Kauna Da So Book 1 Complete Hausa Novel

They were not Muslims because of the attachments they wore—some had cross necklaces on. All of them were standing in a circle, clapping loudly, while two girls without hijabs, dressed in shorts and half-vests, were dancing energetically and hyping the one dancing on a 360-degree rotating stage that everyone climbed onto one after another to dance.

The girls were shouting:

“Go Ziora, Go Girl! Go Ziora! Ehhh give ’em!”

A tall girl was on the 360 stage. She was wearing a black cap, and you couldn’t see her face at all, but her long hair extensions fell down to her waist. She wore a black Alo gym designer top shaped like a singlet—the type of exercise top that holds the breasts firmly while they move as she dances. Her breasts were full but not excessively large—moderate in size, visible through the tight sports top.

Her trousers were also tight black Alo gym pants, long and very beautiful, fitting perfectly around her waist. On her feet she wore Nike sneakers with white Nike socks.

Even though you couldn’t see her face clearly, you could still see her skin—it was yellowish, the natural complexion common among many Igbo girls. Her skin was very fair and beautiful, without a single spot.

Music was playing loudly. Subhanallah! The way she danced—neither Yemi Alade nor even Shakira, the international artist, could easily compete with her. She was extremely flexible and could bend and move her body skillfully. Her friends kept hyping her, shouting loudly as if they were fueling her energy, because she was one of the best dancers among the members of the dancing class.

Suddenly the door opened and a woman entered. She was also very fair, wearing an adire bubu gown. She had no head covering—no cap and no scarf—but she had a short, beautiful attachment hairstyle that stopped at her shoulders. Her fingernails were painted with beautiful red nail polish.

She placed both hands over her ears because the sound of the music was too loud for her. Even though she was angry, her striking beauty was still obvious—she had a long nose and an elegant appearance.

She looked around carefully, scanning every girl in the room. Even if she were among a thousand people, she believed she could recognize her daughter without even seeing her face.

Her eyes landed on the girl dancing, and her anger immediately intensified. She even forgot about the noise and removed her hands from her ears.

Without hesitation she walked straight in, pushing through the crowd of girls. Her eyes fell on the two girls who were clapping and shouting “Go Ziora!” She gave them a fierce look that immediately silenced them. Each of them lowered their heads.

She went straight to the rotating stage. The dancing girl had her back turned to everyone. Without warning—bam!—the woman slapped the girl hard on the backside.

At that exact moment the music stopped.

Startled, the girl turned around as the rotating stage also stopped. Immediately the woman grabbed the girl’s cap and knocked it off her head. It fell to the floor.

Angrily she shouted:

“Is this the school I sent you to? Look at me properly, Ziora!”

The girl’s face was finally revealed. She was incredibly beautiful, with thick dark hair like that of a white woman.

But she couldn’t look up at her mother. She lowered her head because she had never felt such shame before.

She was extremely beautiful. She had the same long nose as her mother, a small mouth with soft pink lips like a baby’s, round eyes with long eyelashes, and well-shaped eyebrows with a broad forehead that defined her face beautifully. Anyone who looked at her would want to look again.

She frowned deeply while rubbing the place where her mother had slapped her because it hurt badly—she was very sensitive to pain.

Her mother stared at her angrily as if she might beat her again. Out of frustration she said:

“Is this the school I sent you to, Ziora? When was the last time you even went to school and attended lectures? So all this time you’ve been here?”

Ziora remained silent. Her silence made her mother even angrier.

The woman turned to the other girls who were standing quietly watching the scene. Ziora still refused to lift her head.

Pointing at them she said:

“My daughter is a responsible child that comes from a well-reputed family.”

Some of the girls scratched their heads awkwardly, as if thinking, maybe this woman doesn’t really know her daughter.

Just as she was about to continue speaking, Ziora—almost in tears—said:

“Mommy, you’re embarrassing meeeee.”

Ya Allah! The girl’s voice was incredibly soft and youthful—sharp yet warm and sweet. Overall she had a very feminine, girlish voice.

Still angry, her mother replied:

“Oh, now you know how to speak?”

Then she looked at the girls and said:

“I will not sit idle and allow you people to spoil my daughter and destroy the home training I gave her. My daughter will go to school—she will not become a dancer like you people—”

Ziora quickly grabbed her mother’s hand before she could finish. In a very sweet, slightly pleading English tone, lowering her voice out of embarrassment in front of everyone, she said:

“Mommyyyy… let’s just goooo.”

But her mother ignored her and pointed at the girls again.

“If I ever see my daughter here again, I will shut this place down.”