Man Of The World 3 Complete Book

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Extended Narrative Expansion: Muradin Zuciya (Chapters 1 & 13 Expanded Edition)

The heavy velvet curtains of the inner chambers did little to muffle the suffocating weight of the afternoon heat, nor did they trap the whispers slithering across the Persian rugs of the royal estate. Within the shadowed sanctuary of Momma’s quarters, the air tasted of old cedar, burnt musk, and the copper tang of an unvoiced paranoia.

Ajikinta sat stiffly against the embroidered cushions, her eyes darting toward the heavy oak door before returning to the woman who commanded her fear and obedience. Across from her, Laure—a woman whose loyalty was measured strictly in the currency of favors and coins—adjusted the folds of her wrapper.

"Ajikinta won't be a problem," Laure murmured, her voice dropping to a cautious register that grazed the floorboards. She cast a sidelong glance toward the threshold, as if the very walls possessed ears. "But before that, Your Highness, I want you to grant me permission to peek everywhere. To make certain there is no third party hiding in the shadows, no stray ear waiting to harvest our words."

Momma’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking violently beneath her powdered cheek. "I grant it," she hissed, her fingers curling into the damask fabric of her seat.

True to her word, Laure rose with the silent agility of a predator. She glided across the expansive chamber, checking the heavy wooden shutters of the large windows that looked out over the sun-bleached courtyards. She tested the latches, ensured the iron bolts were driven deep into their slots, and pulled the thick drapes until every sliver of harsh daylight was choked off. Satisfied that the room was sealed like a tomb, she padded back to her seat, her eyes locking onto her mistress with absolute, chilling devotion.

"Now," Laure whispered, leaning forward so her breath ghosted across the low table. "We wait for your command, though I know well enough the core of this matter concerns that child—Fadwa."

Momma let out a slow, ragged breath, her shoulders sagging under the immense pressure of her own design. "Ever since your return to this household, Laure, my mind has found no rest," Momma confessed, her voice trembling slightly with suppressed rage. "I have calculated a hundred scenarios, and none of them end with my peace intact. Bastards like her, cast upon our doorsteps by fate and circumstance, bring no blessing to any house they enter. She is a blight upon the bloodline, a living insult to my status."

A dark, knowing smile touched the corners of Laure’s mouth. Momma nodded slowly, the agreement passing silently between them like a toxic pact.

"I want us to cooperate," Momma continued, her voice hardening into a jagged edge. "To bring a permanent end to this girl's existence so that everyone in this palace can finally breathe. Name your price. No matter how much silver or gold you require, I will empty my coffers to pay you, provided the job is executed cleanly and without a trace."

Laure shook her head, her expression one of morbid righteousness. "Even if you offered me nothing, Your Highness, I would perform this service for you. It is the only correct path. It is a minor sin—barely a ripple in the grand ledger of life—and it requires no great effort. Once she is gone, His Highness the Prince will finally snap out of his unnatural stupor. His mind will return to its rightful place, fixed upon you and yours. Children like that are accidents of history; they are not meant to be kept. What we are about to do is an act of mercy for the house."

Momma nodded again, a bead of cold sweat tracing a path down her temple. "Go for now. I will summon you when the moon hits its zenith. But remember—and hear my words clearly—let no third party ever cross the threshold of this conversation. If a whisper of this reaches the ears of the court, I will come after you first, and not even the saints will save you."

Laure placed a hand over her heart, her eyes wide with simulated sincerity. "I have sworn an oath, Your Highness. No one shall hear of this until the Day of Judgment turns the sky to ash."

With those final, ominous words, she slipped out of the room, leaving Momma alone in the dim quiet, pacing the floor and weaving the threads of a tragedy yet to unfold.

The following morning wore the heavy, oppressive humidity typical of Kano's transition seasons. Momma made her obligatory pilgrimage to Uwah’s grand quarters to pay her respects—a ritual performed with all the mechanical precision of a courtier treading on thin ice. Laure followed close behind, bearing little Khadijah swaddled tightly against her chest.

The outer parlor was eerily still. They found no one waiting in the vast, polished hall, so they took their seats on the plush velvet couches, enveloped by the scent of heavy Arabian incense. A few moments later, Uwah’s senior maid, Laraba, emerged from the inner sanctum to announce their presence.

