As promised.
Jumuat Mubarak.
Enjoy❤️

The flame of hatred burns longer, and brighter than the light of love.

Hatred is an emotion that takes root from the ashes of love, and when it grows and sprouts, it is not one to be cut down easily—especially not when considering the grounds on which it came to be. It is underestimated at first, but once one comes to see its product, its gravity will be realized and by then, it had already gone too far for it to be reversed. Perhaps, a permanent damage has been done already.

Hatred, the ever so powerful emotion that triumphs above all. And when placed in a world where the tug of power reigns, it can be ones' greatest tool, and weakness at the same time.

"Allah ya temaki Sarkin gobe, Zaki a cikin jerin zakuna, mai jiran sarauta, wanda Allah ya nufa da Mulki!

Kaine wanda Allah ya zaba daga cikin daruruwan al'ummomi, Mai doka da tsari, wanda komai ya karkata gare shi da izinin Allah,

Kaifin tunaninka kamar takobin sarakunan da suka gabace ka,

Kai ne garken da talakawa ke fakewa a karkashin sa, Kaine ginshikin da masarauta ke nanatawa."

The praises came as it was chanted, the sound of the algaita in the background as loud as the drums beaten rhythmically, all because of the shimmering Rolls-Royce Phantom that pulled up in front of the porte-cochere of the main building in the royal palace. The royal guards—the Fadawa, dressed in their red and green uniform rushed to the side of the car's back door, stretching out their babbar riga as they obstructed the view of the others as the person inside stepped out.

Once they were certain he had stepped out and there was no cause for alarm, they pulled their arms down, and then crouched as they offered their greetings while the praises from the maroqa in the background continued. Dressed in an impeccably tailored Emirati-Styled Kaftan, in its rich, and deep navy color with intricate embroidery is the Eldest Prince—Amir Qasim, who has finally returned home after years—to be precise, 11 years since he left.

11 years since Amir Qasim stepped away from the spotlight of the Royal Family and its drama, 11 years since he left home. Alas, the day of his return is finally here—of course it is a day to celebrate and go all out.

And the Prince did not disappoint. His aura screams sophistication and power, not to be messed with—the fabric of his Kaftan complementing his tall and powerful frame. And with each step he takes in the direction of the main building entrance, the hand crafted, custom made and of the finest Italian Leather John Lobb shoes demanded its own attention. Each step of his silent, but in its softness screamed dominance.

On his face rests an air of authority, but it is his strikingly beautiful dark skin that captivates the eye. From the sharp lines of the jaw, and the softness of his full lips. His chiseled features framed by the perfectly trimmed beard, and covering his intense, thoughtful eyes is a pair of Cartier aviator sunglasses—its gold rim catching light just enough while the lens concealed his gaze, leaving an air of mystery. And covering his trimmed hair was the cap of the perfect shade to match his Kaftaan.

His scent, the intoxicating fragrance of Amouage Jubilation, a base of oud, musk and amber with top notes of grapefruit and black current followed him around, leaving everyone in his path with a memory of its refined presence. The praises never stopped, if anything it accompanied him further until he stepped into the building—and even then, its sounds followed, though muffled to a greater extent now.

"A gabanka, al'umma tana jin tsoron fitar da Kalmar karya,

Domin ka zama alkali mai gaskiya, Allah ya tsare ka daga duk wani sharri.

Taka lafiya dan sarki jikan sarki, gaba salamun baya salamun,

Ko a gaba ko a baya, duniya na girmama ka,

Taka lafiya dan jarumi, mai takama da nasabar kakanninka,

Sarauta tana jiran ka da addua, talakawa na fata da jagorancinka,

Maqiyanka basu da mataki da qarfi a gabanka,

Suna boye kamar duhu amma haskenka yaa waragaza su,

Kai ka isa, ka zauna bisa gaskiya da adalci, Maqiyan ka zasu rushe kamar kurar da iska ta dauka, Du wani sharri da wani ya nufe ka dashi, zai rushe da ikon Allah,

Allah ya albarka ce ka, ya tsare ka daga kowane sharri. Kai ne mai nasara,

Allah ya tabbatar mana..."

