Imara Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

He walked with a deliberate tread, each step responding to the rhythm of the shoes on his feet. His hands hung loosely in the pockets of his pants, and the way he moved clearly showed he was no ordinary man—his stride was measured, controlled. As he lifted one foot forward, she instinctively pulled hers back, tension evident on her face. Lifting her foot to retreat, she felt the wall behind her—signaling she had reached the end of the bathroom. Her pale hands covered her face, and her whole body trembled with fear. Slowly, he exhaled a hot breath, removed the glasses from his white face, and looked at her with piercing eyes, scanning her from head to toe. She felt something tracing her body, the origin of his intense gaze. She tried to lift her face but failed, instead letting out quick, shallow breaths.
He placed his hand on her face. She quickly turned away, some hot tears slipping down her cheeks. He shook his head and spoke in a calm yet firm voice:
“My baby girl, why do you want to trouble the heart of someone who truly loves you? Why don’t you love me? Do you even know how much I love you in my heart? Imara, you should feel compassion for this heart; love me, and I will take you out of this state of suffering you are in.”
A small, trembling cry escaped her. She shook her head and clasped her hands together in a pleading gesture, her voice weak and fragile:
“For God’s sake, for the Prophet’s sake, keep my secret, Ameer. You act like a father to me—do you forget my position? I am your wife, Maheer’s wife. Please, I beg you, stop saying that! I swear I might die… please…”
Ameer smiled faintly and slowly walked toward the mirror above the sink, covering his face with his hands. He was a tall, imposing man, easily 60–65 years old, exuding authority and charisma. He turned to her, eyes fixed on her crying, her eyes closed as if death had touched her. Her body wore a long black Abaya, her hair disheveled, her small frame no more than 18–19 years old, trembling violently as she lifted her face, aware that he was watching.
He approached and grabbed her hand; she jerked it away, shaking her head. His smile softened. “Alright, Imara, but know this: I, Sheikh Fahad bin Saleem Al-Kuwari, will never stop loving you, and I promise I will claim you in every way possible. Ma’assalama.”
He left the bathroom. She collapsed to the floor, tiles cold beneath her, crying uncontrollably, whispering, Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un. What kind of calamity was this, entering her life after everything she had endured? Why did Ameer seek to shatter what little of her life remained? She hugged herself tightly between her knees, continuing to sob, unaware of when it would end.
“Katalina!! Katalina!! Katalina!!”
Turus stood at the bathroom door, watching her cry, exhaling sharply, then approached her, holding her in his arms. She burst into another wail, gripping his hand tightly as he carried her out of the bathroom. He placed her in a large room, closed the door, and stared at her with eyes fixed in anger, unable to speak. She pressed herself against the wall, continuing to sob.
“Why do you think you belong in this house? Do you think you’re some privileged princess? Or do you imagine life is just about being called a princess? No. You are Dolly, a pawn meant to serve the ambitions of this kingdom. Remember that. You were brought here to endure hardship, and this is your reality!”
“Keeeeee!”
She lifted her head to see him, one foot on the table beside her, wiggling his fingers. “Stop this whining and focus on what I have told you. If you do not heed, you will face the full wrath of Al-Udaid.”
She wiped her tears and replied, “What else do you want me to do? I am exhausted. Please, just take me home from this misery. I know nothing of your life, and honestly, I don’t wish to know. By God, take me home…”
He banged the table in front of him and asked, “What’s your name?”
“IMARA!” she answered, staring at him.
With force, he slammed the table again, lifting his eyes to meet hers. He spoke with a storm of authority and fury:
“If I ever hear that name again, I will do something you will never forget in your life. KATALINA is the name I have chosen for you, and from today, forget your name IMARA. You are KATALINA. If not…” He bit his lip, wet with his own anger.
“What if I refuse to answer to that name?”
He paused at the door, hands in his pockets, not turning back. She moved close to him, watching his back. “Are you going to kill me? Send me back to my parents? Or abandon me? I am not Katalina, and I will not answer to a name I do not belong to! Even if it means losing my life, I am IMARA!”
He smiled, saying nothing, and continued walking. Imara watched him leave, then returned to her royal bed, collapsing into a new wave of grief at the torment Maheer had caused her.
Later, he found them speaking quietly. Approaching, he overheard.
“Ochh! Shamma, it’s hot,” he said, frowning. Shamma replied, “Crowds are bad, Maheer.”
“Shuu, Ummi,” he said, sitting beside her, resting his head on her lap. She gently patted his head with love and whispered, “Cover yourself; it’s cold.” He nodded, eyes closed, enjoying the comfort of her touch. Ameer, who had been watching them, murmured:
“What about the Udaid company, Maheer?”
Maheer stood, showing respect to his father. “We are doing our utmost, Ameer. Everything is proceeding as it should, by the will of Allah.”
He nodded, adjusted his posture, and said, “May Allah help you.”
“Ameen,” Maheer replied, while Ameer stepped outside, walking with a calm that had fully taken over him.