Ashe Zamuga Juna Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

The Bishara Family Mansion in Maiduguri
 
It was a grand neighborhood in Maiduguri — a place filled with the luxurious mansions of wealthy people and powerful politicians. The residents included Kanuri, Shuwa, Hausa-Fulani, and even foreigners. Everyone lived in peace and comfort, and because it was such an exclusive area, there were heavy security gates at both entrances, guarded by soldiers and police officers.
 
Among all the houses in the neighborhood, one stood out — a magnificent mansion unmatched in beauty, size, and design. From the exterior alone, it looked like something out of a movie, and anyone who passed by couldn’t help but stop to stare. Outside the mansion stood armed military and police guards, the kind of security only billionaires or high-ranking officials could afford.
 
At the gate was a large metallic sign boldly engraved with “BISHARA’S FAMILY.” Anyone who heard that name knew it was a Shuwa-Arab family.
 
Inside the Bishara mansion, beautiful little girls were playing joyfully in the garden. They all shared strikingly similar features, making it obvious they were siblings. They played a game called boji-boji, their laughter echoing through the compound. None of the girls were older than five or six years old.
 
The boys — their older brothers — were nearby, playing table tennis. Some of the older youths sat to the side, relaxing in sports jerseys, clearly just done with a game of football. They were chatting and watching their younger siblings play.
 
Asrah and the Boys
 
Abbas, one of the older boys, glanced toward the garden’s entrance and saw a little girl standing there, holding a pink teddy bear. She was watching them quietly, her face innocent and curious, as if she was searching for someone.
 
Her skin was fair and glowing, her black silky hair neatly braided, with a single lock lying perfectly across her forehead. Her big, bright eyes glistened like drops of oil — not tears, but the kind of natural shine people called “oily eyes.” She had a slender nose, small pink lips, and dimples on both cheeks. Her dress stopped neatly at her knees, and she wore fine shoes that sparkled under the sun.
 
She was a little girl — about six years old — but her beauty was astonishing. She stood scanning the area with her big shiny eyes, trying to find someone.
 
Abbas smiled faintly and signaled his brothers. One of them, a handsome young man named Ahmed, who looked very much like Abbas, said teasingly, “Abbas, who do you think she’s looking for?” Abbas replied, “Who else if not Tajuddin? Whenever Asrah isn’t playing with her siblings, that means Tajuddin isn’t around.”
 
They all laughed. Ahmed said, “That girl is such a handful! She may be small, but she’s stubborn and talkative. Maybe it’s because she wasn’t born here in Nigeria. She was born and raised in California — they just returned two weeks ago. She’s been pampered all her life by Uncle Hameed and Aunty Amarya. She’s about six now, and they waited seven years before she was born.”
 
Haris, another brother, added, “What amazes me most is how much Tajuddin loves her. That boy has always been reserved and short-tempered — he doesn’t talk much, doesn’t play with anyone, and never smiles. He’s only seventeen, yet he acts older than all of us. But the moment Asrah is mentioned, everything changes. He only talks freely when she’s around. It’s obvious he adores her deeply.”
 
Abbas laughed and removed his sports jersey. “Don’t be surprised,” he said. “Since the time Aunty Amarya was pregnant with Asrah, Tajuddin was attached to her. Whenever Mom or Grandma visited California, he would insist on going along. He used to say that if the baby turned out to be a girl, he would marry her someday. That’s why, despite his temper, he never shouts at her — and despite her stubbornness, she never disrespects him. I can’t wait for the day they get married. I’ll celebrate like never before.”
 
They continued chatting until Haris walked over to Asrah and asked softly who she was looking for. The little girl pouted and replied in her thin, foreign-accented Hausa, “Ya Haris, where’s my Tajuju? I couldn’t find him.”
 
Haris laughed at how she pronounced Tajuddin’s name as “Tajuju.” He told her to come sit inside and wait, but she folded her arms and said she wouldn’t go until Tajuddin came for her. He smiled and gently led her inside, where she sat near the boys. She looked at Abbas and asked, “Yaya, did you see my Tajuju?” Abbas tried to hide his laughter and said no. Her face instantly fell in sadness.
 