As the double doors leading to the main manse of the palace was closed behind him, Amir Qasim paid no heed to the refined interior design just as he cared not for the exterior—though it was evident that the palace has been renovated to fit the aesthetic of the magnificent Sokoto Caliphate in the 21st century—compliment of one of the Princes whose major happens to be architecture.

He did not stop until he reached his destination, which happened to be the living room where those that awaited his presence were seated. And the moment Amir Qasim stepped foot there, he started to regret his decision of coming here first. He reached his hand out to remove the shades, his instantly narrowed eyes falling on the one person he had specifically instructed to make sure there was not much noise to his return—and yet, he found the exact opposite.

The culprit, who just happens to be his younger sister, Aidah, offered him a sheepish smile in return, which disappeared as soon as it came for his glare was unrelenting, and she knew it was not the time to joke. So, she offered him an apologetic look instead, a silent apology as to how she was unable to keep his return a secret. But, in her defense, it is not possible for her to keep it a secret—not when their mother would drill it out of her.

Amir Qasim's glare was cut short by the sound of the women filled the living room—all followers of his mother, in simple terms. Their own praises and welcoming chants came, but it did nothing but add to his annoyance. Instead, his gaze found the woman at the helm—his mother whom was the only one seated on the Baroque sofa while everyone else is seated on the Aubusson carpet that covered the floor.

Though a small smile donned her expression—there was this unspoken tension that was exchanged between the two. Noting the look in his eyes, she parted her lips to speak, her voice soft, but commanding enough to be heard by everyone there. "Give us space."

That statement alone was enough to have the chatters dying down, and adhering to the request, they all got up, silently slipping out with the last being Aidah, who offered her brother an apologetic smile that only earned her another pointed look. She ducked her head low and quietly slipped out as well, the door closing behind them nothing compared to the charged tension between the mother and son.

With everyone gone now, Amir Qasim strolled further into the room, after taking off his shoes and then went to settle down on the carpet, crouching low. "Barka da rana, Giwa." He greeted respectfully, though his tone was cold—nothing warm about it.

Giwa swallowed down a lump discretely, not missing how he did not address her as 'Mama' as he did back then, and how he has nor resorted to addressing her as 'Giwa' like everyone else. It was not just the formal title that changed, but their relationship as a whole.

Still, she tried to ignored it, and then forced a smile on her face. "Lafiya qalau, Qasim." Her words were graceful as ever, Amir Qasim noted. She never disappoints. She was every bit the Queen that he knew her to be. "Welcome back. How was your flight?"

"Alhamdullilah."

She nodded, ignoring the curt reply. Then, in an attempt to stir up another conversation with him, she then started, "Well, I have personally made your favorite Mandi rice, basbousa and mint lemonade. I will have the maids serve you right now--"

"No thank you," He cut her off before she could make a move to call the maids. Then, she looked up and met her gaze, before he added. "I no longer like them."

Her expression fell slightly, and it was not just due to his words, but the look on his face and his tone as well. Her shoulders slumped slightly, and in that moment, she was forced to accept what she has been trying to ignore all these years. Amir Qasim is no longer the same son she had back then—their relationship is no longer as it was before.

Still, she tried to speak again. "Well, if you do not like it, I can have the maids make something else for you. Or tell me what you want, and I will make it myself--"

"That will not be necessary as well," Once again, he cut her off before she could go further, his gaze never leaving hers. "From now on, I would appreciate if you refrain from making anything for me. If I need anything, I am sure the maids at my chamber will make it." They were talking about food, but it was not just about food.

Through his words, he was basically telling her to stay clear of his path, and his affairs. She should not overstep as she always does.

