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TUBALI
PAGE 1
BY
AYSHA ALIYU GARKUWA
In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful. Praise be to Allah, who granted me life, health, and the opportunity to begin writing this book titled "TUBALI." Oh Allah, grant me longevity, health, and peace of mind. Give me the ability to write it to the end, for the sake of the Prophet and the Qur’an. Allah, protect me from anything forbidden; protect my hands, my thoughts, my eyes, my pen, and my fingers, so I do not write anything that would be harmful to the Ummah of the Prophet or detrimental to our moral upbringing.
GEMBU MEMBILA, Taraba State.
A storm of immense intensity and darkness surrounded the entire Gembu Membila region, encompassing every side—East, West, South, and North. It had combined with the darkness of the night, which was already blended with the gloom of the rainy season. Because of this, the only things resonating through the region were incessant thunder and lightning, accompanied by a fierce, freezing wind that blew with great force.
At this very time, all human beings residing within their homes were in a deep slumber, as it was well past one o'clock in the morning.
A beautiful and extremely expensive car, indicating that its owner was someone of high status, broke through the darkness. The driver was speeding as if the car were about to fly, driving with the desperation of someone trying to save a life; perhaps that is why he did not even realize how he was driving. His entire body was trembling; despite the biting cold of the environment and the car’s air conditioning, he was drenched in sweat from the fear of seeing signs of impending death.
He was driving while constantly turning to look at a massive trailer following closely behind him, pursuing him with the intention of crushing him. He realized this after noticing that the trailer followed him everywhere he turned.
In a state of extreme distress, he wiped the sweat from his forehead with his hand, then used his other hand to embrace the child sitting on his lap, trembling at the sheer speed at which they were traveling. At that moment, they reached the large cliff at the top of the deep Gembu river gorge, which connects to the Numan Adamawa, Dadi Kowa Gombe, and Binuye rivers. The road there is as winding as a snake.
In his panic, he pulled out his phone and began speaking to the person he called, his voice trembling—speaking like someone saying goodbye to the world, leaving a will, and entrusting someone with a responsibility. They reached near Rugar Rumo, located at the bottom of the road near the gorge. At that very moment, the trailer caught up to him.
With extreme malice, the trailer driver rammed the car hard, pushing it toward the pit that connected to the deep rivers, the depth of which surpassed anyone's estimation.
Kuuuuuuhhhh! The car made a terrifying sound. It stopped briefly from rolling further because it hit a tree, which prevented it from falling in immediately. The trailer driver approached with force, seeing the tree holding back the small car. He pushed it again, and it went into the pit.
Fuuuuuuhhh zinɗim! It fell into the water.
The sound of the fall caused most of the people in Rugar Rumo to wake up. They mourned and sympathized, knowing that anyone who fell in there had met their grave...
As for the trailer driver, he let out a hideous, unpleasant laugh and passed through the town, as there was no possibility of sleeping in that area.
He was driving with his phone stuck to his ear, saying, "Sir, I am done with him; he is no longer in this world. He has said goodbye to the world. Now I will pass through Gembu, and we will go and kill his wife and children as well."
He paused briefly, hearing the "Sir" laugh in triumph and say, "Go ahead and kill them. The remaining 2 million will be in your hands."
Eagerly, the trailer driver said, "Right now." He then hung up the phone and headed into Gembu in the dark of that rainy night.
After some years, about twenty-two (22) years later.
Kano State.
The conference hall of the Arewa 24 TV station in the city of Kano was silent, with staff sitting on beautiful chairs arranged around a large table that held over fifty seats. In front of each person was a cold bottle of Faro water, Nutrimilk, Maltina, and Chii Exotic, in addition to glass cheers cups placed on the sides. There was also a long microphone in front of everyone. On the right side were the senior staff, on the left were their subordinates, and further back were the junior staff.
Their main boss was explaining the changes in the work structure they intended to establish for the beginning of the year. He adjusted his seat and looked toward his right. He cleared his throat and said, "Where is the producer of 'Baƙon Mako' (Guest of the Week)?"
Calmly, Jannart Idris Saleh Dakata raised her head and said, in her soft and composed voice, "I’m here, Sir."
The sound of her beautiful voice caused most of the people in the room to turn and look at her. Certainly, her composure was one of the reasons she was given the responsibility of this program. Because important and renowned people were invited, someone with the composure to respect and honor such high-profile guests was needed.