Uwah stepped out from her private chambers, flanked by two visiting female relatives whose sharp eyes swept over Momma with undisguised scrutiny. Momma lowered her head in a display of profound, calculated humility, offering her greetings in a tone dripping with feigned reverence. Uwah accepted the salutation with the cold, measured indifference that had kept her at the pinnacle of the household for decades.

As the formalities wound down, one of the visiting women turned her attention to Laure. "Bring the little one forward," she commanded softly, gesturing toward Khadijah. "Let us look upon the face of the house's future."

Laure stepped forward, extending the child, but just as Uwah reached out her hands to receive Khadijah, a sharp, infantile wail cut through the silence echoing from the adjacent corridor—the very wing Uwah had just emerged from.

Uwah froze. Her hands pulled back instantly. Without a second thought for Khadijah, Uwah turned her head sharply toward the hallway. "Laraba! Go straight and bring Fadwa to me. She has woken from her nap."

The snub was deliberate, sharp, and executed with chilling ease. Momma’s fingers dug into the fabric of her wrapper as she watched Uwah abandon the greeting ritual entirely in favor of the other child. When Fadwa was carried into the room moments later, Momma’s eyes locked onto her with a gaze so venomous it could have withered stone.

Laraba hurried to prepare a warm bottle of milk and water. Uwah took the bottle herself, settling back into her cushions and feeding the infant with a tender, unhurried patience that sickened Momma to her core.

"Who could ever look upon a face like this and harbor malice?" one of the visiting women remarked, her eyes softening as she watched Fadwa sip contentedly. "Such a remarkably patient child. I don't believe she has made a sound or fussed since we set foot in this hall."

The second woman nodded in agreement. "Indeed. If one raises a child like this with absolute sincerity, the spiritual reward is immense. Paradise itself waits for those who protect the vulnerable."

"By God, you speak the truth," the third chimed in. "May Allah grant her a proper mother who values her soul."

Uwah remained silent throughout the exchange, her entire focus absorbed by the rhythmic motion of feeding the infant. She did not offer a defense, nor did she offer a rebuke—her silence functioned as a quiet endorsement that cut Momma deeper than any insult could have.

Momma reached the absolute zenith of her endurance, the toxic brew of humiliation and jealousy burning in her throat. Yet, she maintained her rigid composure, swallowing the bile of her resentment until it settled like lead in her stomach. When the visit finally concluded, she forced a stiff smile, bade the women farewell, and swept out of the quarters with Laure trailing behind her.

Once they regained the safety of Momma’s private suite, the mask dropped entirely.

"I will summon you tomorrow night," Momma snapped at Laure, her voice trembling with fury. "Be ready."

"Alright, Your Highness," Laure replied smoothly.

That night, the accumulated poison reached its boiling point. When Papa called her quarters on the internal palace line, letting the phone ring through its monotonous electronic cadence, Momma refused to lift a finger to answer it. Let him call until his patience broke; her mind was completely choked with the venomous remarks of Uwah’s guests, cementing her resolve beyond redemption.

The following morning unfolded under a blanket of heavy, gray clouds. Momma sent a curt message summoning Habiba, the quiet young maid tasked with the daily care of Fadwa.

Habiba entered the bedchamber with the infant securely strapped to her back by a faded Ankara cloth. She stood quietly near the door, waiting for instructions. Momma did not look up immediately; she spent five agonizing minutes methodically feeding Khadijah, ensuring the routine of preference was visibly established before she finally raised her eyes.

"Take those soiled towels from the washroom and scrub them until they are spotless," Momma instructed coldly, pointing toward the en-suite. "And wash the boy's linens while you're at it."

Habiba nodded, murmuring her assent as she shifted her weight, preparing to stand with Fadwa still bound to her back.

"Are you planning to take her into the dampness of the washroom with you?" Momma's voice cut through the room like a whip.

Habiba hesitated, her hands hovering over the straps. "I... I can leave her on the mat, Your Highness."

"Place her on that chair," Momma commanded, pointing to a high-backed wooden seat near the corner.

Habiba carefully unfastened the cloth, lowering Fadwa onto the designated chair with gentle hands. She cast a brief, worried look at the child before retreating into the steaming confines of the washroom, the heavy wooden door clicking shut behind her.

The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence.

Momma rose slowly from the edge of her bed, her movements calculated and heavy. She crossed the floor until she stood directly before the chair where Fadwa sat. For a long, agonizing moment, she simply stared down at the child.

