“Hey… so this girl truly exists? It’s not just a story written on social media?”
He heard Salana, one of their officers, say with a voice full of excitement.
“They’ve even mentioned her name now… and it looks like the girl is bold and fearless. She still hasn’t appeared yet—only her horse has been introduced, and it has already stolen everyone’s attention at the arena,” Barrak added.
“With how beautiful that horse is, I’m sure she herself is stunning. Honestly, I can’t wait to see her,” Semere said.
Semere was one of those men with wandering eyes and an excessive love for women. That habit of his was the reason his younger sister and Suhaim never felt comfortable around him.
Suhaim, on the other hand, was wary of him because of the strong presence and authority he carried, even though Suhaim himself rarely bothered engaging with Semere.
“It looks like she’s coming now… there she is, coming out from the right side.”
The voice surprised him—it was Omari’s.
What was Omari doing among them? He knew Omari well; this wasn’t the kind of crowd he usually mingled with. But since horses were mentioned, it made sense—Omari had a deep connection to anything involving horses. And it wasn’t just Omari; the entire team shared that passion. Horse racing had become their favorite form of lawful entertainment, something they practiced regularly at the end of each week or month.
Each of them was skilled and experienced, yet in all the history of competitions, no one had ever beaten Haisam.
They often teased him, saying,
“You people were born into privilege… while we’ve been trained in royal traditions since infancy.”
He would simply smile with that quiet charisma of his. Anything that reminded him of his royal status or set him apart from others made him uncomfortable. He preferred to feel like everyone else, not constantly reminded that he was of noble birth.
“It’s her… wallahi, it’s really her!”
Just as Semere said this, unable to sit still, Suhaim turned the handle and entered the office, greeting everyone in his deep, husky voice that carried calm authority.
His eyes scanned the room, searching for Omari, silently questioning his presence there when work awaited them. Thankfully, he found Omari off to the side organizing a folder—clearly there on official business, just like himself.
He swallowed his words and whispered inwardly,
“Subhanallah.”
It reinforced his belief in Allah—how necessary it is to verify information before judging.
His entrance made everyone stand respectfully to greet him. By protocol, no one remained seated unless he permitted it.
Noticing their unease, he ignored it, returned their greetings, and moved toward the printers to begin working. Salana stepped closer.
“Sir… what do you need?”
“It’s confidential,” he replied calmly, motioning with his hand.
Salana understood and returned to his seat, discreetly lowering the TV volume.
In such environments, close relationships were never openly displayed for security reasons. That applied to him and Omari as well. They treated each other with formal respect, exchanging only greetings.
Standing still, he focused on his task, ensuring each printed page was correct. Meanwhile, everyone else was absorbed in the intense horse race being broadcast live from Niamey, Agadez, and streamed worldwide.
“Oh my God,” Semere exclaimed.
“Subhanallah!”
“My head is spinning!”
“She really is a queen… even in her riding, there is dignity and authority.”
These murmurs filled the room in hushed tones due to Haisam’s presence. They assumed he couldn’t hear them—but Allah had blessed him with extraordinarily sharp hearing. He heard everything but pretended not to. He saw much but ignored it, striving to live by the Prophet’s teaching:
> Part of the beauty of a person’s Islam is leaving what does not concern them.
Especially when the matter involved neither obligation nor prohibition.
Growing tired of their comments, he pulled out a chair and sat down, releasing a slow breath. His thoughts drifted far away. He didn’t want to speak—he believed every word had its proper place and time.
“I haven’t seen a horse race this thrilling in a long time,” Omari said, joining them.
Despite his effort to ignore the screen, the race was impossible to overlook. It was a spectacle unlike any seen in years—made extraordinary by the presence of Akhnan Muhammad Hammud, the Queen of Agadez.
“Innalillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un.”
“Subhanallah.”
Omari’s words snapped Haisam’s attention. For the first time since entering, he turned toward the television.
The vast racing field unfolded before him. Powerful horses galloped fiercely, riders urging them on, all chasing a single white horse nearing victory.
She wasn’t sitting—she stood upright, leaning forward like one in rukūʿ, gripping the reins tightly, burning with determination to escape the male riders behind her. The wind whipped her cloak aside, revealing the shape of her body beneath tight skinny jeans.
He instantly lowered his gaze.
“Astagfirullah… Astagfirullah.”
Anger surged within him. He shut down the printer abruptly, gathered his papers, and left the office sharply—drawing everyone’s attention. Moments later, Semere’s shout redirected them back to the screen.
He hadn’t gone far when their cheers followed him—celebrating her victory.
He exhaled deeply.
He saw no benefit or justification for a woman engaging in such a display. Riding horses wasn’t forbidden for women—but it came with boundaries. He dismissed the thought; greater responsibilities awaited him.
Picking up his phone, he noticed four missed calls from his mother.
“Subhanallah,” he murmured, calling her back.
