Taimiyya Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

It was like I heard a "hello" from above. Frightened, I turned around because I realized I had locked the door. I saw a Black American, his hair styled like a young woman’s, standing at the palace gate. I stood up, startled, and looked at him. I could tell he was also a bit startled; he said in American English:

"Sorry, I thought you had left, so I came back. I didn’t see a car, and then I saw the gate open, I assumed you forgot and didn’t lock it. I’m so sorry, please don’t tell him."

Relieved, I said, "It’s okay." He turned as if to leave, but a thought struck me: this is my chance to know more about Sultan. Quickly, I said, "Wait, at least since you came in, shouldn’t we greet each other?"

A smile appeared on his face as he turned back, though his eyes shifted nervously. From everything I could tell, Sultan had given him a warning about coming over. I motioned to a chair for him to sit. I said, "My name is Maimoon." He said, "I know, Sultan talks about nothing else." He extended his hand: "I am Steve." I ignored the hand and asked, "So, how long have you known Sultan?"

"As long as I can remember," he replied. I nodded and asked, "Now, for example, if someone asked you, ‘Is he good, bad, or in between?’ what would you say?"

Surprise crossed his face. He said, "Sultan is more than good; he is the best person I’ve ever known in my life. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying. Back when Sultan and I were growing up in the hoods, even as we were trading drugs, he watched over me through secondary school and college. Not just me, many of us in town consider Sultan our protector. Our eating, drinking, clothing—Sultan is behind it. There were times when school fees were sent from home; he’d take it and pay for our school fees, then report back home saying the money was spent or gone. We’d watch as our fathers came to get him, locking him up, sometimes for a week before releasing him.

Because Sultan cared for us, he taught himself guitar. He’d go to the market square to play and collect money, then buy food for us. Later, he learned art, drew portraits, got paid, and distributed money to the needy. He once told me he studied for the sake of orphans; all the money he got for them, he would spend on them. As long as he lives, no child would cry from lack."

I felt tears trying to come out. I quickly stopped them and asked, "I heard he also does drugs and alcohol?"

He got upset and said, "Drugs? No, not Sultan. He hates drugs. Even if he’s unwell, it would take a lot for him to take them—certainly not casually." I nodded and asked, "Alcohol?" He shifted his eyes from mine to somewhere else, shifting from one leg to another. As a psychologist, even before he spoke, I knew the answer he would give. Slowly, he said: "Sometimes, but only when he is frustrated."

I was silent and couldn’t ask another question. He continued: "He has a bad temper, you know. He feels deeply. Sometimes, when he is upset, the rest of us feel it in our bodies. It is his way of releasing his temper. He doesn’t care about women; no one can say they’ve seen Sultan with a girlfriend, even though girls often follow him because he’s handsome and they fall for his charm—but he doesn’t pay them any mind."

I just listened, storing all he said in my memory. He then sat and continued telling me stories of Sultan’s life in America. Some made me laugh; others almost made me cry. While we were like that, a car stopped. He got nervous and stood, peering through the window. I laughed at how much they respect and fear him at the same time.

I said, "Relax, he’s not coming in." He looked at me and asked, "Why? Is it his house?" I said, "No, just joking." I saw Sultan take out his phone and call me, asking me to come out so we could go.

From his house, we didn’t go back to John Hopkins, but to a park. We sat on a bench and had ice cream. There, I asked him, "You play guitar, right? Why haven’t I heard you play?" He smiled: "See my pictures. Yes, I play guitar, but since I returned to Nigeria, I stopped. One day I’ll play for you."

Before Maghrib, he drove me back. As we stopped, he said, "There’s a place I want to take you to later. Please get ready; I’ll come around 8 PM." His serious tone left no room for argument.

At 8 PM, he called me. I wore a long, open shirt and wrapped a large veil around my body. The moment I stepped out, his eyes fixed on me as if no time had passed since we last met. I approached him and straightened my voice: "Are you satisfied now, sir?" With seriousness, he said, "Have I ever told you that you are beautiful?" I looked away and said, "Only a million times." He replied, "Then let me say it one more time: you are very beautiful."

The way he looked at me made me cover my face with my hand: "Thank you."

We walked for almost 30 minutes. Sultan naturally doesn’t rush in a car. When we arrived at the place, I looked around and realized where we were: a club. I turned to him angrily and said, "I’m not going in there." He said, "I didn’t bring you here because I thought you’d fit the place. I brought you because I want to show you something, and I want to tell you something. I brought you here so you can understand my intention better with your own eyes."

I just followed him. As we approached the entrance, I saw the security guards greeting him. Quickly, they opened the door for us. Inside, I heard noise, music, and the smell of smoke, with colorful lights illuminating everything.