She studied every contour of the infant’s face—the soft curve of her cheeks, the delicate arch of her brows, and most strikingly, the large, luminous eyes that stared back at her without a hint of fear. The light catching through the shutter slats illuminated the rare, striking gray of Fadwa's eyes. The innocent creature babbled softly, thrusting a tiny hand into her own mouth and drooling with the carefree abandon typical of infancy, completely unaware of the shadow looming over her.

Momma crouched down, bringing her face level with the child. Her heart felt hollow, dry, and calcified within her chest. Even as she stared into those wide, trusting gray eyes, not a single flicker of remorse touched her conscience. She had crossed the Rubicon of maternal mercy; her mind was a finalized contract.

"Momma."

The sharp intrusion shattered the silence.

Momma sprang upward with a violent start, her joints cracking as panic seized her limbs. She turned with wide, frantic eyes—the universal posture of a guilty soul caught in the act.

Standing in the half-open doorway was Imam, her eldest son, staring at her with an unreadable expression.

"What is the meaning of this?!" Momma hissed, her voice pitched high with defensive fury. "Do you not know how to announce yourself? Why are you bursting into my private chambers without permission? What has happened?"

Imam did not flinch. His voice remained unnervingly calm, steady as a pendulum. "Didn't Imran come in here?"

Momma’s breath caught. "Is Imran my shadow that you come asking me such a question? Aren't you two joined at the hip from morning till night? Why ask me?"

Imam fell silent. His gaze shifted slowly away from his mother, sliding past her shoulder to rest upon Fadwa, who remained seated on the chair, her large gray eyes still fixed curiously upon the scene, her tiny hands playing unbothered. Then, Imam's eyes drifted back to his mother’s pale, sweat-slicked face.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" Momma demanded, her nerves fraying under the weight of his scrutiny.

"Go to Uwah’s quarters and check on him," Imam said quietly. Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel, his footsteps fading down the long, carpeted corridor.

Momma stumbled backward, her knees trembling until she collapsed onto the edge of her bed. The sheer terror of being caught in her dark contemplation had sent her pulse racing into dangerous territory. Moments later, Habiba emerged from the washroom, wiping her damp hands on her apron.

"Your Highness, I have finished everything," Habiba reported respectfully. "Is there anything else requiring my attention?"

Momma didn't look at her. She stared straight ahead, her face a mask of stone. "Take her and get out of my sight."

Habiba scooped Fadwa into her arms, securing the child against her chest, and hurried out of the room. Momma tracked their exit until the door clicked shut, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps.

As afternoon bled into the heavy shadows of dusk, Momma reached for her phone and dialed Madina’s number. For over an hour, the two women spoke in hushed, conspiratorial tones, reinforcing each other's resolve, drowning out the lingering whispers of conscience with shared ambition and mutual desperation.

"Do not bother offering me words of encouragement tonight, Madina," Momma whispered into the receiver, her voice laced with a bitter, reckless finality. "I am past the point of turning back. I am a goner now, drifting in waters too deep for rescue. What is ahead is ahead. If Abdulaziz returns from his travels, let him find her corpse—if he even possesses the means to arrive before the earth reclaims her."

Madina sighed on the other end of the line, her voice dropping to a matching conspiratorial register. "I know your stubborn nature, Adda. Sometimes you become as unyielding as Adda Aina'u herself. Perhaps it is better this way. Maybe the child will be buried and mourned before he even crosses the city gates, and he can finally be spared the weight of this grief."

"I will call you later when the house sleeps," Momma muttered, terminating the call abruptly.

Night descended over the palace like a leaden blanket. Long before Momma could summon her, Laure appeared at her door unbidden, slipping into the bedchamber like a ghost.

Momma dragged her chair close, her voice dropping to a barely audible rasp. "What is your finalized plan? Through what method can this be achieved quickly, cleanly, and without leaving a single footprint?"

Laure smiled faintly, a cold, expressionless curve of the lips. "I will finish everything inside her own room, Your Highness. Leave the logistics entirely to my hands."

Momma nodded slowly, her throat dry. "Fetch Habiba for me."

When Habiba arrived, summoned under the guise of an ordinary errand, Momma adjusted her posture on the bed, feigning complete nonchalance. "Have you finished your duties with the child for the evening?"

"Yes, Your Highness," Habiba replied politely. "She has finally drifted off to sleep."

"Good," Momma said smoothly. "Go down to the grand kitchen immediately and prepare a fresh batch of tuwo for me. I want okra soup as well; the batch prepared earlier today was completely unpalatable."

