Tangled Hearts Book 1 Complete Hausa Novel

7:00 a.m. in the morning, as the clock in her room showed, she slowly squeezed her eyes shut beneath the blanket she was lying under, adjusting her position and forcing herself to go back to sleep. Since she prayed the dawn prayer, she had been lying there, but sleep refused to come. From where she lay, she could faintly hear his voice upstairs—even though she couldn’t make out what he was saying. But where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

She fixed her eyes on her bedroom window, watching how the cool morning breeze gently swayed the curtains. Realizing she could no longer sleep, she slowly sat up, carefully lowering her feet onto the cold wooden floor. She stood up, then slipped her feet into the pair of bedroom slippers beside her bed. Walking slowly, she opened her bedroom door and stepped out, moving quietly like someone with no strength left in her body. Seeing his home office door open made her quicken her pace as she went downstairs.

Even before she got there, she could smell eggs—meaning the lady of the house was already awake. She reached the kitchen, still walking slowly. At the doorway, she paused, watching her stepmother distracting herself as usual, as if unaware of the state her husband was in. She stepped closer, murmuring,

“Good morning.”

Mummy looked up with a smile on her face as she turned off the gas, avoiding eye contact.

“Morning, baby. How did you sleep?”

She stayed silent. What was she supposed to say? I didn’t sleep well because of how your husband was stumbling around the house at 2:00 a.m.? Or because your late-night arguments wouldn’t let me close my eyes? She sighed, picked a well-cleaned cup from the shelf, poured herself some coffee, then quietly said,

“Fine.”

Mummy placed a plate with fried eggs and toast in front of her, watching her. Seeing how she slowly stirred the coffee, lost in her thoughts—she had long stopped believing in peace. It was something that didn’t exist in her dictionary.

“Your father hasn’t woken up yet,” Mummy said, sitting on the breakfast bar in the kitchen.

“I think he’s not feeling well today.”

She didn’t respond, continuing to stir her drink. Even now, when she came downstairs and saw him sitting in his home office, staring at the clock with those beautiful eyes clouded with alcohol, she knew he was perfectly fine. There was nothing to say. She knew it was something neither she nor Mummy had the power to change, so she simply didn’t want to talk about it.

Seeing her stare into her cup made Mummy open her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything, Na’eema stood up.

“I’m going for a walk.”

Mummy looked at her and said,

“Isn’t it too early, baby? Are you sure?”

“I need some air. I’ll be fine.”

She said this as she picked up her jacket and wore it over her soft night shirt and sleep pants, adjusting the loose scarf around her head.

The cold seeped deep into her bones. The winter air was crisp, biting at her cheeks. She raised a hand to adjust the scarf around her neck again. She hated the cold, but this was her only chance to think—about her life. She just wanted to clear her mind. She guessed the cold was the price she would have to pay for that.

Her boots sank into the snow as she walked down Maplewood Avenue, the quiet suburban street surrounded by white snow. The tall trees lining the road created a beautiful path between them, but her mind wasn’t on them at all. It wasn’t that she knew where she was going—she just wanted to walk.

She wished her mum had taken her to Nigeria. She wished that when her parents’ marriage ended, her mother had fought for her custody. She wished she had run away with her to Nigeria. She vividly remembered everything that happened back then, even though she was no more than twelve years old—how he would come home drunk some nights, his shouting and constant fights with her mum every night, and sometimes the wounds she would see on her mother’s body in the mornings…

She slowly passed other early-morning walkers, each wrapped in scarves and heavy winter coats, without speaking to a single one of them.

She stopped and looked at the bridge that crossed over the creek. This place was her destination on days like this. She walked up slowly, stood still, and tucked both hands into the pockets of her jacket, staring at the water as it flowed gently.

On days without school—weekends—she always found herself here, watching the water and trying to forget so many things, until she was sure her father had left the house. She couldn’t bring herself to face him. He was her first love, her daddy, and it hurt her to remember that the first man she ever loved chose a bottle over her. He never left her entirely; he was physically present throughout her life, yet she still felt empty. She felt abandoned.

She rested her hand on the old wooden bridge, continuing to watch the water.

Suddenly, as if from above, she sensed movement behind her. Startled, she turned around. Today was the first time she had ever encountered someone here—it had always been her secret place, where she came to forget all her worries. Slowly, she turned and looked at him with her calm, cold eyes, watching how he leaned against the bridge railing, staring at the river with ice settled on its surface. The icy air escaped from his mouth as he breathed out slowly, both hands tucked into his pockets. She could see the hood of a hoodie beneath the thick jacket he was wearing.

She paused, watching him, her heart telling her to leave the place to him. Just then, he pulled his gaze away from what he was looking at and turned it toward her, clearly unaware of her presence—she could see the same surprise written on his face as was on hers.