Manar Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

Manar Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel 
A New Arrival
 
The cab descended slowly from the highway and rolled into a quiet, upscale housing estate that seemed so silent, one could believe it was uninhabited. In the backseat were two passengers—an elderly woman in her seventies and a striking teenage girl no older than fifteen.
 
Despite sitting quietly, the girl’s presence radiated. She was tall, elegant, with a rounded face that held large, expressive eyes framed by impossibly long lashes—natural, not artificial. Her nose bore a delicate, circular ring and her small lips glowed with a red chapstick. Even at her young age, her beauty wasn’t one to be hidden.
 
Since entering the estate, she had been restless—peering through the windows, her fingers twitching in anticipation, her eagerness growing by the second. She wanted to be out, free, running toward whatever or whoever awaited her. The elderly woman beside her stole a glance, shook her head, and pursed her lips in disapproval.
 
Before anyone could speak, the driver pulled up to a grand gate. The girl didn’t wait—she flung the door open and dashed out before the car had fully stopped. Giggling, she made her way to the smaller gate, pushed it open with force, and ran inside, letting it slam shut with a sharp clang.
 
The compound was massive. Beautiful gardens lined the walkway, and elegant trees swayed gently in the breeze. The layout was pristine—three separate apartments with plenty of space between them, two identical duplexes and one luxurious flat at the far end.
 
She slowed, letting her eyes travel across the buildings as if trying to recall something. A smile crept onto her face and, in a soft whisper, she said in Arabic, "anaa halla ja'eeh." Just then, the gate creaked again. She paused, alarmed, and her mood shifted instantly. She muttered under her breath with an exaggerated sigh, “O’o! Allah ga-ni… ni dai Azumi ina ganin ta kaina…”
 
Back at the cab, the driver was chuckling quietly at her dramatic monologue. As he offloaded heavy luggage from the trunk, the elderly woman leaned back and commented with a sigh, “Yaran yanzu dai addu’a kawai ake musu.”
 
The driver smiled politely. “Ameen, Hajiya.”
 
“Usman kake?” she asked suddenly.
 
“A’a Hajiya,” he replied with a laugh. “Ko sunan kakanki ne?”
 
She chuckled. “Kwarai kuwa.”
 
He grinned, “Toh na ji.”
 
Moments later, after helping unload the bags, he prepared to leave.
 
“Zaka jira, ko? Bari na kira y’an jikoki su kwasa kayan,” she insisted. “Ba zan iya É—aukarsu ba wallahi. Gajiya ta ishe ni, jirgin sama ya daure ni.”
 
“Ai ba matsala Hajiya, amma sauri nake,” Usman said politely.
 
“Wannan ai dai jiranka zai tsaya. Ka bar kaya nan barayi su sace?” she shot him a look. “Kai fa!”
 
She disappeared into the house with a determined gait. The gatekeeper, startled by her entrance, was mumbling to himself. She threw him a sharp glance. “Kai da wa kake?”
 
“Oh! Hajiya, barka da zuwa,” he stammered. “An zo lafiya?”
 
“Lafiya,” she replied curtly and moved on, ignoring the way he muttered under his breath, “Allah sa da wuri za ku koma.”
 
Inside the house, a young man sat on the upstairs balcony. His eyes were glued to his laptop screen, fingers tapping away, phone pressed to his ear. He was tall, handsome, in his late twenties—an unmistakable Fulani man with sharp features and piercing eyes.
 
Suddenly, a voice cut through the air.
 
“Yaya!”
 
He froze.
 
Before he could react, she was there—Manar—running toward him with childlike joy. His eyes widened as he took her in, and for a moment, just a second, he smiled and opened his arms.
 
“I missed you so much, Ya Waleed,” she said in Arabic, hugging him.
 
He hugged her back—but something shifted. His smile faded. His arms dropped.
 
Without warning, he shoved her away.
 
She fell to the floor just as Dadda—the elderly woman—walked into the scene.
 
“Kai!” she screamed. “Bakin ciki yaron nan!”
 
She hurried over as Manar burst into tears, writhing on the ground in pain and heartbreak.
 
Waleed stood stiffly, trying to retreat. Dadda’s voice followed him like a whip.
 
“Allah ya wadaranka! Kai ko tausayi ba ka da?”
 
He tried to escape inside, but she wasn’t done. “To ko ka kore mu ne yanzu?”
 
He didn’t answer.
 
“Maraya ce fa! Yarinyar nan daga zuwanta ka ci ubanta?”
 
Waleed spun around. “Wayyo marayan?”
 
“Ban sani ba!” she snapped, although her eyes betrayed her guilt.
 
“You do,” he replied coldly.
 
Manar, still on the ground, looked up at them both. Dadda bent to lift her. “Ki tashi mu je ciki,” she said. “Na fa fada miki ki guji shiga harkar d’an iska. Idan ya taba ki, ki rama. Babu kuka a gaban idona.”
 
Inside, Manar asked quietly, “Har da Yaya?”
 
“Ni ban ce shi ba,” Dadda snapped. “Amma uwarsa da k’annensa, kin ji ba ruwanki da su.”
 
They reached the final apartment. Dadda pulled out a modern keycard and opened the door.
 
As they stepped inside, she exhaled deeply and said, “O’ohhh! Gida kenan. Malam bahaushe fa, ya ce, kowa ya bar gida, gida ya barshi.”
 
Just then, a young man emerged—a darker version of Waleed. Slightly younger, tall and charming.
 
“Dadda!” he beamed.
 
She squinted at him. “Waye wannan kuma?”
 
“Matar Amaar fa! D’an Fodiyo ne!”
 
“Oh! Kai ne dai. Na d’auka wani mayen ne.”
 
“Kun hadu da Waleed kenan?”
 
“To ka gani, ba?”
 
He laughed, nodding. Then she sent him off to check the cab driver.
 
“Kada yaci dukiyarmu!” she said.
 
Inside, Manar sat quietly. She was hurting but said nothing.
 
Dadda’s voice carried from the hallway: “Wallahi sai na sa an kamo shi, idan ya gudu da kayanmu!”
 
Haushi ya cika Manar. She turned sharply. “Dadda, kiyi shiru. Ba’a ce miki ya gudu ba.”
 
Silence fell between them.
 
But not for long.
 
Not in this house.