Amani Part 3 Complete Hausa Novel

Long before Mukhtar even got the full story, His Royal Highness Sultan Issoffou Massaoudou and his wife, Ummami, were already crying profusely.

King Issoffou pulled Mukhtar close and embraced him tightly, crying as tears streamed down his face, begging him to forgive them. He said to Mukhy (in their local vernacular):

“Mukhtar, everything we did back then, we did it knowingly. We did it to protect you from envy, hatred, evil eyes, and misfortune—and to save you as the only male child I have, so that you would one day inherit the throne of the Diffa Emirate at the right time.

“I personally prevented your mother from holding you close. I myself told her to erase you from her heart, believing that God would preserve your life for us. You could never have become king if you had enjoyed the privileges that princes usually have. I am surrounded by enemies, and your mother was also surrounded by jealous female relatives and their schemes—especially after she gave birth to you—because I am a man who married many times. But once we abandoned you outwardly, all their attention shifted away from you and turned instead to how they could secure things for their own children, since I made it appear that I neither loved you nor cared whether you lived or died.

“Mukhtar, we exercised a level of endurance that not all parents could bear toward a child they gave birth to. We made that single, painful sacrifice concerning you in order to save your life. But I swear to you, we knew everything about the situation you were in at Katchalla’s house, and we were monitoring all that concerned you.

“Even your journey to Paris—we knew about it. It was I who arranged for you to receive a scholarship from the office of Barre Mainassara (the President of Niger at that time).

“But from the moment you left Paris, we stopped receiving news about you, and we no longer knew where you went.

“Different Islamic scholars within the palace kept telling me every day to calm my heart, assuring me that you were alive and in safe, clean hands—but I could not calm myself.

“Every day I blamed myself: was the judgment I passed over your life not a wise one? Or did I make a mistake instead of truly saving your life?

“These thoughts and this regret accumulated and weighed me down for a very long time—especially after it was confirmed to me that you had left Paris and no one knew where you went. Up till today, I am still undergoing treatment. As for your mother, if you see her now, she can hardly see except through glasses, because of how much she cried over your disappearance, Maina.

“If we were wrong in what we did, we ask God to forgive us, and we ask you too to forgive us. And praise be to God for the news that you have married—it is time for me to reveal you to the world.

“I will organize a wedding celebration for you the like of which has never been seen in the Diffa Emirate. I will invite all the traditional rulers of the Republic of Niger and formally present you to them, and I will grant you the throne of Diffa while I am still alive. Before that, I will appoint you as Mainan Diffa so that you begin to sit in the palace with me and learn the art of governance over a long period.”

All these things that were happening that day—Mukhtar could hardly believe them. He felt as though he was dreaming, the kind of dream one never wants to wake up from. He even prayed to God not to wake him from it, preferring to remain immersed in that blessing—even if it meant dying within that happiness.

THE NEXT DAY

At dawn, King Issoffou Massaoudou sent word for Alhaji and the others to be brought into the palace. They were taken to the chamber where he received his distinguished guests, and breakfast was prepared for them to share with the King and Ummami. The palace aide who escorted them told them to wait a little—the Emir of Diffa was coming with Mowa.

At that time, Mukhtar was still fast asleep, repaying deep exhaustion. He had not woken up at all, as he had spent the entire night sitting with his parents. After they returned from the mosque following the dawn prayer, a room close to his father’s was opened for him, where he slept until then—a kind of peaceful sleep he had never experienced before.

Jalan and the others sat calmly, marveling at the majesty of God. Even among the kingdoms of Niger, Diffa ranked among the foremost. Everything about the emirate was fascinating and awe-inspiring—ancient yet modernized. They looked around, waiting for the arrival of the Emir of Diffa and his wife, whom they had heard referred to as Ummami (Mowa).

Soon they heard his footsteps approaching. He arrived with dignity and composure. As he entered, everyone stood up in respect. The light and majesty of Islam radiated clearly from the fair-skinned elderly man. Calmly, he sat on the lone throne chair in the room—more fittingly called a palace. Shortly after he sat, another door opened.

A tall woman entered alone, wearing a beautiful veil, with clear white lenses over her eyes. She moved gracefully and took a seat beside her husband, sitting near his feet. Their faces were filled with warmth and welcome toward their guests.

Before anyone could speak, Mama Jalan suddenly exclaimed in praise, “Yaya Aisata!”

Startled, Ummami turned around at the sound of her sister Jalan’s voice. Jalan rushed toward her and embraced her tightly, then burst into tears of joy. With difficulty, Aisata freed herself from the hug and said, “Jalan, is it really you, my very eyes? Is it truly you? And Mukhtar is your son then?”

Aisata burst into tears and said, “I never told you that I gave birth, because after our separation we never met again—only messages passed between us. By palace custom, women here do not go out; we don’t even go to hospitals—female doctors come to our rooms to examine us. Then there were complications after the birth. When we resumed phone contact after your second marriage, I don’t know why I couldn’t tell you I had a son. I never spoke about him at all, let alone over the phone in such an important matter. Later, he wasn’t even with us anymore. Around the time of Abbu’s death, when I sent a messenger to your place in Kenema, Maina had already run away.

“What brought you to Nigeria now? I thought you had separated from your husband there while Abbu was still alive, then married Lukman and had children. Later you told me on the phone that he died. How did you even connect with Nigerians again, when I knew you were in Kenema?”

They embraced each other, marveling at this divine power of God. Jalan told her that Alhaji Usman was her first husband, whom she married in Katsina. They separated after she gave birth, and she had not seen her daughter since then—until destiny reunited them. She pointed to Amani, who was involuntarily wetting herself where she sat, overwhelmed by shock at God’s decree—that Mukhy was her blood brother. After the deep regret she suffered the previous day, which had not yet faded, an even greater regret descended upon her that day.

Jalan pointed at Amani with her hand and said, “You see her—that is the daughter I gave birth to and left behind in Nigeria. Her name is Amina. I only recognized her now that she is grown. And she is Mukhtar’s wife at present, because he lived in her father’s house all this time.”

Ummami stretched both hands toward Amani, tears flowing, saying, “Come here, my daughter, my own!” But Amani could not stand because she had soaked herself while seated. Sahura helped lift her and brought her to Aisata, who embraced her tightly, saying, “All praise and gratitude belong to the Lord of the worlds—the Most Merciful, the Most Compassionate, the One full of wisdom in the lives of His servants.”

It was then the King cleared his throat and said, “Indeed, the Lord is full of wisdom. Congratulations to you, congratulations to you noble people—those who take another’s child as their own.”

He looked at Amani’s father and smiled, saying, “Just as you took care of Mukhtar faithfully without knowing anything about his true identity, that is how I hope to care for Amina from now until the end of our lives—even if she were not his sister. May God reward you with goodness and grant you good health.”

Just then Mukhtar entered the room, dressed in a spotless white jallabiya with a black Arab cap on his head. All eyes turned to him in amazement at how, in just one day, he had changed so much—he looked refreshed, radiant, almost like a youth from Medina. He looked so vibrant it seemed his blood would sparkle if pressed. That was when he was told everything—that Jalan was Ummami’s biological sister, sharing the same mother and father.