Matar Shege Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

The seventh day of the first month, in the year 2016—that was the day the book of my destiny began to open, the day I entered a kind of sorrow I never thought I would ever escape from.
I was sitting inside a tricycle (keke napep), on my way back to Brigade from my elder sister’s house in the Hotoro area. My full attention was on my phone as I spoke with my lover—the man I was to marry in just two months.
“Please, ladies, I want to stop here. I need to deliver something to my boss,”
I heard the rider say.
I looked in the direction he pointed and saw a laundry shop.
“Okay,” I replied.
Misfortune never comes before its appointed day. If I had known what I was about to see, would I have even stepped out today?
A black car was trying to park there. Even though I didn’t know much about expensive cars, I could tell this one wasn’t cheap. After about three minutes of parking, the door opened—but the person inside didn’t come out immediately. That alone made me focus all my attention on whoever this “important” person might be.
Then, right before my eyes, he stepped out of the car.
My heart skipped the moment I looked at him.
He was very fair, with large, striking eyes—clear and bright, as if he had never cried before. His nose wasn’t too long, his lips well-shaped, perfectly matching his round face.
He wore a black shirt and black trousers that fit him well, and a black wristwatch that looked so good on his fair hand.
My faith was shaken in that instant. I felt a strange sensation run through my heart and body. I let out a slow breath as I continued staring at him.
I noticed he frowned slightly, running his hand through his shiny hair as if he had been fixing it for a long time. Then he adjusted it again in a way that seemed intentional—and somehow, it made him even more handsome.
Honestly, he didn’t even look like a Nigerian. I had never imagined there were such handsome men in Kano.
He turned back toward the car. He didn’t get in; instead, he stretched his hand inside and brought out a red face cap, which he wore.
Just then, the tricycle rider returned, holding a bag.
As I watched, the young man entered the shop, looking visibly annoyed.
“I’m sorry, Hajiya, I delayed you,” the rider said.
I gave a slight smile as we passed the place.
“It’s nothing,” I replied.
After we had gone a bit further, I heard the rider say:
“His name is Salim. He owns that laundry place—and also that food spot called ‘Seven Thirty.’ He’s not a good person, and he smokes. They say he has a company in Sharada, which he personally manages, and his family house is also there.”
I wasn’t surprised by what he said. I knew it was connected to the way he noticed me staring at the man he called Salim.
“Hmm…” I sighed before asking,
“Don’t you know anything else about him?”
“That’s all I know,” he replied.
“Don’t you have his number?” I asked, my heart beating fast.
He laughed and said,
“Me? How would I?”
Excited, I said,
“Then please take me back there. When he comes out, follow him for me.”
The rider turned sharply and stared at me in shock before saying,
“Please, spare me! I’m not ready to die. Madam, I have a family!”
I laughed and said,
“Will you die just for following someone?”
He replied,
“Why not? Even if I don’t die, I know I’ll suffer for it. I might even end up in prison!”
I laughed again and said,
“That’s true.”
“But… you said he smokes? How do you know that?”
I asked eagerly, curious to hear his answer.