Ali Dan Tsoho Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

The Luxurious Neighborhood
 
It was a wealthy neighborhood in the city of Maradi, filled with extravagant mansions. Two mighty houses stood facing each other — just one look at them and you could tell the owners were swimming in riches. Even within the neighborhood, this section stood out: calm, peaceful, and quiet. Everyone minded their business; the only sounds were the chirping of birds and the sweet fragrance of flowers that filled the air.
 
The house facing east caught my attention, so I went inside. Immediately, I confirmed it — true wealth lived there. The interior was magnificent, the kind that made you forget you were still in Hausa land. Everywhere was decorated in green and pink florals surrounding the massive building. Workers moved about busily. I turned toward the garage and was amazed — no less than twenty cars of different models.
 
One worker was washing a black 2020 Range Rover; the car gleamed so brightly that I lost myself staring at it. I wished to see its owner — or whoever would drive such a car. Moving closer, I reached a large glass door, studying how to open it. I noticed a tiny black button beside the glass and pressed it; the door slid open — meaning there was no extra security lock inside.
 
When I entered the parlor, I almost lost my breath. The air was cold and fresh, my feet sank into soft carpet, and the scent of luxury filled my nose. My thoughts were interrupted when I saw a stunning young man descending from an elegant staircase. He looked around thirty years old, dressed in a black suit that made him strikingly handsome.
 
He descended briskly, holding two expensive phones and glancing at a fine leather wristwatch. His black leather shoes gleamed. Though tall and strong, he had a slight limp — one leg was shorter than the other — but he carried himself with confidence. His complexion was a smooth chocolate tone, his facial features sharp: big eyes under thick brows, a tall nose, perfectly shaped lips tinted slightly red, and a neatly shaved beard. A cheerful aura surrounded him, making his already handsome face even more charming.
 
A Morning in the Mansion
 
Just as he reached the bottom of the stairs, a woman’s melodious voice filled the room, clapping her hands:
 
> “Innalillahi wa’inna ilaihi raji’un! Kamaludeen! Must you descend so recklessly? Have you forgotten your leg? You’ll hurt yourself again — oh, my son of one, as precious as a thousand!”
 
 
 
He rushed toward her, smiling widely — his trademark expression. He hugged her warmly and said,
 
> “Oh my Umma, your son is a warrior! Good morning, Ummah!”
 
 
 
Before she could respond, a man — his father, Abbu — interrupted by raising a cup of tea to Kamal’s lips.
 
> “Drink this, you’re not leaving yet. You’re already late,” he said smiling.
 
 
 
Kamal pouted and sipped the tea lazily.
 
A beautiful young girl, who looked very much like Kamal but darker in complexion, burst into laughter and clapped her hands. She was their daughter, Samha. Ummah laughed and teased,
 
> “Samha, you watch too much! Come here!”
 
 
 
Samha pouted and stomped her feet.
 
> “Then someone must coax me too before I take breakfast!”
 
 
 
Kamal gave her a playful, mischievous look that made her fake a cry toward their father. Abbu smiled,
 
> “Come on, my Samha. Let’s go eat together,” he said, taking her hand.
 
 
 
They all moved to the large dining area. After breakfast, Kamal quickly got ready to leave, hugged his parents, kissed them goodbye, and hurried out. Samha too went in to prepare for school.
 
Outside, the workers greeted him respectfully as he walked proudly toward the same black Range Rover Garba had washed earlier.
 
> “Blessed steps, great man!” Garba said. “Grandson of Amadu, blood of Ali Zaki — only son of Alhaji Abubakar Kan Giwa Mai Nasara! I wonder which woman will be lucky to win your heart.”
 
 
 
Kamal raised one hand for silence, running the other through his soft hair with a smirk.
 
> “Garba, may God guide you. Now open the car — I’m late already,” he said.
 
 
 
His phone rang; the name Sageer flashed on the screen. He picked it up as Garba asked,
 
> “Should I call the driver, sir?”
 
 
 
Kamal ignored him, entered the car, and drove out quickly through the mansion’s large gate.
 
He sped off furiously — nothing angered him more than being late to class.
 
The University and the Unruly Class
 
Maryam Abacha American University of Niger — the campus was magnificent, a blend of elegance and diversity. The place was filled with children of the rich and the poor alike, from every tribe.
 
Kamal parked his car, grabbed his phones and laptop, and went straight to the class he was teaching that morning.
 
Inside the classroom, chaos reigned. The students were shouting, laughing, and cheering as if they were in secondary school. At the center of it was a strikingly beautiful girl named Mubina — tall, slim, light-skinned, around twenty years old, with the kind of beauty that hinted at Arab ancestry. She was imitating Kamal’s walk, mocking the slight limp in his step.
 
> “See how Sir Kangiwa the limping man walks when he’s in a hurry!” she joked, walking exactly like him.
 
 
 
The class roared with laughter and clapping. Mubina’s friend Basma, who sat near the window, frowned — she didn’t like such disrespect. Though she disliked Mubina’s arrogance, she decided to stay quiet for now but silently promised that when Kamal entered, he’d teach her a lesson she wouldn’t forget.
 
Then Mubina teased again:
 
> “Basma, watch the road or the limping man might run me over! I swear I’ll never forgive you!”
 
 
 
Their classmate Nazir laughed nervously:
 
> “Come on, baby, you’re just too hot for him!”
 
 
 
But before he could finish, he saw Kamal entering.
 
> “Baby, careful!” he whispered.
 
 
 
Mubina panicked and rushed to her seat, tripping slightly — Kamal caught her just in time. She hurried to her chair beside Basma, throwing her scarf over her shoulders and pretending to be calm. Then, as if to cover her embarrassment, she smacked Basma on the back.
 
> “Stupid girl! If not for him, I’d have beaten you!”
 
 
 
The class went dead silent.
 
Kamal entered, greeted them warmly — “Good morning, class” — and everyone stood to respond. He nodded and moved toward his desk, but just as he bent to sit, he heard someone whisper mockingly:
 
> “The limping plane.”
 
 
 
He froze, eyes wide. This was the fifth time he had heard that same insult since the semester began — “The limping one.” He looked around, studying each face. The students quickly bowed their heads.
 
He said nothing, but they all knew he had heard it. Mubina’s heart raced — though defiant, she feared his reaction. Everyone went quiet, waiting for what would happen next.