With concern, their boss continued, "The 'Baƙon Mako' program has a noble purpose: to bring in great people and interview them so they can tell the world about their achievements and the challenges they faced. This is so that our rising youth can see them as the foundation upon which to build their lives, to improve themselves, and to protect themselves from immoral behavior—to study and learn a trade so that one day they, too, can be role models for the next generation."
He paused for a moment and took a sip of the Exotic juice in front of him. As for Jannart, she moved her fair fingers, which were decorated with red henna, up and down on the microphone device in front of her. While everyone else remained silent, he continued calmly:
"But now, I’m sorry to say, Jannart, the program has weakened significantly. The security situation you are in makes it impossible for you to relax and invite high-profile people—renowned, virtuous people who would impress the audience. That is why the program has become weak; most days, we just end up repeating the previous program. Because of this, we have received orders from above. We have been given two choices."
Jannart quickly closed her eyes and lowered her head, realizing where his words were leading. If she understood correctly, they were on the verge of firing her from the job. This was the only place in the world where she found happiness; only when she was here could she relax, talk, and feel free without escorts or Yah Junaidu nearby.
Slowly, she adjusted the earpiece attached to her ear, which amplified her hearing. The way she chewed her lower lip allowed her beautiful dimple to show, while her red lips glistened from the licking she had given them. A'isha Lawal, who was next to her, reached out and held her hand, squeezing it gently as a sign of encouragement. Salman, who was facing her, closed his eyes.
She quickly opened her eyes when she heard their boss continue.
"The first order this time: we have been given the name of the person we are expected to invite for an interview. He is the only one who can raise the status of the program. If you cannot find the opportunity or the time to reach him, then you must be removed from the program. Someone else, male or female, will be found."
Calmly, she looked at him, and quietly, fearing the loss of her job, she said, "In sha Allah, I can do it."
He looked at her quickly. She nodded her head. "Yes, I can."
He nodded his head and continued, "And the final order: you must find him; the interview must be in the next two weeks. You see, today, there are only ten days left."
Asiya, who desperately wanted to take over the program from Jannart, adjusted her seat and said, "Sir, who is he? And where is he?"
In a slightly louder voice, he said:
"Dr. Rayyern Bashir Muhammad Mai-nasara."
They quickly began looking at each other, shocked. Aisha Lawal said, "Sir, Rayyern Bashir Muhammad Mai-nasara, he is..."
He raised his hand, stopping her, and said, "I know. He is not like other people; his perspective is different. Even the BBC has never succeeded in getting an interview with him, right!?"
They quickly replied in unison, "Yes! Yes!"
He let out a sigh and said, "Well, that will be our success if we get him. It will be the first time Arewa Magazine will publish his interview with a picture of his face, and Arewa 24 TV will be the first to broadcast his face and body after his name has become famous throughout Africa. This is what will increase the value of the program. So, Jannart, can you do it? Or should we just put Asiya in charge?"
Asiya quickly said, "Sir, I can do it. Since I don't have any 'security' protecting me, asserting that I belong to someone, my work is my pride."
Most people in the room stared at her, seeing how she spoke while casting a glare at Jannart. As for Jannart, she adjusted her glasses and looked up when she heard their boss say:
"Jannart, can you do it, or will the security situation your father provides for you not allow it?"
Calmly, suppressing her anxiety, she said, "Sir, I can do it, In sha Allah. Give me his file."
Salman let out a breath of relief, hearing that she had accepted; he did not want to lose his colleague because he enjoyed working with her. A'isha Lawal also let out a sigh. As for their MD, he pushed a small file to Jannart and said, "Here, but there is nothing in it except his name, the names of his companies, the cities they are in, his hospitals, and his foundation, called 'Mainasara Foundation.'"
Seeing that he remained silent, she looked at him briefly and asked quietly, "Is there no phone number? No picture of him? No address?"
The MD adjusted his seat and said, "Well, Jannart, if those things were in there, he wouldn't be difficult to find, and he wouldn't be a special person. You know that everything he keeps hidden is special."
Then she turned and looked at the person in charge of their program, who said, "No phone number, no photo, no address. Even if you had his number, if you called 1,000 times with 1,000 different lines, it would never go through, because he uses an app that won't allow a call unless he has saved your number in his phone. And even if he had set it up to receive calls, you could call at least ten times and he wouldn't answer; you would just be told to leave a voicemail. Because of the amount of work and responsibilities his father has placed on him, he doesn't have enough time for himself. Many people truly admire him and are amazed by his competence because the work is too much for him, and he is a young man in the midst of elders. That is why he doesn't often find time to answer calls. You just have to leave him a message, and if what you are bringing is important, and you are clever enough to tell him your number, then he will call you himself."