---
Meanwhile — Agadez, Sultan Muhammad Hammud Palace
“Time is like a sword. If you don’t cut it, it will cut you. Time waits for no one, and neither should we. Excessive waiting is sometimes foolishness—recklessness—a waste of opportunity. In this era… this century… Tamim, I feel I’ve reached my limit. My patience is exhausted. My desire for these treasures—this dream—has surpassed what I can endure.”
She spoke while clasping her hands behind her back, pacing slowly, her eyes locked onto Tamim’s lowered gaze.
A faint smile stirred deep within him, though his face revealed nothing.
“There is still time. Rushing this could destroy everything.”
“Tamim!” Mammina called sharply.
“Look at me!”
He raised his large, reddened eyes to meet hers.
“Do you know how old I am? I’ve only given Sultan three years of my life—three years. How many days do I have left? If these treasures, this dream, this destiny don’t come to me now, when will they? Will they remain there forever? Do you truly trust Mooty?”
Tamim exhaled heavily and sat back, calmer now. Raising two fingers, he studied them thoughtfully.
---
Later…
“It is only this small distance—between my two fingers—that separates us from entering the land…”
“May Allah help you,” Tafisu’s voice interrupted gently.
Mammina turned sharply but remained composed. Tafisu stood respectfully, veiled, unmoving. She was Mammina’s most trusted confidant.
After a long breath, Mammina asked,
“What is it?”
“Maude has arrived with a message.”
Moments later, Mammina watched a video—her eyes fixed for ten minutes—until Akhnan’s name appeared on her horse as she raced fearlessly.
“What am I seeing?” Mammina whispered.
Maude bowed.
“Princess Akhnan… in the Niamey horse race.”
“Horse racing?” Mammina repeated, stunned.
“Yes… I brought this to you because I knew you wouldn’t like it. I didn’t want His Majesty to hear.”
Silence filled the room. Mammina weighed the news carefully.
Then slowly, a hidden smile escaped her lips—not joy, but revelation.
“Call Biftu. Bring her to me.”
---
On the Road Home
Only three women sat in the Lamborghini—Akhnan, Aisa, and Shehnaz—escorted by security vehicles. Joy filled Akhnan’s heart. Pride surged.
She had defeated eleven men—dominant champions of Niamey—leaving humiliation in their eyes.
“Hey… so this girl truly exists? It’s not just a story written on social media?”
He heard Salana, one of their officers, say with a voice full of excitement.
“They’ve even mentioned her name now… and it looks like the girl is bold and fearless. She still hasn’t appeared yet—only her horse has been introduced, and it has already stolen everyone’s attention at the arena,” Barrak added.
“With how beautiful that horse is, I’m sure she herself is stunning. Honestly, I can’t wait to see her,” Semere said.
Semere was one of those men with wandering eyes and an excessive love for women. That habit of his was the reason his younger sister and Suhaim never felt comfortable around him.
Suhaim, on the other hand, was wary of him because of the strong presence and authority he carried, even though Suhaim himself rarely bothered engaging with Semere.
“It looks like she’s coming now… there she is, coming out from the right side.”
The voice surprised him—it was Omari’s.
What was Omari doing among them? He knew Omari well; this wasn’t the kind of crowd he usually mingled with. But since horses were mentioned, it made sense—Omari had a deep connection to anything involving horses. And it wasn’t just Omari; the entire team shared that passion. Horse racing had become their favorite form of lawful entertainment, something they practiced regularly at the end of each week or month.
Each of them was skilled and experienced, yet in all the history of competitions, no one had ever beaten Haisam.
They often teased him, saying,
“You people were born into privilege… while we’ve been trained in royal traditions since infancy.”
He would simply smile with that quiet charisma of his. Anything that reminded him of his royal status or set him apart from others made him uncomfortable. He preferred to feel like everyone else, not constantly reminded that he was of noble birth.
“It’s her… wallahi, it’s really her!”
Just as Semere said this, unable to sit still, Suhaim turned the handle and entered the office, greeting everyone in his deep, husky voice that carried calm authority.
His eyes scanned the room, searching for Omari, silently questioning his presence there when work awaited them. Thankfully, he found Omari off to the side organizing a folder—clearly there on official business, just like himself.
He swallowed his words and whispered inwardly,
“Subhanallah.”
It reinforced his belief in Allah—how necessary it is to verify information before judging.
His entrance made everyone stand respectfully to greet him. By protocol, no one remained seated unless he permitted it.
Noticing their unease, he ignored it, returned their greetings, and moved toward the printers to begin working. Salana stepped closer.
“Sir… what do you need?”
“It’s confidential,” he replied calmly, motioning with his hand.
Salana understood and returned to his seat, discreetly lowering the TV volume.
In such environments, close relationships were never openly displayed for security reasons. That applied to him and Omari as well. They treated each other with formal respect, exchanging only greetings.
