MIJIN TACE Complete Hausa Novel Document by MIJIN TACE

He was dressed in an impeccably white traditional robe that shimmered under the light. The robe was golden—meaning it extended slightly past his knees, fitting him perfectly and accentuating his fair, rested complexion just right. Since today was Friday, he carried his work bag along with another elegant white item, emanating a cool, pleasant fragrance. He was tall with a broad chest, possessing a well-proportioned, athletic body—not overly muscular but undeniably attractive. His face was long, adorned with a neatly trimmed black beard that blended with his mustache. He wasn’t smiling, but that didn’t hide the faint dimples on his cheeks. His eyes were strikingly white, with deep brown pupils. His hair was jet black and slightly curly, partially covered by a cap, though the ends still peeked out at the nape of his neck—soft and smooth to the touch.  

He descended the stairs slowly, his movements graceful, exuding an air of effortless sophistication. Looking at him, you’d immediately recognize a man of wealth and refinement—someone who naturally commanded respect. When he reached the ground floor, he found his mother seated on the couch. He sat near her but said nothing. She glanced at him briefly before continuing to eat her apple.  

"Ummi, good morning." Had it not been his mother sitting there, no one would have believed how tender his voice sounded when he spoke.  

"Morning, Aryan," she replied calmly, her expression relaxed. Truthfully, she had never seen a man as refined as Aryan—not even his brothers. Blessings seemed to favor this side of the family, given how his brothers had turned out.  

Nearly five minutes passed in silence—neither spoke a word. Just when it seemed she wouldn’t say anything else, he kissed her forehead and prepared to leave.  

"Aryan, breakfast is in the dining room. Or are you skipping it again today?" she asked, watching him intently as if expecting no response. But one look at his mother’s face, and he simply said, "Okay."  

It was as if an egg had cracked inside him. His body was conditioned to function without breakfast—he usually only had coffee—but his mother knew this. Sitting at the dining table, he avoided her gaze, drank his coffee, and took a single slice of bread. She didn’t complain as long as he ate something.  

As usual, once he finished, he kissed her forehead, grabbed his bag, and left. Heading to his car—a Bugatti—he honked once at the guard, sped through the opening gate, and drove off.