"Right away, Your Highness. I will go down at once," Habiba answered, bowing slightly before turning and exiting the room.

Moments later, Laure slipped back into the bedchamber. Momma rose instantly, clutching her chest. "Has she left?"

"Yes," Laure whispered, her eyes gleaming in the dim light. "She walked straight down toward the service wing, leaving the child sleeping soundly in the crib."

"Tell me precisely how you intend to do it," Momma insisted, her fingernails digging into her palms.

"She is merely an infant," Laure replied dismissively, her voice entirely devoid of human warmth. "With a standard pillow held firmly for a few seconds, it requires no great effort, leaves no mark, and makes no sound."

Momma nodded, a sheen of cold sweat matting the hair across her forehead. "Go. I am waiting here."

Laure slipped out into the corridor. Momma found herself entirely incapable of remaining seated. She began pacing the length of the bedroom—walking four frantic steps forward, pivoting sharply, and pacing back, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, biting down on her thumb until the skin threatened to break.

She had barely completed her fourth frantic rotation when the door burst open.

Laure stumbled into the room, her chest heaving, her eyes wide with a genuine, unadulterated terror.

"She’s gone."

Momma froze dead in her tracks. Her heart gave a violent, sickening lurch against her ribs. "What do you mean... what do you mean she is gone?"

Laure grabbed the doorframe, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "By Almighty God, she is not in the room! I checked the crib, I checked the blankets—she is missing, and I never saw Habiba carry her out!"

Panic, cold and sharp as a razor, pierced Momma’s core. Without a word, she bolted past Laure, sprinting down the corridor toward Fadwa’s nursery. She threw the door open and hurled herself into the room.

The crib was empty. The blankets were tossed aside, cold to the touch.

"Find Habiba!" Momma screamed, her voice cracking with hysteria. "Search every corner of this estate and drag her to me right this instant!"

They scattered into the night, but the vast, sprawling labyrinth of the palace offered no answers. When Momma stumbled back into her private parlor minutes later, her phone was vibrating relentlessly on the mattress. She snatched it up with shaking fingers—it was Madina.

"Madina!" Momma shrieked the moment the line connected, tears of sheer panic finally spilling over her lashes. "I am ruined! Someone knows! Let no one ever learn of what we plotted—the child has been taken!"

On the other end, Madina’s voice spiked with terror. "What do you mean taken?! Are you certain it wasn't Habiba who moved her?"

"Laure confirmed she left the room empty! Habiba herself claimed the child was asleep!"

"She lied to you!" Madina screamed through the earpiece. "Hunt her down before she exposes us to the entire household! I am certain that servant knows everything!"

Before Momma could respond, she hurled the phone onto the bed as the door slammed open. Laure stumbled inward, pale-faced and trembling violently.

"She isn't anywhere in the wing!" Laure gasped, clutching her chest. "I even searched the outer perimeter of Uwah’s quarters! We are utterly finished, Your Highness! She knows—by God, she has run away with the child!"

Momma raised both trembling hands, slamming them against her head as the full, crushing weight of exposure crashed down upon her. "I am ruined... Fatima, you are utterly destroyed."

Eighteen Years Later...

The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly upon the terracotta roofs of Kano, baking the ancient city in a familiar, golden haze. Inside the cool, marble-floored chambers of the royal estate, time had woven a complex tapestry of hidden truths and fragile routines.

Fadwa lay sprawled across the expanse of a massive, handcrafted mahogany bed, her fingers flying across the screen of her smartphone. Oblivious to the world around her, she lay face down buried among silk pillows, her entire consciousness absorbed in the digital universe glowing before her eyes.

A soft rustle announced Laraba’s entry. The senior maid walked purposefully across the thick wool rug, stepping up to the edge of the bed and tapping the soles of Fadwa’s outstretched feet.

"Fadwa," Laraba called out gently.

Fadwa blinked, lowering her phone slowly. She rolled onto her side, looking up with a soft, inquiring gaze.

"Uwah is calling for you in the inner parlor."

With a quiet sigh of resignation, Fadwa laid her phone aside and slid off the bed. She smoothed down the rich fabric of her long, intricately patterned Ankara gown, reaching instinctively for the matching headtie resting folded on the nightstand. But as she sought to bind her hair, she realized something was amiss. Instead of wrapping the headtie immediately, her hands drifted to the heavy mass of dark hair that cascaded all the way down to her lower back. She needed a ribbon to secure it properly, but a quick sweep of the bed and surrounding surfaces yielded nothing.

