Yareema Jawad Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

The Conflict: Xaljamil’s Fear of Leaving Qatar
 
Xaljamil, a beautiful young girl with striking Arab features, lay on her mother's lap, crying in a soft, pampered way. Her voice, sweet and flute-like, broke the silence.
 
“Please, Mom, let’s stay in Qatar. Let’s not go back to Nigeria.”
 
Her mother chuckled. “Xaljamil, you’re always dramatic. How can we stay here when our homeland is Nigeria?”
 
Xaljamil burst into real tears this time. “Then go without me. Leave me here!”
 
Her mom was taken aback. “Are you serious? You’re acting like we’re strangers to you.”
 
Sitting up and grabbing her mom’s hand, Xaljamil pleaded. “I promise to take care of myself. You know I’m not like other reckless girls. I’ll protect my dignity, please.”
 
Mom sighed. “What’s wrong with you, Xaljamil? Did someone influence you? Your dad’s contract in Qatar is over. We have no choice—we’re returning to Nigeria in two days. And you’re coming with us.”
 
Her mom’s firm words hit her hard. Xaljamil stormed off to her room in tears. She wore a long pink gown decorated with stones. Her hair, tied back with a ribbon, flowed down her back. Her mother watched her leave and let out a deep sigh before following.
 
Inside, Xaljamil was curled up on the bed, sobbing. Her mom entered gently and sat beside her.
 
“My baby,” she whispered softly.
 
Xaljamil slowly lifted her head, eyes red and swollen. Her mother motioned for her to come closer, and Xaljamil ran into her embrace, crying even harder.
 
“Be patient, habibty,” Mom said. “There’s nothing wrong with going back home. Nigeria is our country—we must return.”
 
Still crying, Xaljamil argued, “But Mom, I don’t want Nigeria! From all I’ve heard, I won’t survive there. I can’t! Qatar is my country. I was born here. I even have citizenship here. Please, let me stay.”
 
Her mother looked at her in shock. “You don’t know anything about Nigeria. Xaljamil, did you know you're royalty?”
 
Xaljamil looked up, her face lighting up. “Really? Are you serious?”
 
“Yes, my dear. Your grandfather is a king back in Nigeria.”
 
Her joy was short-lived. “If only he were the king of Qatar, then I’d be happy. But royalty in Nigeria? It doesn’t excite me.”
 
Mom tried to explain the pride and honor of their Nigerian heritage, but Xaljamil was unmoved. “No matter what you say, I can’t imagine myself there. I grew up around fair-skinned Arabs. I’m not used to dark people. I don’t want to see them.”
 
Mom gave her a sharp look. “Xaljamil, enough. That’s not how we raised you.”
 
Still, Xaljamil insisted. “Tell them I’m sick. Let me stay behind. I can’t go.”
 
Her mom just laughed. “You’re hilarious, Xaljamil. After all this fuss, you’ll eventually adjust.”
 
Tears welled up again. “You don’t love me anymore, do you?”
 
Mom was shocked. “Who told you that? I love you just like my mother loved me. I wish you knew how much I miss her. It hurts.”
 
Xaljamil stared at her mom, then stood and locked herself in the bathroom. Mom sat, hands on her head, regretting they had never taken Xaljamil to Nigeria since they arrived in Qatar.
 
Who Is Xaljamil?
 
Xaljamil was the perfect blend of beauty and brains. With Arab-like features—fair skin, long lashes, a petite nose, and a beauty mark—she was stunning. Tall and slender, her appearance could stop a crowd.
 
She was raised with good morals, memorized the entire Qur’an, and was quiet yet witty. Born and raised in Qatar, she had no friends—only schoolmates. She was used to solitude.
 
Her education was excellent; she graduated from a top Qatari university with a degree in Anatomy. Love? She had no experience with it and didn’t even know what it truly meant.
 
Her loyalty to her parents was unmatched. She always obeyed them. The only time she ever resisted was now—facing the reality of leaving Qatar.
 
