Kwarata Littafi Na Daya Complete Hausa Novels

A Daughter’s Love and a Life of Hardship

“Baba, please give us ten naira so we can add to it and buy seasoning cubes.”

Without even looking at her, he asked, “What do you need seasoning for?”

Stammering, she replied, “It’s for the frog meat we’re cooking.”

He brought out five naira from his pocket and handed it to her. “Take this. When you complete the money for the seasoning, buy me cigarettes too.”

Her mother, who was pounding grain nearby, said, “Haba, Mai gida, if she had enough money would she ask you?”

Without looking at her either, he replied, “That’s your problem, you and her. Hurry and bring my cigarettes; I’m waiting,” he said, dismissing his wife’s complaint.

Her mother called her, “Fa’iza, where will you get the money?”

Before Fa’iza could answer, he interrupted, “Won’t her boyfriends give her? You think she doesn’t have money? All these girls you see have more money than you. Bring me a cold drink too before the person bringing my food arrives.”

As Fa’iza stepped out, she met Farida at the doorway. Their house had no proper entrance hall; even passersby could see inside. There was no solid fence—just broken blocks stacked together and a sackcloth curtain covering the doorway.

Seeing Farida, Fa’iza pleaded, “Please, lend me some money so I can buy Baba cigarettes and a soft drink. I’ll repay you when I make some awara (bean cake). I’ve spent all my money at the market, and the little change left I contributed to adashe (local savings). Rent time is near.”

Farida smiled faintly and said, “If you saw him earlier looking miserable like a corpse, you’d know he doesn’t even have a kobo today. I’m not entering that house,” and she left, ignoring his calls.

Later, I came out holding my kitten, dressed in my Islamiyya uniform, fully covered in my niqab. My clothes carried the scent of the cheap perfume I bought for fifty naira from the local sellers.

Baba quickly sat up. “Mamana, good afternoon.”

“Yawwa, Babana,” I smiled. “Hope you’re resting well?”

“Going to seek knowledge?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered briefly.

He stood up. “Let me escort you.” That was his habit—whenever he was home, he would escort me wherever I went.

At the gate we met Fa’iza. He collected the cigarette and told her to keep the drink until he returned. As we walked, I asked, “Baba, have you gotten the money to buy me a bicycle?”

He took my kitten from me and replied, “I will buy you a sewing machine, my good daughter.”

I smiled happily. “May Allah grant you success, Baba.”

“Ameen,” he responded, praying for me as we reached the Islamiyya school.

I loved my father deeply. If he promised me something, even if it meant his last breath, he would fulfill it. He loved me more than anyone else, perhaps because I bore his mother’s name.

Yet our poverty was obvious. The house was falling apart. Rain leaked through the roof. Sometimes I worried the walls would collapse on us. Baba had four wives but still chased women outside. I pitied the unborn child my stepmother was carrying—coming into a life already full of hardship.

That night I prayed openly, “Ya Allah, protect us from death by collapsing walls. Let me wake up alive and happy. Guide my father to leave what he is doing.”

My mother answered “Ameen.”

The Morning of Humiliation

The next morning, after heavy rain had fallen all night, the ground was soaked. Baba dressed in white shadda, sprayed perfume generously, and escorted me to school again.

As we approached the main road, a car sped recklessly toward us—arrogant driving, careless driving. He never slowed down for anyone; people had to jump aside for him.

I shouted, “Baba, come this way!” But before he could move, the car splashed muddy water all over his white clothes, turning them brown.

Anger burned inside me. I vowed that even if it killed me, I would insult the driver for disgracing my father.

I ran after the car, hurling insults. Baba ran after me shouting, “Mamana, come back!” The driver stopped at the gate of his house, where he kept horses, and came out holding a horsewhip.

People gathered because of my shouting. Baba grabbed me tightly and covered my mouth, knowing I had no restraint. His friends restrained the man, calling him Dikko and pleading with him not to beat me.

Baba kept apologizing, “Please forgive her, she doesn’t know who you are.”

That hurt me deeply—seeing my father apologize to a man young enough to be his son. I pushed Baba’s hand away and said, “I know who you are, and I insulted you.”

Before I could finish, Baba slapped me.

In all my life, Baba had never spoken harshly to me, let alone hit me. But because of that foolish man, he slapped me.

With the help of his friends, Dikko calmed down and went back inside. Baba dragged me away, apologizing for slapping me. He said he did it to protect me from Dikko’s revenge. He put me on a tricycle (keke) to school and returned home.

But in my heart, I made a vow: Dikko would pay for that slap.

At school, I wanted to tell my only friend, Amisty, but I couldn’t even remember Dikko’s name at first—I easily forget names, even of some relatives. Amisty was the only close friend I had. She was smart and helped me cheat during exams. People avoided her, accusing her of being immoral, but I didn’t care—as long as she shared her tea and bread with me and helped me during tests.

Meanwhile at home, despite the cold weather from the rain, Baba returned sweating heavily, restless and angry. When he was upset, no one dared approach him except Sultana, the wife he loved most.

And so the day continued—heavy with anger, poverty, love, and silent vows of revenge.