Most of them let out a heavy sigh. In despair, Jannart said, "My Aunty, where did you hear all this information?"
Hajia Rabi'ah laughed and said, "Jannart, a true journalist, you have already started your investigation on me."
She smiled and nodded. The MD nodded his head, satisfied with her cleverness and composure in her work.
Hajia Rabi'ah said with respect, "Honestly, I got this information from his PA. Not even from the PA directly. There is my sister's son, who is a friend of the PA's younger brother; that is where I heard it."
Jannart quickly handed her phone to Hajia Rabi'ah, saying, "Give me your sister's son's number."
She smiled, took it, and entered the number for her. Then she said, "His name is Mahmoud."
"Okay," she said, and saved the number.
The MD adjusted his seat and continued to organize the changes for their programs.
It was almost 6:00 PM when they finished the meeting.
As they came out, most of them headed to the parking lot to get their vehicles.
Asiya followed Jannart with a look full of hatred as they exited; immediately, her escorts stood up and followed her. Jannart turned slowly, hearing Aisha Lawal calling her.
"Jannart! Jannart!!"
She turned and followed the middle path they had opened for her. A'isha Lawal reached her quickly and said in a low voice, "Can you do it?"
Fearing the loss of her job, which would force her to stay at home—which was worse than a prison in terms of misery and heat—she said, "Yes, Aisha, I can, In sha Allah. If I can't do it, I'll continue to stay at home, and Yah Junaid will finish deafening me with the slaps he gives me every few minutes. This workplace is my world; it is the TUBALI (foundation) of my freedom. How could I be so negligent as to lose my job?"
Weakly, and lowering her voice further, Aisha said, "Okay, Salman told me to tell you that, In sha Allah, you can do it, and he will request that you be given a full opportunity." As she was about to continue, she remembered those big men surrounding her who were ready to destroy any man who came near her. She nodded, and they said goodbye.
There were three separate, sleek cars. The one in the middle was hers. The ones in front and back were her guards. She was sitting in the back while her driver drove her. On the way home, she felt fearful of what she might encounter there, knowing she had passed her time of return.
It was a private area in Janbulo—quiet, without noise or congestion, as if it weren't in Kano—because of the large, grand houses, not the cramped ones typical of Kano. At the entrance of a massive house of extreme size and beauty, they stopped and honked. Trembling, the guard opened for them. They drove into the compound.
They arrived at the parking space just as the Maghrib prayer was being called. This coincided with the exit of Alhaji Idi Sale Dakata from his house, accompanied by three gallant young men, Junaid, Azeez, and Abdul, behind him, along with a man who looked like him, Barrister Kabir Saleh Dakata, his younger brother.
She let out a soft, heavy sigh of relief, realizing that Yah Azeez was returning to his workplace, as she saw his clothes being loaded into the car, a sign that they would leave with him for the airport after prayer.
Barrister Kabir smiled and said, "Masha Allah, Ammina, you are back?"
She quickly moved close to him, avoiding the hateful glare Yah Junaid was casting at her, and said gently, "Yes, Abba, I am back. Where is Aunty Dija?" She finished speaking while looking at the face of Yah Azeez, who was looking at her with a gaze full of sympathy.
Barrister Kabir, whom she called Abba, said with care and deep sympathy, suppressing something deep within his heart, "They are inside. Go in; let us go to the mosque."
She quickly said "Okay," then went inside the house while they headed to the mosque.
Ethiopia, Addis Ababa.
A beautiful young man, with a clean, captivating beauty, a young man of noble blood.
With a rhythmic, measured pace full of integrity, composure, and dignity, he was coming out of a beautiful hospital (Tikur Ambessa Teaching Hospital, Addis), while some of the great doctors that Ethiopia prides itself on followed behind him, as well as nurses.
He walked with dignity, his lips moving slightly; by all appearances, exhaustion had caused him to do so.
He was fair-skinned, with the kind of extremely beautiful fairness of Ethiopian people, but his skin was brighter than that of those following behind him—meaning he was fairer than them. He had a very beautiful, sharp nose, and medium-sized eyes that were extremely beautiful and clear; they were the kind of eyes that, if they filled with tears when something was in front of them, the color of his eyes could change to match it. A very beautiful, well-kept beard lay lib-flat on his face, surrounding it; his lips were thin, red, and beautiful, and his eyebrows were handsome.
