Nur Firdaus Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

A Luxurious Dawn
 
It was 4:00 am, and the only light in the master bedroom came from the bedside lamp. On the plush royal-purple carpet lay a red G-string, a netted push-up bra, silky sleepwear, and white Calvin Klein boxers — scattered carelessly in the opulent room. The golden décor glowed faintly under the dim light, while the air carried an intoxicating mix of perfume and the cold whisper of the AC.
 
On the bed, a stunning woman lay on cream-white sheets. She had the look of Abuja’s elite — skin soft and radiant, neck smooth, wealth and comfort etched into her very being. She looked no more than 45 or 46, though time had been generous to her body and face.
 
The Young Husband
 
Her eyes fluttered open to the sight of the man beside her. He was young — barely 13 or 14 years younger than her — a brown-skinned beauty with deep, magnetic eyes, a chiseled nose, a meticulously groomed beard, and the kind of sharp style that spoke of expensive barbers.
 
She had married him after the death of her husband, Alhaji Haroun Ciroma, captivated by his model-like frame and the way he knew exactly how to please her in bed.
 
Last night, he had suggested they have a child — through surrogacy or sperm insemination. The thought unsettled her. She already had two grown daughters; motherhood was a chapter she had no desire to reopen. Yet the idea of losing him frightened her more than the thought of another baby.
 
Conflicted Desires
 
She sighed deeply. Any other man who brought up such a request would have been chased away with words sharp enough to cut. But this man… he had a hold on her.
 
He didn’t meddle in her political affairs like her late husband, and she funded his entire lifestyle without complaint. Still, the thought of pregnancy at her age felt absurd. For thirty minutes, she sat at the edge of the bed, lost in the memory of last night’s passion and the nagging unease of his proposal.
 
An Early Flight
 
Her thoughts were broken by the reminder of her 5:40 am flight to Kano. She had not yet prayed Fajr. Slowly, she rose, walked to the bathroom, bathed in warm water, brushed her teeth, and dressed in a white bathrobe. She prayed quickly, then moved to her mirror, applying flawless makeup with practiced precision.
 
Checking the time, she ordered expensive breakfast online for her daughters so they would have something luxurious to wake up to. Then she slipped into a peach-colored Soltis of London dress, Gucci heels, and the heady scent of zebra rasasi mixed with red Arabian oil.
 
The Daughters’ Room
 
At 5:15 am, she walked toward her daughters’ room. She disliked mess, noise, and the chaos of children, preferring to send them to her mother in Yola whenever possible. Opening the door quietly, she found them asleep, cuddled together like orphans.
 
On the table beside her elder daughter, Nur Firdaus, lay an open Qur’an and neatly stacked Islamic books. At 17, Nur was devoted to religion, carrying her father’s discipline in her character. Awards from Qur’anic competitions lined her drawer.
 
Her younger daughter, Laila, 15, was more carefree — living life as it came, with her mother’s beauty and her grandfather’s features. She was taller and more solid than her sister, but less spiritually inclined.
 
For a brief moment, the woman felt a pang of tenderness, but her mind quickly drifted back to her political agenda.
 
Departure
 
Her phone buzzed — the driver was ready. She slipped out of the room without disturbing them. Outside, the driver opened her Lexus door. She checked her gold-chain watch.
 
> “Malam Liman, hurry before the children wake up and trap me with noise,” she said coolly.
 
 
 
The car slid away into the early morning darkness.
 
Missed Chance
 
Moments later, Nur Firdaus awoke, whispered her morning prayer, and glanced at the clock — almost 5:30 am. She looked at her sister, still asleep, then noticed the lingering scent of their mother’s perfume. Panic flashed across her face as she realized their mother had been in the room.
 
Throwing on her scarf, she opened her drawer and pulled out a folded white paper before dashing toward the gate, hoping to catch her. But the compound was empty; the car was gone.
 
She stood there for over ten minutes, the paper clutched in her hand, knowing it might be weeks — even months — before she saw her mother again. Sometimes she returned after two months; last night’s visit had been brief and late.
 
Today was important — the day parents were required to sign consent forms for students traveling to Kaduna for an Islamic quiz competition. Nur was representing all of Abuja. Without her mother’s signature, she could not go.
 
A Lonely Ache
 
The weight of disappointment pressed on her chest. Tears slid down her cheeks, mingling with the deep ache of missing her father, who had died when she was ten. Her mother’s absence felt sharper on days like this — when her achievements needed to be witnessed, and there was no one there.