Wata Uwa Book Compelet Surbajo

Description

The entire town was buzzing with the news of the return of the famous, helpful, and compassionate man. Wherever you went in the city, his return was the talk of the town, and the hearts and faces of the people were divided into three distinct groups, each reacting differently to his arrival. While some were filled with pure joy and celebration, another faction was seized with panic and grief—especially those who had believed he was dead and gone from the world entirely. The final group was torn, unable to decide whether to rejoice or mourn his return.

Journalists and staff from radio and television stations flooded the airport area, which was heavily secured by soldiers and police officers awaiting the landing of their private jet. His bodyguards, dressed in black, completely concealed their faces behind dark sunglasses, devoid of any warmth or smiles.

At 8:10 PM, their jet touched down at the airstrip. He offered praises to Allah for bringing him back safely to his country, which was full of wonders and mysteries, after a year and six months away. He thanked God once again for granting him his health and a second lease on life, long after hope of survival or ever walking on his feet again had vanished. Truly, Allah is worthy of all praise. He was the last to step out of the aircraft, pausing right at the doorway. He was dressed in a brown suit that perfectly complemented his radiant, dark-complexioned skin. Looking at him, you would never guess he had left his forties behind, as luxury and good living had masked his age. His face exuded calmness, dignity, and an aura of authority that commanded respect from anyone who looked at him. He placed his foot on the aircraft steps and paused, staring out across the tarmac. Instantly, memories of every single day, hour, minute, and second he had spent away rushed back to him. His heart began to boil with boiling rage, intense sorrow, and a heart full of vengeance. Pulling himself together through sheer bravery and composure, he slowly walked down the steps.

His bodyguards rushed forward, surrounding him. One of them stepped close, lowered his head respectfully, and said with evident joy at their leader's return, "Welcome back, King."

Placing a hand on his shoulder—it was impossible to read the exact expression on his face—he replied, "Thanks, Zaki. Hope I met you all in good health?" "Alhamdulillah," Zaki replied, stepping aside to let him pass as they followed him with a striking, admirable composure.

He spotted the swarm of journalists, which caught him slightly off guard. He halted and raised two fingers to his bodyguards, a signal for them to stop following closely. This display of commanding presence proved why the moniker "King" was so fitting. Taking the cue, Zaki signaled the rest of the guards, who immediately split into two groups: one taking the lead in front of the King and the other falling in line behind him like elite warriors. Zaki strode up, lowered his head, and took a quick glance at the King, immediately sensing that something was wrong. The King cleared his throat, and Zaki looked up into the King's large, piercing eyes, which silently demanded an explanation.

"Sorry, King. Wallahi, even I have no idea how they got wind of your return and spread it everywhere," Zaki whispered. The King simply shook his head and continued walking. The journalists swarmed him, shouting questions, terrified yet persistent, until they reached the parked convoy waiting for him. Just as he was about to step into the car held open by a bodyguard, a question stopped him in his tracks:

"What do you have to say about the allegations linking you to the murder of your parents, wife, and two toddlers through ritual sacrifice?"

He paused for nearly thirty seconds before turning to face the person who had hurled the question. All eyes shifted to her.

She was a beautiful young female journalist, dressed in a top, palazzo pants, and a baby hijab, with her press ID card hanging around her neck. One look at her revealed the deep anxiety written across her face, while everyone else stared in shock. He flashed a cryptic smile without uttering a single word, slid into the vehicle, and the rest of the guards climbed into their respective cars.

As the crowd began to disperse, journalists muttered among themselves in stunned silence. She sank to the ground, weeping as though her heart would break. The vibration of her phone snapped her back to reality. Seeing a private number flashing on the screen, she quickly answered. "Well done, beb. Excellent work," a voice said before the line abruptly went dead.

She stared at the phone in shock like a novice. Moments later, a security guard approached and instructed her to move her small car, leaving her utterly distressed and terrified.

Her phone rang again. Seeing "Boss" flashing on the screen, she answered with a heavy, exhausted heart. Before she could speak, a voice barked: "Fahima Aliyu, meet me in my office now." The line went dead without waiting for a response. Numbly, she climbed into her car. With divine grace, she made it back to the media office. It was deserted and late, and she wondered why her boss was still lingering.

