Harijin Miji Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

The Mysterious Mansion
 
A woman, around 53, sat in the middle of a luxurious living room beside a man of similar age. Their dark, silky skin and distinct features marked them as unmistakably Sudanese. Both wore well-tailored black suits, calm and composed despite the piercing screams echoing through the mansion. The cries of a young woman—half in Arabic, half in English—carried through the massive house, yet neither the man nor the woman seemed disturbed. Instead, they glanced only at their Apple watches, counting down the minutes.
 
At exactly 10 o’clock, the man said softly, “It’s time, Madam Surayya.”
They rose together, moving with military precision toward the elevator, ignoring the desperate voice above.
 
From upstairs, the girl’s shrill protests rang out:
“Somebody help me! This man is a monster! He’s a ritualist!”
 
But when they reached a reinforced door with a built-in microphone, Surayya pressed the bell and calmly announced, “Binyamin Luhaidan Areef, it’s time!”
 
The girl screamed, “Madam Surayya, this man is a murderer! I will not marry—”
Her words cut off as she fainted.
 
The heavy door opened. Out stepped a man in his early forties, tall, broad-shouldered, and wrapped only in a white bathrobe. His powerful frame radiated dominance, his beard thick, his eyes sharp, his nose long, and his features striking. He looked more like a prince than a commoner. Without acknowledging the woman’s cries, he walked ahead. The man in the suit followed, while Madam Surayya entered the room.
 
Inside was a chamber designed for control: a massive BDSM bed with handcuffs and straps. A young bride, no more than twenty-eight, lay unconscious, bound and decorated with henna like a wedding night prisoner. Surayya gently clothed her, then summoned two assistants who carried the girl away. As they left, another beautiful Arab-looking woman sipping tea in the garden smirked and mocked, “Ah, the groom’s bride has arrived.”
 
This mansion was no ordinary home—it was a fortress of secrets.
 
The Tormented Groom
 
The man from the bathrobe—Binyamin Areef—entered his private sauna. Alone, he dropped the robe, revealing a muscular physique sculpted like a wrestler’s, veins pronounced, chest broad, abs cut. His size was overwhelming, his manhood swollen as though it carried its own curse.
 
He sat in silence, eyes closed, exhaling deeply as if in pain. After ten minutes, he rose, brushed, and showered with steaming water before dressing in another robe. But still, his body refused rest—his arousal relentless, unnatural, unending.
 
Entering his wonderland-like bedroom, he summoned his loyal servant Osman. In a low, commanding tone he growled, “Bring me a woman.”
 
Osman hesitated. “But sir, we have a meeting—”
“Damn it! Get me one, now!”
 
Terrified, Osman rushed out and approached a woman in the garden—Asma’u, one of Binyamin’s wives. Her heart pounded as Osman informed her she was the one summoned. “Why me? Where is Amina? What about Farida? And Zainab—he just finished with her!”
 
Osman answered coldly: “Amina served him yesterday. Farida at night. Zainab this morning. You are the only one left, Madam Asma’u.”
 
Her body trembled as she followed, knowing she had no choice.
 
In his room, she knocked. He did not answer. When she pushed the door, he stood naked, eyes bloodshot, his arousal towering like a weapon. Terrified, she whispered to herself, “Is this man bewitched? Or cursed?”
 
He beckoned. She hesitated, but he pulled her roughly, ripping her clothes in anger. “I told you I hate this thing!” he growled, tearing her undergarments and forcing himself on her.
 
The pain was unbearable. She cried, “Enough! You’re destroying me! If staying means losing my womb, I’d rather go back to my father’s house!”
 
Binyamin froze. She wept bitterly. “Five days only since our wedding, yet you’ve used me hundreds of times! What kind of marriage is this? Your manhood never rests—you don’t even release like a normal man. You’re not a husband—you’re my torment! Divorce me!”
 
Silent, Binyamin opened a drawer, wrote the divorce decree, and handed it to her. She left in tears.
 
Moments later, he summoned Surayya: “Ask the others if they also want to leave.” Soon she confirmed: both Farida and Zainab demanded divorces too. He granted it, ordering, “Give each woman ten million and let them go.”
 
He was used to this. Women always fled. None could bear his condition—a body cursed with endless desire, but incapable of satisfaction. He never climaxed, never fathered children. He lived in torment, his only relief temporary pain suppression. The word “love” no longer existed in his heart.
 
Business Behind the Mask
 
After ritual cleansing, Binyamin dressed impeccably: multiple layers of fine fabric to conceal his curse, a flowing robe, expensive perfumes, rings, and a grand turban. His Rolls Royce waited. Osman followed with an iPad, reviewing schedules.
 
“You have a meeting at the restaurant, sir. They’ve brought gemstone samples for the new diamond collection,” Osman explained.
 
Binyamin nodded silently as the convoy drove through the city. At the upscale restaurant’s basement, he exited, moving with calculated grace.
 
As he approached the elevator, a young waitress rushed past, accidentally brushing his arm. In that instant, something strange happened—his entire body froze, a chill raced through his veins, and his heart beat irregularly. For the first time in years, his body responded differently. The waitress screamed and ran, unaware of the storm she awakened inside him.
 
Binyamin stood shaken, his hand clutching his chest. He entered the elevator silently, Osman watching with concern.
 
By the time they reached the fifth floor, the restaurant manager was waiting. “Welcome, Mr. Binyamin Suhaidan Areef. Your guests are settled.”
 
Inside a private glass-walled suite sat high-profile Chinese investors. They rose in respect as he entered. Osman pulled out a chair, and business began. But Binyamin’s mind was elsewhere—haunted by the fleeting touch of a waitress who, for reasons unknown, had disturbed the curse within him.
 
The Curse of Desire
 
Binyamin Areef was a man both feared and respected. Wealthy beyond imagination, owner of gemstones, estates, and power, yet inwardly broken. His condition was his prison: a monstrous desire without release, a body that demanded endlessly, and a soul unable to love.
 
Every woman he married eventually begged for divorce. Some left with tears, others with anger. He granted them freedom easily, for he knew he was no true husband—just a man bound to a tormenting body.
 
But the unexpected encounter with the waitress was different. For years, no touch had moved him except through pain. Yet one accidental brush had sent shivers through his soul, as if destiny itself whispered a warning.
 
The story of Binyamin Areef was not just one of wealth, ritual, and domination—it was the tale of a man cursed by his own body, seeking relief in power, possessions, and fleeting flesh, yet never finding peace.
 
And now, perhaps, the curse had finally found its crack.