Tangled Hearts Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

A Restless Morning
 
It was 7:00 a.m. according to the clock in her room. Slowly, she shut her eyes tighter under the blanket, forcing herself back to sleep. Since after praying Fajr she had been lying awake, yet sleep refused to come. From her bed, she could faintly hear his voice—though the words were unclear—still, like a spider’s tale, it always crawled into her mind.
 
Her gaze shifted to the window where the cool morning breeze swayed the curtains softly. Giving up on sleep, she sat up carefully, placed her feet gently on the cold wooden floor, and slipped them into the pair of slippers by her bed. Walking slowly, she opened her bedroom door and stepped into the hallway, her movements quiet and deliberate, like someone carrying a heavy weight in her body.
 
The open door of his home office caught her eye, making her quicken her steps as she went downstairs. Even before she reached the kitchen, the smell of fried eggs told her the lady of the house—her stepmother—was already up. At the doorway, she stood, watching her stepmom busy herself as if nothing unusual weighed down the house.
 
“Good morning,” she murmured.
 
Her stepmother turned, smiled warmly without meeting her eyes, and replied, “Morning baby, how did you sleep?”
 
Silence. What could she say? Should I tell you I didn’t sleep at all because your husband stumbled into the house at 2 a.m.? Or because of your endless arguments deep into the night that kept me awake? Instead, she sighed, picked a cup from the shelf, poured coffee, and finally whispered, “Fine.”
 
Her stepmother served her eggs and toast, watching as she aimlessly stirred her coffee, lost in thought. Peace was no longer something she believed in; it simply didn’t exist in her dictionary.
 
“Your father hasn’t woken up yet,” her stepmother said as she sat at the breakfast bar.
“I think he isn’t feeling well today.”
 
But she knew the truth. She had seen him awake in his office earlier, staring at the clock with those beautiful, glassy eyes clouded by intoxication. He was perfectly fine. And she knew both she and her stepmother were powerless to change him.
 
Before her stepmother could say anything further, Na’eema stood abruptly. “I’m going for a walk.”
 
Her stepmother raised a brow. “Isn’t it too early, baby? Are you sure?”
 
“I just need some air. I’ll be fine,” she replied, slipping on her jacket over her pajamas, adjusting her scarf, and stepping outside into the cold.
 
Memories of a Broken Home
 
The winter air was sharp, biting at her cheeks. She wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck. She disliked the cold, but this was the only time she could think clearly. The price of freedom, she told herself, was enduring the chill.
 
Her boots crunched through the snow as she walked down Maplewood Avenue, a quiet suburban street lined with snow-dusted trees. The scene was beautiful, but her mind was elsewhere. She wasn’t walking with a destination—just escaping.
 
I wish Mami had taken me with her to Nigeria. I wish she had fought harder for me after the divorce. I wish she had run away with me…
 
She could still recall everything, though she was barely twelve at the time. His drunken returns late at night, the shouting, the fights, and sometimes the bruises she spotted on her mother in the morning.
 
Now, as she passed bundled-up neighbors going about their early errands, she said nothing, keeping her pain silent.
 
Finally, she stopped at a wooden bridge that crossed over the creek. This was her secret place, the spot she always came to on weekends to watch the water flow, trying to forget. Here, she felt safest—so long as her father was at home and not in her sight.
 
He was her first love—her daddy. And it hurt to remember that the first man she ever loved had chosen a bottle over her. He was still present, yet she felt abandoned, empty. Resting her hands on the cold wooden railing, she let her eyes follow the gentle stream below.
 
An Unexpected Stranger
 
Suddenly, she heard a sound behind her. Startled, she turned. For the first time ever, someone else was here. It had always been her secret sanctuary.
 
There he was—leaning against the bridge railing, staring into the icy water. His breath made faint clouds in the winter air, his hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, a hood peeking from underneath.
 
When he noticed her, surprise flickered on his face. She quickly turned to leave. But then his voice came, rough from the cold:
“You come here often?”
 
She froze, turned slowly, her soft face framed by a neat scarf. He was older, maybe in his late thirties, hair brushed back around his temples, brown eyes studying her quietly.
 
“No,” she replied quickly, avoiding his gaze. “I just needed space.”
 
He nodded slightly, turned back to the water, and murmured, “It’s peaceful here.”
 
Her eyes widened—he had spoken Hausa. None of the languages she had guessed matched. Somehow, hearing Hausa from his lips made the moment feel different.
 
Tentatively, she moved closer, also leaning on the railing. Childishly, she admitted, “I like it here more. I don’t like home—it’s loud, too much fighting.”
 
He said nothing at first, simply adjusted his stance. Then, after studying her youthful face, he asked, “You live nearby?”
 
She nodded. “Not too far. Just a few blocks.”
 
A faint smile tugged at his lips. “So you don’t like people. You didn’t come out here for them, right?”
 
Quickly she answered, “No! Why would I come out for them?”
 
He chuckled softly, but didn’t press further.
 
For the first time in a long while, she felt free—talking to a stranger she knew nothing about. But soon she straightened, saying, “I should go home.”
 
He stood too. “Of course. Where are you headed?”
 
“Just down there,” she said, pointing toward her street.
 
“Let’s go,” he replied, beginning to walk slowly.
 
After a hesitant pause, she followed behind, whispering almost inaudibly, “Thanks.”
 
They walked side by side in silence, the cold morning breeze brushing against them. At her gate, she stopped, pointed, and said softly, “That’s our house.”