Her mom, overwhelmed by guilt, understood her. How could they expect Xaljamil to feel connected to Nigeria when they had never taken her there?
 
Later that evening, Mom went to pray Maghrib. Xaljamil, fresh out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, sat before her mirror, applying scented oils and Arabian perfume. She dressed in a short milk-colored top and pencil trousers. Her mood had not improved.
 
Drawn to her mom, she walked into the living room. Her mom was watching an action movie on MBC. Without saying a word, Xaljamil stood behind her, arms crossed.
 
The smell of her perfume gave her away. Her mom smiled at her, but Xaljamil frowned and sat on another couch, avoiding eye contact.
 
Suddenly, the doorbell rang.
 
She rushed to open it—and there he was.
 
“Daaaddy!” she screamed and jumped into his arms.
 
Dad laughed, “You’ll never grow up, will you?”
 
But as soon as she remembered he was the one who announced their return to Nigeria, her smile faded. She released him and stormed back to her room.
 
Mom hugged Dad and took his briefcase, pecking his forehead. “What’s wrong with her?” Dad asked.
 
“She’s upset about leaving Qatar,” Mom explained.
 
Dad sighed. “I expected this.”
 
They went to their room together before Dad, determined, headed to speak with Xaljamil.
 
She sat on the edge of her bed, lost in thought. He walked in calmly, calling her name. She didn’t look up. Without warning, he picked her up and took her to the dining room.
 
She struggled to break free, but he wouldn't let her.
 
Mom served dinner: jollof rice with liver and fish, and another plate of spicy chicken. But Xaljamil only stirred her rice. She didn’t eat a single bite.
 
Noticing, Dad pulled her closer and placed her on his lap. She didn’t smile. She believed he no longer cared.
 
He took a spoon and fed her. Slowly, she accepted, bite by bite, until she was nearly full. Then she gently shook her head to say she was done.
 
He handed her juice and watched her drink it all. Then, lifting her again, he carried her to the living room.
 
He groaned in mock exhaustion as he set her down. She burst into laughter, her face bright for the first time all day.
 
“Dad, when did I become heavy?” she asked.
 
“You ate like a queen!” he teased.
 
She pouted, “Only a little!”
 
“True, you never eat much,” he agreed.
 
Mom, watching from the dining table, smiled warmly. She joined them in the living room, sitting beside her daughter.
 
Together, they chatted, laughed, and told stories. The tension melted away. Xaljamil finally felt the love she thought was missing.
 
She hugged both parents tightly, her heart full.
 
Looking at the wall clock, Mom gasped. “Oh my God, it’s 12:58 AM!”
 
They all stood up laughing. “Time really flew!” Xaljamil said.
 
They walked her to her room before heading to theirs.
 
That night, Xaljamil didn’t sleep until she packed all her things for Nigeria.
 
Letting Go and Moving Forward
 
By 8:55 AM the next morning, Xaljamil was ready. Dressed in a light blue Arabian gown with sparkling stones, her hair covered in a pink veil, and her body scented with Arabian perfume, she looked regal.
 
She went to the living room, but Mom wasn’t there. She went to her room instead.
 
“Assalamu Alaikum,” she greeted.
 
Mom was sorting clothes into a travel trolley. Smiling, she looked up. “Wa Alaikumussalam, habibty. Did you sleep well?”
 
“Yes, Mom.”
 
Xaljamil knelt down and greeted her properly.
 
Standing, she moved toward the wardrobe to help her mom, but her mom gently stopped her.
 
“Leave it, darling. Go double-check your own things. Your dad’s back from the company, and we’ll leave soon.”
 
Xaljamil laughed. “I already packed last night.”
 
This time, her laughter wasn’t forced. It was real—an acceptance of what lay ahead.
 
She still loved Qatar, but she now understood her parents' love more.
 
She was ready for Nigeria.