"Speaking of which," He continued, the corner of his lips tilting upwards into the faintest smiles that was anything but amusing, "All your maids at my chambers have been reassigned," He declared, referring to those minions of hers that she has littered around his place under the guise of them being his people. "I will manage my chambers as I see fit. That is what I wanted to tell you by being here."

Giwa could only stare at him with a hardened expression. Amir Qasim just returned for the first time in eleven years, and the first thing he did, was go over to her place—under the guise of greeting her, and then went ahead to cut her arms around his place. How he found out was beyond her—she was sure to be careful enough when putting her people in there. In her defense, she was doing it for his sake. Through Amir Qasim's lens, she was having her eyes all around him so she could control him as she did before.

Except, he was not the same Amir Qasim she could control before. He wanted to make that clear.

Her hands curled into a fist by her side as his words left her flabbergasted. While outside, she could still hear the blaring sounds of the algaita as everyone rejoiced, all the product of her actions to make his return as grandiose as possible, inside her chambers, the tension between them was thick. The man she is staring at—it was not her son. She does not want to believe it is.

And what did Amir Qasim do in response? He simply offered her a smile that anyone could deem to be sweet and loving, but the two of them knew otherwise. Not wanting to spend another minute in her suffocating chambers, his voice came again.

"I will allow you to rest now," He declared, then got on his feet. "A huta lafiya." With that statement alone, he turned around and started making his way out of the living room. However, just as he was about to leave, her voice suddenly came—and it felt like déjà vu given his very last interaction with her in that living room happened in the same cascade of events.

"Your wife has arrived," She declared, her voice low, but cold. "She was conveyed last week." She was not a fan of the lady as well—their own personal interaction solidifying the thoughts, but she thought to let him know as well.

Except, he was already aware, and so, did not turn around or acknowledge her words.

Instead of exiting her chambers through the front door where the earlier crowd were inevitably waiting for him, he used the back door instead, since it lead to his chambers as well, just a safe distance away and adjoined by a single back door safe of any other person. Once he had passed by the door, Amir Qasim found himself in his chambers.

Truly, the word 'chambers' did not do justice to the place. All the other places in the house are befitting of being called chambers since it is all a part of the magnanimous palace, but Amir Qasim's once simple chambers like the others has now been renovated into a house of its own.

He had the help of his brother, a renowned architect that worked on renovating the palace to renovate his place just well enough to fit his taste. They worked on the vision together, and despite seeing the place through pictures, videocalls and all, now that he is standing there, he could say everything turned out perfectly.

The chambers now turned mansion was a mixture of traditional touches and modern exclusivity, a sprawling structure nestled at the edge of a meticulously maintained estate. Its towering stone walls were adorned with ivy that crawled across the façade. Large arched windows lined the mansion, framed with dark mahogany wood that contrasted against the pale stone, while wrought-iron balconies added an air of elegance. The roof, pitched and covered with dark, gleaming tiles, glistened under the sun.

At the front, an expansive cobblestone driveway led to a large circular parking area, where his cars that arrived before him were parked in pristine rows. The circular center was dominated by an intricately carved marble fountain. Water cascaded from the sculpted tiers. The fountain was surrounded by a ring of vibrant flowers—roses, and lavender in full bloom.

Lush green hedges bordered the driveway, and beyond them lay meticulously arranged flower beds, each one bursting with color and life. Tall trees lined the far edges of the grounds, their thick branches offering shade to the walking paths that wound through the garden.

Patrolling the grounds with unwavering vigilance were the fadawa, the royal guards, their uniforms red and green. The moment they spotted the Prince, they were quick to rush, crouch low and offer their greetings and praises.

Behind the mansion, tucked away in the rear garden, stood an elegant gazebo draped in creeping vines and surrounded by beds of lilies. A stone bench rested inside, offering a tranquil place for quiet reflection, with a view of the vast estate.

