Daudar Gora Part 2 Complete Hausa Novel

Today marked the third day she had spent in the room where she was confined—pitch-dark, where she could not distinguish day from night. Only a faint light peeked in through the small window above, whether sunlight or electric. She had become restless, pacing in agitation, refusing the single meal brought each day—just milk. From the first day, she had realized there was a crucial lesson she needed to understand before this moment arrived. By now, she fully understood that Miran Jasim and the others had used her, even though she had carried her own determination in her heart. Yet, it was only a matter of words—she understood that fate, guiding her life now, had been confirmed. She had to call it fate, for without fate, there would have been no way it could harm a servant of God like her, or restrain her.

She felt immense pain—the intense pain of losing her two siblings due to Shahan-shan’s marriage. That loss had caused the deep sorrow in her heart and a determination she was uncertain she could ever fulfill. Everything seemed to be pushing against her. When she had confronted him, she felt as though he could not possibly be harmful, yet she sensed that he was hiding something she needed to know. But just as she had fully prepared herself, fate intervened again, and everything in her heart seemed to collapse. Without holding any concrete proof, she had judged no one; instead of ordering harm against her, he showed her a way to escape—by instructing the disposal of the milk in a way she did not fully understand. But alas, it seemed his attempt to free her had failed.

Their enemies had apparently already succeeded—not today, but at some other time. Two victories at once—her and her brother—without her even realizing they had achieved what they desired. She plunged back into darkness. She had no choice but to call upon the darkness itself, for she had countless questions about herself. The greatest among them: How did Ajmaal become Shahan-shan? Would he destroy his wives if he were not himself? Why could he not speak, when it was his right to claim it? Had she truly lost her parents and remaining sibling as part of Miran Arshaan’s plan? Even Sir Fawzan remained a mystery to her. But how could she know? By what means? She did not know.

Hot tears she had not wiped for three days now fell freely. She closed her delicate eyes, allowing a painful, involuntary smile to escape. She saw his face in the mirror of her heart, smiling in a way that would never fade from her memory. His soft laughter and whispers pierced her ears unexpectedly, erasing her smile, opening her closed eyes at the same time.

She shook her head violently and quickly closed her eyes against the sharp light that pierced them. Three days in darkness had weakened her eyes, and the sudden light hurt her brain. No matter how she tried, she could not open them fully. She pressed her lips together, trying to hold back tears and suppress the sting of his mischievous laughter, which she could not place. Yet her heart could not decide whether it belonged to Miran Jasim or Miran Arshaan. She had no strength to rise from her bed, so she mustered courage to slowly open her eyes again, muttering in her heart: Hasbinallahu wani’imal wakil.

With great effort, she fixed her gaze on Miran Jasim, seated with one leg crossed over the other, on a chair she had not even considered approaching. Pain struck her eyes, reddened and swollen, yet she forced herself to look at him until fatigue silenced the echo of his laughter.

“Zawgatu al-ibn! (Daughter-in-law) proud of you. You have become unique among thousands I would not forget. I know I am not easy to forget either, and I deserve to be your pride now. I have fulfilled your wishes easily, and I deserve special honor. Even without receiving anything from you, just your presence is a great honor. I repeat: I am proud of you.”

A soft, burning laugh escaped Iffah’s heart, but being brave, she did not move; her delicate eyes remained fixed on him despite the sting of the sudden light. He stopped laughing, adjusted his position, and fixed her with a bold gaze, lips slightly parted.

“I do not want you to look at me in that way, as I know you do in your heart, Zawgatu al-ibn! Understand this: I am self-loving, and I can remove anything—even a finger—if it hinders my goals.”

A sly laugh, though in his mind he saw no trace of her true feelings on her face. Rising, he approached boldly, kneeling in front of her, white hands reaching to caress her face. In a mixture of defiance and helplessness, Iffah recoiled, casting him a fierce glare, her nostrils flaring. He smiled at the corner of his mouth, eyes closed, then withdrew his hands with a shrug, teasing her further.

“That impresses me too, Zawgatu al-ibn.”

Iffah glared so intensely it seemed her eyes would pop. In a soft, trembling voice, she spoke for the first time, warning him:

“Listen carefully and remember: on any day you even touch me wrongly, I, Fhareedah bint Zayyan, swear it will never be erased from your eyes or heart. Iffah is a big nut, only the iron pestle can crack it.”

Her words pierced him deeply, etched onto his heart like a stone. Yet he smiled again, lips curling.

“Indeed, you do not lie. I also swear, you are a big nut, and I am the iron pestle. From today, mark your days: your life will be a big nut to this iron pestle, me, Shahan-shan of the Ruman Empire, Tajwar Jasim ibn Abdul-majeed Aliy! I have promised to nurture this to its peak, not only in Ruman, but in the whole world. From now on, your fate begins in my hands! Hhhh!!!”

“Hhahaha!!!”

Iffah laughed too, with controlled strength. He paused, watching her with astonishment, trying to contain himself, though his face betrayed him. Seeing she did not stop laughing, he rose in frustration.

“Pride in fate upon Fhareedah is a weakness, Aam! For fate is the light of Iffah’s victory. A perfect dream, Uncle.” She ended, continuing a laughter even deeper than before.

Miran Jasim, standing motionless, lingered with a sly lip-curl before departing, leaving Iffah’s laughter echoing inside him. Only after he left did she cease hearing his steps, calming herself. Her laughter gave way to deep, piercing sorrow. She cried not for herself, but for the oppressed people of her land and Tajwar Eshaan bin Haysam Abdul-majeed. She mourned the urgent need to know the truth, the cruelty Miran Jasim had set upon her. But she knew the end was near—an end of breath, an end of life. Even if he lived, she would not; even if others wished her survival, she did not wish it for herself in that moment.