Standing still, he focused on his task, ensuring each printed page was correct. Meanwhile, everyone else was absorbed in the intense horse race being broadcast live from Niamey, Agadez, and streamed worldwide.
“Oh my God,” Semere exclaimed.
“Subhanallah!”
“My head is spinning!”
“She really is a queen… even in her riding, there is dignity and authority.”
These murmurs filled the room in hushed tones due to Haisam’s presence. They assumed he couldn’t hear them—but Allah had blessed him with extraordinarily sharp hearing. He heard everything but pretended not to. He saw much but ignored it, striving to live by the Prophet’s teaching:
> Part of the beauty of a person’s Islam is leaving what does not concern them.
Especially when the matter involved neither obligation nor prohibition.
Growing tired of their comments, he pulled out a chair and sat down, releasing a slow breath. His thoughts drifted far away. He didn’t want to speak—he believed every word had its proper place and time.
“I haven’t seen a horse race this thrilling in a long time,” Omari said, joining them.
Despite his effort to ignore the screen, the race was impossible to overlook. It was a spectacle unlike any seen in years—made extraordinary by the presence of Akhnan Muhammad Hammud, the Queen of Agadez.
“Innalillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un.”
“Subhanallah.”
Omari’s words snapped Haisam’s attention. For the first time since entering, he turned toward the television.
The vast racing field unfolded before him. Powerful horses galloped fiercely, riders urging them on, all chasing a single white horse nearing victory.
She wasn’t sitting—she stood upright, leaning forward like one in rukūʿ, gripping the reins tightly, burning with determination to escape the male riders behind her. The wind whipped her cloak aside, revealing the shape of her body beneath tight skinny jeans.
He instantly lowered his gaze.
“Astagfirullah… Astagfirullah.”
Anger surged within him. He shut down the printer abruptly, gathered his papers, and left the office sharply—drawing everyone’s attention. Moments later, Semere’s shout redirected them back to the screen.
He hadn’t gone far when their cheers followed him—celebrating her victory.
He exhaled deeply.
He saw no benefit or justification for a woman engaging in such a display. Riding horses wasn’t forbidden for women—but it came with boundaries. He dismissed the thought; greater responsibilities awaited him.
Picking up his phone, he noticed four missed calls from his mother.
“Subhanallah,” he murmured, calling her back.
---
Meanwhile — Agadez, Sultan Muhammad Hammud Palace
“Time is like a sword. If you don’t cut it, it will cut you. Time waits for no one, and neither should we. Excessive waiting is sometimes foolishness—recklessness—a waste of opportunity. In this era… this century… Tamim, I feel I’ve reached my limit. My patience is exhausted. My desire for these treasures—this dream—has surpassed what I can endure.”
She spoke while clasping her hands behind her back, pacing slowly, her eyes locked onto Tamim’s lowered gaze.
A faint smile stirred deep within him, though his face revealed nothing.
“There is still time. Rushing this could destroy everything.”
“Tamim!” Mammina called sharply.
“Look at me!”
He raised his large, reddened eyes to meet hers.
“Do you know how old I am? I’ve only given Sultan three years of my life—three years. How many days do I have left? If these treasures, this dream, this destiny don’t come to me now, when will they? Will they remain there forever? Do you truly trust Mooty?”
Tamim exhaled heavily and sat back, calmer now. Raising two fingers, he studied them thoughtfully.
---
Later…
“It is only this small distance—between my two fingers—that separates us from entering the land…”
“May Allah help you,” Tafisu’s voice interrupted gently.
Mammina turned sharply but remained composed. Tafisu stood respectfully, veiled, unmoving. She was Mammina’s most trusted confidant.
After a long breath, Mammina asked,
“What is it?”
“Maude has arrived with a message.”
Moments later, Mammina watched a video—her eyes fixed for ten minutes—until Akhnan’s name appeared on her horse as she raced fearlessly.
“What am I seeing?” Mammina whispered.
Maude bowed.
“Princess Akhnan… in the Niamey horse race.”
“Horse racing?” Mammina repeated, stunned.
“Yes… I brought this to you because I knew you wouldn’t like it. I didn’t want His Majesty to hear.”
Silence filled the room. Mammina weighed the news carefully.
Then slowly, a hidden smile escaped her lips—not joy, but revelation.
“Call Biftu. Bring her to me.”
---
On the Road Home
Only three women sat in the Lamborghini—Akhnan, Aisa, and Shehnaz—escorted by security vehicles. Joy filled Akhnan’s heart. Pride surged.
She had defeated eleven men—dominant champions of Niamey—leaving humiliation in their eyes.
Awards, praise, microphones—she ignored them all.
She didn’t compete for trophies or validation.
She rode for herself.
As she relaxed, the phone rang.
“Bonjour, Mammina,” she said softly.
And then came the question:
“What have you done, Akhnan?”