He had a very beautiful haircut. His resemblance to Dheeraj Dhoopar was striking, even his height and build were like Dheeraj Dhoopar's—his appearance was perfect. His attire alone would show who he was.
A very expensive, stylish suit was on him, red in color, a shirt and trousers with white dots, and his necktie was also white with red dots. His shoes were Italian-made, white, with the letters R-M done in red color—the kind for young people of status and dignity. His wristwatch was a Gucci, also with the initials R.M on the sides. The attire suited him beautifully and with great dignity.
He walked with them following behind him until they arrived where their cars were lined up.
That was DR. Rayyern Bashir Muhammad Mai-nasara.
Calmly, he turned, shaking hands with Dr. Adeym, and they spoke a little. Then, all the others shook his hand. He entered the car, and his driver, who was inside, drove off. They left the hospital and headed straight to the Hera Addis Hotel, Ethiopian.
On their way, they passed by a large mosque. With a sigh, he said to his driver, "Stop."
He quickly said, "Okay." They stopped, and seeing him head into the mosque, they understood what he was going to do. They followed behind him to perform the Isha prayer, as it was time, and after that, they would continue.
Slowly, he leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes, moving his lips slightly, letting out a sigh of fatigue. He felt his phone ringing, but he didn't even open his eyes because of his extreme exhaustion. His clothes felt heavy on him; he was sleepy and hungry. That was why he didn't answer the call. However, within his heart, he said, "Sulaiman!!!" He rolled his head to the side.
Seeing they had arrived, the men in the car following behind them quickly came out. One of them approached, opened the door for him, and stepped aside.
Slowly, he said, "Bismillahi." He let out a breath of fatigue, then stuck his leg out. He glanced at Usman, his PA, who was gathering his computer and phones, and slowly said, "Bring that small bag."
Usman quickly said, "Okay." He picked up the small plastic bag bearing the logo of Edna Mall, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, and followed him as they headed into the hotel. They went straight to where their quarters were.
Upon entering, he turned and looked at Usman, who had placed his things on a chair. "Good night. I won't eat anything. Don't let Sulaiman bother you to come and disturb me." He spoke with exhaustion.
Usman quickly said, "Okay, Sir."
As he untied his tie, he said, "Okay, go."
"Okay," he said, turning to leave. But he turned back to look at him, hearing him say, "Ramadan called earlier."
He just nodded his head. Seeing that, Usman turned and left.
Seeing that he had left, he approached and locked the door. As he turned to remove his suit, he threw it on a chair, then removed his inner shirt. He bent down to untie his belt. While standing, he removed his trousers.
He valued his freedom, which was why he enjoyed the life of solitude. He was extremely shy about revealing his body. Even with Ramadan, he didn't want him to see his upper arm, let alone his legs, as they were covered in soft hair. But when he was alone, he felt free. Sometimes, he would throw away his clothes from the living room before entering the bedroom; he would enter in nothing but his boxers.
He gathered his clothes and took them to the bedroom, placing them on the bed. Then, he went to the bathroom.
After coming out, he was dressed in soft, white, knee-length shirt and trousers. He sprayed some perfume, increased the speed of the A/C, then returned to the parlor and picked up the small bag he had asked Usman to bring him, which was full of various kinds of chocolates, frozen and cold.
He ate Galaxy Chocolate, which was very delicious, as he was accustomed to sweets. When he finished, he drank tea without milk—that is, coffee. After he finished, he returned to the bedroom, holding the computer in his hand.
He turned off the bedroom light, laid down, and put the computer in front of him.
He sighed; Allah knows he felt a special kind of comfort and peace when he heard the preaching of that elder, Malam Mai-nasara. He loved his tafsir (exegesis). He never got tired of looking at the old man's face. That was why he followed his YouTube page where he posted his tafsirs.
He clicked on the computer. Shortly after, the image appeared. He fixed his eyes on the elder's face. He wasn't even listening to what was being said. When he felt the air blowing into his eyes, he closed them slightly and sighed, then opened them. He looked again at the text below the elder's photo: "Malam Mai-nasara."
Slowly, in the depths of his heart, he spoke to himself: "The end of our names is the same. I know the foundation of my own name. But what is his TUBALI (foundation) for the name 'Mai-nasara'? What is the origin of the name?"
Who would answer those questions that his heart refused to stop asking him?
He let out a sigh of fatigue, pushed the thought away, and continued listening to his tafsir.
Feeling that sleep was about to overcome him, he closed the device and...