And up front, the large wooden doors were carved with intricate designs, a nod to the long history of the lineage that lived here. Pillars framed the entrance, each carved with detailed patterns, befitting of royalty.

It truly is what Amir Qasim had envisioned.

But, even while standing in front of the house, he was not exactly willing to go inside, especially knowing who awaits him inside the house. He was not ready, or willing to face her. Especially not at that very moment. So, instead of entering the mansion, he instead made a beeline towards the parking lot, retrieving the car keys from one of the guards there, opting to go with the Audi RS7.

Once in the comfort of the sleek car, it came to life with a soft hum and Amir Qasim drove out of the palace, and onto the busy roads of Sokoto with one destination in mind—the only place where he knows he could find peace that he so desperately craves. Despite not being there in so long, the direction to the polo club was basically imprinted in his mind that he found himself there soon enough.

It was his first time in Sokoto in 11 years, but he has visited Nigeria a couple of times during those years, Sokoto was just the exception. His love for horses remained the same, and that was how he opened his polo club at Kano, where he usually meets his cousin and close friends. He had renovated the one in Sokoto as well, though this one was more of a family one than a private one.

Still, he had his private stallions and mares, a separate stables designated to himself, and that was where he found himself roaming through. His gaze swept the stable with ease, aware of each of the horses there but rather had his mind on a specific one that has become a favorite of his. When he reached the stall where the mare is supposed to be, and instead, was met with an empty space, his brows drew in and his lips tugged into a small frown.

"Audu!" He called out the caretaker, his frown deepening.

Audu showed up almost immediately, his head bowed slightly. "Ranka ya dade, Allah ja zamanin Yerima. Gani nan."

"Where is she?" Amir Qasim asked, his voice low. He turned his head around to pin his gaze on Audu, "Where is Malika?" He is protective of his horses, especially that one for obvious reasons. He has never allowed anyone close to her except those he truly trusted, and the mare does not seem to trust anyone as well aside from him.

So, how comes she is not there?

Audu swallowed down a lump, then reached out to scratch the back of his neck. When his voice came, it was shaky, and filled with guilt and fear. Amir Qasim knew right then that he would not like what would come out of the man's lips, and he was right. "Wallahi, Yerima, wato..."

The man's words echoed faintly in Amir Qasim's mind, but they were drowned out by the storm of anger that surged through him. His pace quickened as he stormed toward the racing grounds, every step fueled by the rage boiling beneath his skin. The audacity of someone daring to take his mare, Malika, filled him with a fury he struggled to contain. His grip tightened into fists, and the thin thread of calm he clung to was on the verge of snapping.

As he neared the grounds, his eyes locked onto the distant silhouette of the mare. His mare. And behind her, the figure who had dared to take her. His jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. He wanted to charge forward, to confront them immediately, but he forced himself to stop, rooted to the spot as he watched them gallop across the open field.

The waiting was unbearable. Time stretched out like a taunt, every second feeding the fire inside him. Amir knew he couldn't just stand there. He didn't have the patience for that—not today.

Without another moment's hesitation, he turned sharply on his heel, striding toward the stallion Audu had prepared for him. His movements were swift, driven by a focused intensity. In one fluid motion, he mounted the horse, barely needing to adjust as he took hold of the reins. He set off with expert ease, urging the stallion into a gallop without missing a beat.

His eyes were fixed ahead, on Malika and the rider astride her. They were fast, but so was he. This wasn't just about catching up—it was a race now, and Amir Qasim did not lose races.

The wind whipped past his face as he closed the distance between them, his focus unyielding. Within minutes, he was level with them, but instead of confronting the rider immediately, he pushed his stallion harder, racing ahead to overtake them. The rush of power surged through him as he pulled ahead, putting a good distance between himself and Malika.

With a sudden, calculated move, Amir yanked the reins and brought his horse to an abrupt halt. The stallion reared slightly before settling as Amir swung off with practiced precision. His boots hit the ground, and in one swift motion, he stepped into their path, blocking their way. There would be no escape.

