
 
Meeting with His Mother
 
His motorcycle stood parked by the small entrance veranda to the main sitting room. His face remained serious as he checked his phone and entered, greeting with his deep voice:
 
“Assalamu Alaikum.”
 
On a chair sat a beautiful woman of about 48 years old, dressed in a gold Atamfa wrapper and blouse—his mother. One look at her and you would know she was his mother. She valued greetings, so she responded immediately.
 
But she quickly complained:
 
“If you won’t go, bring my daughter back home or I’ll call Khaleel from school to pick her up. She just called me—she’ll be down from the car in five minutes. Do you want her standing in the sun waiting for you? What exactly is your problem?”
 
He stood by the door the entire time. He knew that anytime it concerned that disrespectful girl, his mother would not rest.
If not for his mother, he would never pick her up.
 
“Oh my God, please forgive me, Mamy. I’ll go and get her.”
He murmured in frustration as he left angrily, climbed his motorcycle, and rode out of the main gate with skill, heading straight to his newly opened chemist shop.
 
Inside, Isma’il was attending to customers.
 
“Yaya Nura, you’re back?”
 
“Mm. Have you picked Aunty Ahyaan?”
With a tightened face, he replied, “I don’t know,” and walked inside to sit, brows furrowed as he typed on his phone.
 
Barely five minutes later, messages poured in—questions, missed calls, more calls.
He hissed and refused to pick any call except texts, as his phone policy allowed. Many didn’t call to ask questions—they just wanted to hear his voice.
 
The sound of a car horn made him hiss again without looking.
 
Then a voice:
 
“Yah Shaikh!”
His friend Mu’az entered, smiling, teasing him. Isma’il greeted; he replied briefly.
 
“Darma, get up, let’s go.”
With his husky voice, Dr. Nura responded:
 
“Under this hot sun? It’s past twelve already. Can’t it wait till evening? I told her we’d come so you two can greet each other.”
 
Nura frowned even more.
 
“I’m going to pick that girl at the park. She just finished her NYSC in Kaduna. Mamy forced me to go.”
 
Mu’az laughed.
“I thought you stopped this petty fight with Ahyaan. You’ve been in London eight years. I doubt she’s even seen your picture lately.”
 
Nura didn’t answer. He only made a face.
 
They eventually stood to leave. Mu’az insisted they use his car but refused to let Nura drive:
 
“No! You drive like a madman.”
 
Nura turned to leave.
“If that’s the case, forget the trip.”
 
Mu’az laughed.
“I want to see the woman who will marry you; she has work to do.”
 
They stepped out.
A shiny white car parked beside them—it did not interest Dr. Darma. He only grabbed Mu’az’s keys and headed for the driver’s seat, mistakenly thinking Bilkisu was inside.
 
Indeed, she was.
 
“Doctor, please I—”
 
He ignored her completely and entered without even glancing her way.
 
Mu’az also ignored her because he knew very well Dr. Darma would never pay her attention.
 
Dr. Nura felt irritated by her. It had only been six days since he first met her at the shop. She returned the next day claiming the medicine was too strong and wanted a replacement. She also asked for his contact so he could bring it to her house if needed.
 
He gave her a deadly glare and she quietly left.
Now she was back again, and he didn’t know why.
 
Mu’az’s voice interrupted his thoughts:
 
“My brother, you know I really love Fatimah. That’s why we fixed the wedding while you were away. Maybe you’ll even find your own choice at the wedding.”
 
For the first time, Nura gave a tiny, charming smirk.
 
“With or without me, the wedding would have held.”
 
They approached the motor park. Nura wondered if he would even recognize Ahyaan. It had been eight years and some months.
He doubted that disrespectful girl would recognize him either.
 
He sighed, re
membering how she bit him hard on the index finger the day before he traveled to London—they were 20 years old then.