Tubali Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

The Deadly Storm over Gembu
 
A monstrous storm descended upon the land of Gembu, Mambilla Plateau. It was no ordinary rain. Darkness swept across the region from east to west, north to south, swallowing sky and earth alike. The night itself seemed to merge with the storm, thick with thunder, roaring winds, and cold that bit into the skin.
 
By this hour — past one o’clock in the dead of night — the people of Gembu slept deeply in their homes, unaware of the terror unfolding on the lonely highway that ran above the rivers and ravines of the plateau.
 
Through the rain, a luxurious car sped recklessly, its headlights cutting through sheets of water. The driver — a young man — drove as though pursued by death itself. His body shook violently, drenched not from the cold air-conditioning or the night chill, but from sweat born of raw fear. His trembling hands gripped the wheel while his eyes kept darting back.
 
Behind him, towering in the dark, a giant trailer-truck chased, relentless. Every turn, every desperate swerve, the trailer followed, its massive headlights glaring like the eyes of a predator that had already chosen its prey.
 
Inside the car, on the man’s lap, a small boy whimpered, clinging tightly. The father held him close, whispering prayers between sobs, while the road ahead twisted like a serpent toward the cliff above the deep Gembu Gorge, where rivers joined — Adamawa’s Numan, Gombe’s Dadin Kowa, and hidden tributaries. The descent was steep, the bends sharp, and death lurked below.
 
With trembling fingers, the man fumbled for his phone. His voice, broken and shaky, carried the weight of farewell as he called someone on the other end. His words sounded less like conversation and more like a dying man’s last will.
 
The car skidded toward Rugar Rumo, a small settlement by the gorge. Then, like the judgment of fate, the trailer rammed into him.
 
With brutal force, the truck driver swerved and shoved the car off the road, toward the yawning ravine. Metal shrieked — kruuuuhhh! — as the smaller car struck a tree, halting for a heartbeat before the trailer roared again, grinding against it until the crushed vehicle tumbled into the abyss.
 
The sound of impact — fuuuuuhhh… zinndim! — thundered as the car disappeared into the raging waters.
 
Villagers of Rugar Rumo, startled from sleep, rushed out only to hear the dying echoes. They knew instantly what it meant. Whoever fell into that gorge had fallen into his grave.
 
The trailer driver, however, broke into cruel laughter. Without remorse, he shifted gears and rumbled toward Gembu. Speaking into his phone, he reported coldly:
 
“Sir, it’s done. He is gone from this world. Now I’ll move on to finish his wife and children.”
 
A pause. Then the sinister reply of his unseen master came through the line, his laughter chilling:
 
“Good. Do the rest. Two million naira more will be in your hands.”
 
The driver’s eyes gleamed. “Now it shall be done.” He ended the call and drove deeper into the stormy night.
 
Twenty-Two Years Later, in Kano
 
Decades passed. Far away, in Kano State, the scene shifted to a grand hall inside the headquarters of Arewa 24 TV.
 
The room was silent, filled with over fifty staff seated around a polished conference table. Bottled Faro water, Nutrimilk, Maltina, and exotic fruit drinks were set neatly before them, alongside tall glasses ready for cheers.
 
At the head of the table sat their Managing Director, dignified and commanding. He cleared his throat, adjusted his seat, and began:
 
“We are here to discuss the restructuring of our programs for this coming year. But first, tell me — where is the host of Guest of the Week?”
 
From among the staff, a young woman raised her hand. Her voice was soft yet steady:
“I am here, Sir.”
 
All eyes turned toward her. She was Jannart Idris Saleh Dakata, calm and composed, her gentle voice a striking contrast to the tension in the room. Her poise was the very reason she had been entrusted with hosting the prestigious program, which brought celebrated figures to speak of their struggles and triumphs — lessons for the youth.
 
The MD continued, though his tone carried weight:
“Jannart, this program has been struggling. Because of your security constraints, you no longer move freely to invite the high-profile figures we need. Many episodes are mere repeats. For this reason, the top board has given us two options.”
 
Jannart’s heart sank. She lowered her gaze, already sensing the verdict. To lose this program would be to lose her only escape — the place where she felt herself again, free from escorts, free from the shadow of Yah Junaidu who guarded her life too tightly.
 
The MD pressed on:
“Option one: you secure for us the next guest on the list. Option two: we replace you.”
 
Her colleague, A’isha Lawal, squeezed her hand under the table, offering silent comfort. But another — Asiya, her rival — sat eager, ready to seize her place.
 
Jannart swallowed hard. “In sha Allah, I can do it, Sir.”
 
He leaned forward. “Are you sure?”
 
“Yes. I will.”
 
The MD nodded, then delivered the challenge:
“The guest is none other than Dr. Rayyern Bashir Muhammad Mai-Nasara.”
 
Gasps spread across the room. A’isha whispered in shock:
“But Sir, Dr. Rayyern Mai-Nasara… he is—”
 
The MD cut her short. “Yes, I know. He is not like other men. Even the BBC has never managed an interview with him. No one has ever captured his image on record. If we succeed, Arewa 24 will be the first to reveal his face to Africa.”
 
He let the words sink in. “This is the test. Will it be you, Jannart — or shall we give Asiya her chance?”
 
“I can,” Jannart answered firmly, though fear gnawed at her heart.
 
The MD handed her a thin file. Inside were only fragments: his name, the companies he owned, the hospitals he built, and his charitable organization — the Mainasara Foundation.
 
But there was no phone number. No photograph. No address.
 
The Mystery of Dr. Rayyern Mai-Nasara
 
Confusion rippled through the staff. Jannart frowned at the empty file.
“How can I find him without even a number or photo?”
 
The MD explained gravely:
“That is what makes him special. Even if you had his number, it would be useless. His phone blocks all calls unless your number is saved by him. And even then, he rarely answers. At most, you may leave a voicemail — and only if your message carries true weight will he call you back.”
 
The challenge grew heavier with each word. Many sighed. Asiya smirked, eager for Jannart to fail.
 
But Hajia Rabi’ah, one of the senior staff, leaned forward. “I may know something. My younger cousin is close to the PA of Dr. Rayyern. Through him, I learned bits of his ways. That is all I can offer.”
 
Quickly, Jannart handed her phone. “Please, give me his number.”
 
Rabi’ah smiled knowingly and dictated the contact.
“His name is Mahmoud.”
 
Jannart saved it, clutching the fragile lead as though it were the key to her survival.
 
Fate Beckons
 
The meeting ended with unease. Jannart’s colleagues exchanged whispers — some doubting, some envious, some silently wishing her well.
 
For her, the path ahead was treacherous. To find Dr. Rayyern Bashir Mai-Nasara was no ordinary assignment. It was a quest wrapped in secrecy, one that would test her wit, courage, and patience.
 
But what no one yet realized was this: the story that had begun on a stormy night in Gembu twenty-two years earlier — when a car was forced into the gorge by a merciless trailer — had not ended in those waters.
 
It had only just begun.