Without pausing to search further, she stepped out into the expansive corridor and into the grand parlor, the headtie merely knotted loosely around her crown, leaving more than half of her long, silken hair flowing freely down her back—a minor breach of traditional palace modesty that immediately drew critical eyes.

Uwah sat cross-legged upon a large, ornate prayer mat, her fingers methodically clicking through the amber beads of her tasbaha. At the sound of footsteps, she turned her head, her gaze locking instantly onto Fadwa’s unsecured hair.

"Go back and gather that hair properly into one place, Fadwa," Uwah instructed, her voice carrying the firm, unyielding cadence of matriarchal authority.

Fadwa paused, lowering her head slightly. In her soft, melodious tone, she replied, "I seem to have lost my ribbon, Uwah. I searched everywhere across the room, but I couldn't find it."

Uwah gestured toward the far corner of the chamber. "Open my walk-in closet. There should be a spare ribbon you left behind on the shelf last week."

Across the room, Khadijah reclined lazily on a velvet settee, her eyes glued to her own device. She lifted her chin just enough to cast a sharp, dismissive glance at Fadwa as the younger girl turned back toward the bedroom, offering neither a word nor a polite nod.

Moments later, Fadwa emerged once more, her hair now neatly gathered, braided, and securely covered beneath a crisp white shawl, her twin phones clutched tightly in her hand.

Uwah shifted her attention from Fadwa to Khadijah. "Rise and prepare yourselves. I expect your driver is already waiting at the main gates."

Khadijah sat up abruptly, her face locked into an expression of hardened indifference. She didn't bother masking her displeasure. Shortly after, one of the junior attendants entered the parlor with a formal bow, announcing that their transport had arrived.

With chilling nonchalance, Khadijah stood, glanced coldly at Uwah, and muttered, "We are leaving." She swept past Fadwa without a backward glance, exiting the parlor first.

Fadwa lingered for a moment, her heart heavy with an inexplicable reluctance. She stepped toward Uwah, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Uwah... I think I would prefer to sleep over here tonight."

Uwah paused her prayer beads, looking up with a faint, knowing smile. "You know very well that when His Highness returns from his state engagements, he will immediately ask for both of you."

"He hasn't returned from the council meeting yet," Fadwa pleaded softly.

"Go home for now, child," Uwah replied gently, patting the air between them. "If you wish, you may return this coming weekend and spend a few nights here."

Fadwa hesitated, her lower lip trembling slightly. "Then... when will you return to the main hall?"

Uwah’s expression softened further, a rare warmth touching her aging features. "I need a few more days to rest my joints in quiet, Fadwa. But I will not stay away long."

Fadwa nodded slowly, a profound sense of emptiness settling into her chest. She could never quite articulate—even to herself—why the grand palace felt so suffocatingly cold whenever Uwah was absent from the main quarters. Every time she was forced to return to her designated residence, an invisible weight pressed down upon her spirit. Only in the presence of His Highness (Mai Martaba) and Uwah did she ever feel a genuine sense of safety and inner peace. Deep down, despite the whispers of the court and the cold stares of her peers, she felt infinitely more at home within these ancient, hallowed walls than anywhere else in the world.

With a heavy heart, she turned away, walking out into the sunlit courtyards toward the VIP parking enclosure.

She found Khadijah standing rigidly beside the sleek black sedan, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, glaring daggers across the asphalt. Before Fadwa could even close the distance, Khadijah snapped, "Next time, buy your own vehicle so you can dictate your own schedule! Do not linger here acting as if this palace belongs to you by divine right just because they humor your presence!"

Fadwa did not deign the insult with a single word. She bypassed Khadijah entirely, pulled open the rear door on the passenger side, and slid gracefully into the back seat, closing the door with a quiet, deliberate click.

Khadijah hissed through her teeth in pure frustration, yanked open the opposite door, and threw herself into the other corner of the vehicle.

As the driver pulled away from the gates, plunging into the bustling traffic of Kano, an impenetrable wall of silence fell over the cabin. Neither sister turned to look at the other. Each sat isolated at opposite ends of the spacious back seat, staring blankly out of their respective windows as the landscape of the city blurred past—completely unaware that the ghosts of eighteen years ago were quietly waking from their long sleep, ready to claim their due.