He stood there, his chest heaving with adrenaline, eyes blazing with a fury that could no longer be contained. His dark brows furrowed into a deep scowl as he waited, his piercing gaze locking onto the rider approaching him.

If Amir Qasim wasn't so consumed by fury, he might have admired the rider's flawless control of the horse—the way they guided the mare with such precision, as if the two were moving in perfect sync. But his anger was a fire burning too brightly to allow for such thoughts. His focus was razor-sharp, locked on the figure approaching him, while the sun blazed overhead, casting long shadows across the dusty path.

The horse slowed as expected, its rhythmic gait coming to a halt just a few feet away from him. Amir stood motionless, his muscles taut, the oppressive heat searing his skin. His dark eyes narrowed against the blinding light, but he refused to turn away, his gaze fixed on the rider like a hawk sizing up its prey.

His breath came slow and steady, though his pulse raced beneath the surface. The rider remained still for a moment, a figure cloaked in mystery, before swinging down from the saddle with an elegance that almost felt deliberate. The boots touched the ground with a quiet thud, the rider's movement fluid, practiced, like this was routine.

But nothing about this meeting felt routine to Amir Qasim.

He watched, tension coiling tighter in his chest, as the rider reached up and grasped the helmet. There was a pause, the kind that stretches seconds into eternity. The air between them felt thick, charged with an invisible electricity, as if the very world held its breath in anticipation. Then, with a single, graceful motion, the helmet was lifted.

Amir Qasim's heart stuttered.

Silky, dark hair spilled out, cascading over her shoulders, the strands catching the fading sunlight in a soft, golden glow. The rider—a woman—straightened, her chin held high with a quiet confidence that felt almost defiant. Her hair, cut into a sleek lob, framed her face as she shook it loose from beneath the helmet, the ends brushing against the collar of the white shirt she has on.

But it was her eyes that captured him—sharp, clear, and unflinching as they met his.

Amir Qasim could swear his breath caught in his throat. Her gaze was cool, assessing, but beneath that surface, there was something else. A storm, perhaps. Or maybe it was the reflection of the fire still simmering in his own chest. Either way, the air between them crackled with unspoken tension.

She didn't say a word, and neither did he.

The sun dipped lower, casting a long shadow across them both, but neither moved. The moment stretched on, the weight of it pressing down like a physical force on him. Disbelief settled heavily on his shoulders, his earlier anger dissipating with the arrival of the new emotion as he found himself taken aback.

Then, almost in a trance, he found himself uttering the one word he never thought he would utter again. "Fulani?"

***

DUM DUM DUMMNN!!!! *cue dramatic music*

*cue slow motion*

*cue characters looking at each other's eyes as the wind around them rustles*

*play OST*

*now roll credits*

*Sponsored by Iyalawo school of drama*

Hold up hold up! Hold your breaths, don't celebrate too soon. I've said my own.

I don fulfill my promise o!! Friday update came in early.

Cliffhanger? Yes. Yessssss.

I have the next chapter ready seff but nahhh I don't feel like updating again. Una should manage this one.

Comment comment and comment!! Let me know your thoughts!

What's your take on the book so far? How are you loving it?? See the way all of you moved on from PH sharp sharp after all that "I will miss PH and Adnan"

Hmmm I just Dey eye Una. Actually na Adnan Dey eye Una as you Dey leave him carry legs go to Amir Qasim, wai saboda kunga Yerima ko😂 okayyyyyy

It's better you stay with Adnan seff at least his mother is sweet. Giwa na opposite. And to think they are sisters smh. But tbh this is just the beginning.

It's just seven chapters in. How much drama have we encountered already? I wonder how you will be by the end of this book.

Well,  this is whew I leave Una to enjoy your Friday.

Stay safe.

Love, Jannah Mia❤️