Without even returning her greeting, he exploded in fury: "Do you even know what you've done? I always tolerate your foolishness, but this time I won't. Because this time, you didn't just put yourself in danger—wallahi, you better fix what you started, or else you'll regret ever crossing paths with me. Rubbish! Get out of my office now!" He shouted with such intensity that Fahima flinched in terror, fleeing the office in tears. To think her boss had just called her work "foolishness."

Driving erratically, she arrived home completely broken, not knowing where to begin. Feeling as though her mind was shattering, she rushed to the bathroom, stripped off her baby hijab, tossed her phone onto the bed, and stepped under the shower fully clothed, letting the water pour over her.

Meanwhile, they headed to his residence located on the outskirts of town—a modest yet exquisitely designed house. The ground floor featured a spacious parlor, two bedrooms, and a kitchen, while an upper level contained a smaller parlor and a bedroom. He headed straight upstairs, with Zaki trailing behind while the remaining guards secured the ground floor parlor. Removing his suit jacket and tossing it onto the bed, he loosened his tie, turned to Zaki, and asked: "What is our schedule for tomorrow?" "I thought you'd want to rest a bit before we execute what lies ahead," Zaki replied. "No, Zaki. We have no time to waste. My heart and soul will never rest until my objective is achieved. I want to visit Baba first thing in the morning, and I also need Fahima Aliyu brought to me." "Okay, King. May Allah make it easy." "Ameen," he replied, patting Zaki’s shoulder. "Thank you so much, Zaki. Truly, you are a true lion." Zaki smiled faintly. "You're the real lion king. I promise to save and protect you till my last breath."

GOVERNMENT HOUSE 10:45 PM

The Governor paced back and forth across his massive master bedroom, hands clasped behind his back, clad in soft blue-black silk sleepwear. He had completely lost his peace of mind; his thoughts were blocked. What was his future now? Just when he was relishing absolute power, comfort, and peace—operating under the assumption that the King was dead and gone—the man had suddenly reappeared. No, it’s impossible, wallahi! As he wrestled with his thoughts, a pair of arms wrapped around him from behind. He jerked away in annoyance, trying to pull her hands off. "Relax, Your Excellency. I know what's bothering you, but it's no big deal. Let's chill out now," she purred, burying her face against his neck and sniffing him like an old predator. Turning around in deep frustration, he snapped: "Please, Zee, leave me alone to deal with what’s weighing on me. All you care about is sex, and I am not in the mood!" He hissed and stormed out of the room, leaving her standing there. She was dressed in exotic red, sexy sleepwear that accentuated her fair skin brilliantly. She scoffed in disappointment and muttered with a sinister smirk: "Wallahi, this time my objective will be achieved through you. Welcome back, my king." She stood plotting various schemes in her mind.

In a dark, windowless room, a woman lay face-down on the bare tiles, weeping so hysterically that her voice was completely hoarse. Completely naked, she battered her head against the floor to distract herself from the excruciating agony tearing through her body, silently praying for death. Maggots were eating away at her flesh from behind, accompanied by foul discharge...

(Share for the sake of Allah 🙏🏻)

PART 2

(Fahima Aliyu) With great difficulty, she steadied herself, stripped off her wet clothes, wrapped a pink towel around her, and stepped out. Sitting on the edge of her bed, her face hollowed out and her eyes deeply sunken, she stared at the photo frames resting on her side table. Her eyes turned red. One frame featured her alongside her husband and their handsome five-year-old son, all smiling brightly to reveal white teeth. Another frame showed her with her mother, holding her young son on her lap. She let out a shuddering breath.

In her life, apart from her parents and her child, she loved nothing more than her career. She would forsake anything and anyone for her job—having already parted ways with her child's father because of it. She constantly risked her life for her profession, diving into every dark corner of investigative reporting just to unearth the truth and combat terrorism and crime in her country. Because of this, her media house and the nation at large took immense pride in her dedication, making her a role model for youth. She had always sought out the truth, but today, that truth had come back to haunt her. Instead of bringing joy, it threatened to shatter her life and put her loved ones in grave peril—the very danger Fu'ad had always warned her about, which ultimately drove them apart. She had never resented her career as much as she did at this moment, agonizing over the fact that she had brought mortal danger upon her mother and child. What could she do? To whom could she turn? The very person who used to support and protect her was now completely inaccessible to her.