Soon, her little sisters — Umaisha, Iklas, and the others — came running to her, panting from play. They told her to join them, but Asrah refused, saying she wouldn’t play until “Tajuju” came. They begged her repeatedly, but she stayed silent, hugging her teddy tightly. The older boys just watched — they knew how stubborn Asrah could be once she made up her mind.
 
The Arrival of Tajuddin
 
From a distance, Saghar — another of the older boys playing table tennis — noticed what was happening. He frowned, irritated by Asrah’s stubbornness. To him, she was too spoiled. He marched toward her angrily and shouted, asking why she refused to play even when her sisters begged her. He grabbed her hand and yelled at her to stand up.
 
Abbas quickly tried to stop him, telling him not to shout at her because she was just a child. Before Abbas could finish speaking, Asrah burst into loud, uncontrollable sobs — as if she had been beaten mercilessly. Her body trembled, and between her cries she wailed, “My Tajuju, come! They’re beating me!”
 
Everyone froze in shock, knowing well that Saghar hadn’t even touched her.
 
Just then, a calm but commanding male voice came from behind them, saying, “Come here, my Asrah — who touched you?”
 
They all turned instantly. Standing there was a young man — tall, strikingly handsome, his face stern with anger. He wore a black T-shirt, three-quarter military trousers, and a facing cap. His presence alone drew silence.
 
The moment Asrah heard his voice, she ran straight to him and wrapped her little arms around his waist, still sobbing.
 
Everyone held their breath except Abbas, Ahmed, and Haris. The rest — Umaisha, Iklas, Zoya, Parsa, Rameesa, Saghar, Salim, Sahil, and Sudais — stood frozen.
 
Tajuddin glared at them with piercing eyes as he rubbed Asrah’s back gently. His voice was low but full of warning when he asked, “Who among them touched you?”
 
Asrah, still in his arms, pointed her small finger at the group and said innocently, “All of them. They all shouted at me and hit me.”
 
Tajuddin’s expression darkened. He said sharply, “I swear by God, if any of you ever lays a hand on her again — whether by hitting, scolding, or even yelling — you’ll deal with my anger.”
 
With that, he lifted Asrah onto his shoulders and carried her away from the play area. The rest stood speechless.
 
Saghar, on the verge of tears, muttered, “I swear I’ll beat that girl one day — unless Tajuddin kills me first.”
Haris shook his head and said, “Don’t bring trouble on yourself. You know Taj’s temper — he could really hurt you. Just learn to bear with her; she’s still new here and just a child.”
 
Saghar scoffed and walked away, followed by Sudais and the others, all heading back into the mansion.
 
Inside, Tajuddin carried Asrah laughing on his shoulders as they entered the enormous, luxurious mansion — a true palace. Everything inside sparkled with wealth: imported furniture, artistic decorations, and a grand staircase that spiraled upward to multiple floors.
 
Without greeting anyone, Tajuddin went straight upstairs with Asrah, ignoring Abbu, Abbie, and Uncle Hameed, who were seated in the main lounge.
 
Uncle Hameed sighed and said, “Taj, aren’t you going to say something?”
Tajuddin didn’t respond. He kept walking upstairs as though no one else existed.
 
Abbie shook his head in frustration and said, “Hameed, I don’t know what to do with that boy anymore. His whole life is filled with anger. He’s burning from the inside. I’m even considering sending him to the U.S. Military Academy — maybe it’ll shape him. But honestly, I doubt it’s the right path for him.”
 
Abbu turned to Abbie and said calmly, “Mubarak, don’t change his dream. You know that’s all he’s ever wanted — to be a soldier. If you destroy that dream, you destroy him completely. Instead, let’s find a way to reach him, to soften his heart. Since the death of Baba, I’ve never seen anyone like Tajuddin — he’s exactly like his grandfather.”