Where did she stand regarding the King's return? Should she rejoice that he was alive, or dread his return as a lethal threat that brought peril to everyone she loved?

KING He jolted awake in terror, reciting verses of protection on his lips following a horrific nightmare about his wife. Sweat drenched his body. Massaging his throbbing head in deep panic and distress, he whispered prayers until he felt a measure of calm. Glancing at the bedside clock, he saw it was 3:15 AM. He stood up, slipped into his slippers, performed ablution, and engaged in deep night prayers (Nafila), seeking guidance and divine intervention regarding his mission. Deep down, his body and soul told him his wife was alive, trapped in excruciating torment and urgently needing him. He wept like a child, fighting the raw agony burning in his chest, forcing himself to be strong because he desperately needed a shoulder to cry on.

He remained on his prayer mat until the dawn call to prayer (Subhi), performing his prayers right there in his room instead of the estate mosque because of his severe headache. After completing his adhikar, a knock sounded at his door. Knowing it was Zaki, he called out, "Come in."

Zaki entered reciting the Islamic greeting, dressed in his usual black attire, his face stern and devoid of warmth. He bowed slightly near the King and said, "Good morning, King. I hope you're well—you didn't make it to the mosque?" Knowing the King never missed congregational prayers due to their immense virtue, the King offered a faint, strained smile, touched by Zaki's unwavering loyalty and attentiveness: "I'm fine, Zaki. Just having a mild headache." "May Allah grant you quick recovery," Zaki prayed, to which the King said, "Ameen." "Will you rest today?" "No, I'll be ready at 7:00 AM, insha Allah." Zaki nodded, rising with hidden awe at the King's iron will and resilience. Though the King's face betrayed deep distress, his bravery refused to let it defeat him.

At 7:10 AM, he walked downstairs to find his fleet of five black SUVs, all bearing the plain number plate KING, waiting for him. As they drove out of the estate neighborhood, they encountered crowds of ecstatic citizens cheering and shouting the King's name in joy. The King rolled down his tinted window, his face partially concealed by dark sunglasses to hide his inner turmoil. Zaki sat in the front passenger seat. Smiling warmly, the King extended his hand out of the window to greet the people as the convoy kept moving. People surged forward, eager to touch his hand, when suddenly—slash!—something sharp sliced across his hand. Blood instantly began to gushing out. "Awwch!" he winced. Alerted by the sound, Zaki and the driver whipped around. Seeing blood streaming down the King's hand, Zaki instantly threw open his door and leaped out in fury, ignoring protocol. The other guards followed suit, scanning the bewildered crowd with aggressive glares. Zaki scoured the faces of the stunned onlookers, but in the chaos, no one could pinpoint who had committed the act.

Swatting the air in frustration and biting his lower lip, Zaki rushed to the back seat where the King was clutching his bleeding hand, staining his pristine white shadda. Quickly stripping off his jacket, Zaki ripped his own white undershirt in half and tightly bound the King's hand. His eyes red with suppressed rage and pain, Zaki ordered the driver, "To the hospital, quick!" "Calm down, I'm fine," the King spoke up. Gazing at the blood soaking through the makeshift bandage, Zaki protested, "But you're still bleeding?" "I said I'm fine," the King snapped impatiently. Silence fell over them as each man wrestled with his own thoughts until they reached the graveyard.

The King stepped out, unbothered by the blood staining his clothes, trailed by Zaki and a few guards while the rest secured the perimeter. Just as they approached the cemetery gates, Zaki's phone buzzed with an incoming WhatsApp notification from an unknown number. He almost swiped it away, but curiosity made him open it.

With a jolt of shock, he raised his head to look at the King, who had already stepped inside, then back down at the phone. Darting his eyes around warily, he pocketed the phone and hurried after the King.

(FAHIMA ALIYU) Fahima was burning with a mild fever, crushed by loneliness and grief. The house felt overwhelmingly vast. Transitioning from audible sobs to silent, burning internal tears, she had grown gaunt and hollow-eyed since yesterday morning. Every few seconds, she checked her phone, desperately hoping for a message or a call from them. She frantically searched for a way to rescue her family. Getting dressed in a simple top and skirt—not even bothering to bathe—she grabbed her car keys, threw on the hijab she had discarded the previous night, and stepped into the parlor.

She froze in horror, letting out a scream. Three muscular men dressed completely in black sat in her living room, their faces as grim and devoid of mercy as ancient executioners.

One of them pointed a gun at her, putting a finger to his lips to signal silence as he stalked toward her. She slammed her eyes shut, trembling violently in sheer terror as he closed the gap.

He pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket, and before she could open her eyes, he pressed it firmly against her nose. Limp, she collapsed into his arms...

WHO IS FAHIMA ALIYU? Her biological father, Uchenna Julius Ekwonwa, was an Igbo man from Abia State who had visited Kaduna for tourism and stayed with his friend Abel. Every evening around sunset, as he sat outside enjoying the breeze, he would watch a young girl in Islamic school uniform walk by. Her modesty and composure completely captivated him. Though he tried to greet her daily, she would ignore him and walk past. Day by day, she finally began to acknowledging his greetings, while he playfully nicknamed her "Nyayniya mai chau" (the beautiful young girl).

As time passed, a bond formed between him and Maryam, a young lady of barely 17 years. Whenever she walked to Islamic school, he would accompany her, chatting along the way. Familiarity bred deep affection, even though Maryam constantly disciplined herself against deepening their involvement, knowing marriage between them was impossible due to religious differences.

Unable to resist his feelings any longer, Uchenna confessed his love and his desire to marry her. It was then she made it clear that a Christian-Muslim union was impossible. Without hesitation, he declared that if conversion to Islam was the price for claiming her hand, he was willing to abandon everything and everyone to be with her...

Part 2: Summary

The narrative centers around the dramatic return of a powerful, revered, yet controversial figure known simply as "The King" after an absence of a year and six months. His arrival stokes intense emotions across the city: adoration from loyalists, terror from enemies who thought him dead, and panic from those caught in the crossfire. Concurrently, an investigative journalist named Fahima Aliyu faces professional backlash, intense personal danger, and terrifying fallout after exposing leads linked to the King's past. The plot thickens with political anxiety (highlighted by the Governor's panic), underworld cruelty in Abia State, unwavering loyalty from the King's chief bodyguard Zaki, and mysterious assassination attempts targeting the King right upon his arrival.

Part 3: Description

• Genre: Thriller, Drama, Suspense, Crime Fiction.
• Setting: Kaduna and Abia State, Nigeria.
• Tone: Dark, tense, fast-paced, and emotionally charged.
• Key Themes: Vengeance, loyalty vs. betrayal, the heavy cost of truth-seeking, political corruption, and dark secrets.

Part 4: Analytics

• Character Dynamics:
  • The King: Stoic, resilient, hardened by trauma, and driven by a relentless desire for closure and revenge regarding the tragic murder of his family.
  • Zaki: The epitome of fierce, unyielding loyalty; acts as the King's tactical shadow.
  • Fahima Aliyu: A courageous yet vulnerable investigative journalist caught between her dedication to the truth and the catastrophic consequences it brings to her family.
  • The Governor & Antagonists: Represent institutional corruption, fear of exposure, and sadistic cruelty (as depicted in the Abia State hideout sequence).
• Plot Structure: Uses parallel storytelling—alternating between the King's tactical movements upon return, Fahima's descent into corporate and physical peril, and shadowy criminal subplots.

Part 5: Comments

• The Hausa prose style (often classified as modern Hausa fiction/Littattafan Hausa) effectively blends traditional societal settings with high-stakes thriller elements.
• The pacing is brisk, creating a heavy sense of impending doom and high suspense, particularly through sensory descriptions (the bloody hand injury, the grim atmosphere in Abia State, Fahima's psychological breakdown).
• The transition between characters maintains a cohesive narrative thread, pulling the reader into the interconnected web of political and personal vendettas.

Part 6: Conclusions

"Return of the King" establishes a high-stakes dramatic foundation where past sins inevitably catch up to the powerful. The return of the protagonist acts as a catalyst, unraveling carefully buried secrets, testing loyalties, and plunging innocent lives—such as Fahima's—into terrifying danger. The story promises an explosive clash between political corruption, underworld brutality, and a man seeking absolute justice.