A Duniyata Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

The Son's Plea and the Mother's Coldness
"Maaaaam... please, Mama, Abbee is very sick, you know that, Mama... if you leave, who will take care of us? If you leave, Mama, who will take care of Abbee?" The voice of the boy, who could not be more than thirteen years old, came out weak and intensely fragile. Even without being told, even if you did not look at his face soaked with tears, even if you did not look at his trembling hands supporting the wasted man sitting between his thighs, you would understand he was in a state of extreme shock, dread, and utter terror.
His eyes were fixed on her, hoping to hear the crucial words, "I've decided not to go," from her lips, despite the complete absence of even the slightest sign that she might change her mind. Instead, she adjusted the fold of the veil (mayafi) on her head, bent down, and stuffed the rest of her belongings, which didn't fit, into the black bag in front of her.
"Please, Mariya... not for my sake... but for the sake of these children, be patient... stay and embrace them. My time is short, I am sure only a few days remain for me. They are the ones who need care..." The man, whose entire body bore the marks of illness, poverty, and the pressures of life, spoke with difficulty, his breath coming in ragged gasps as if his last breath might escape from his chest to his lungs.
The boy lifted his gaze from the man's face, who was his FATHER, and turned it toward her. His heart was melting with a profound pity for all of them, except her! His heartbeat intensified with extreme panic and a distinct pity, as if it would burst and tear his heart. He had waited a long time to hear words from his father's mouth, which had not spoken a single sound for almost ten days. He had spent many nights listening intently for any sound from him. And now, his mouth had finally opened, but it was because of the extreme disaster and terror she was about to plunge their lives into. It hadn't opened to speak kind words, which he never lacked when addressing them.
His eyes were full of hope that her heart would yield to his father's words... even for the word 'death' he mentioned concerning himself, which was one of the reasons he regretted speaking, wishing he had remained silent despite the overwhelming desire and hope in his heart to hear him speak. As he was lost in this current of assumption and hope in his heart, he heard his father's dry, toneless voice again, gathering all his strength to say, "Mariya... if you leave, who will take care of them?"
Angrily, she whirled around and shot him a furious glare, slinging her bag onto her shoulder. "Did I come with them? I found them here, and I'll leave them here. There are millions of people whose mothers died the day they were born, and they are alive and well, let alone those who are thirteen and eight years old." With that, she began to walk, taking steps of farewell from the room, confirming that she was serious! She wouldn't yield! And it seemed nothing would make her yield!
A Stand Against Abandonment
He didn't know what to think, for his brain was too small at that moment to process all these things, let alone distinguish between what was right and what was not. He found himself at her feet, clinging to them, sobbing with all the strength his age allowed.
She looked at him as if she would snatch her foot away, but then she used her hand to lift him and sat him back down, saying, "This is your obligation. Here you will stay, whether comfortable or not, whether there is hardship or not. If I say I will continue to stay, all of us—you and I—will suffer a great deal: I'll be bedridden, you'll be bedridden, and your father, too. It's better if I move forward a little. Maybe fortune lies ahead."
The words stopped his heart like a piercing spear. His eyes could see his father closing his eyes. He averted his gaze and turned it to the younger boy who had attempted to follow her after she left the room.
He let out a terrifying roar that belied his age. "Come back and sit down!... We will live... we will live with our father!... We will live whether in hardship or ease!... We will live with happiness or without it!... We are now dependent on each other!... We have no one but ourselves and our father!" He finished, gasping, his chest heaving up and down.
She stopped abruptly and turned around, their eyes locking. She didn't know if he had aged one or two years... nor did she know if he had lost his mind... She knew his character, which was imbued with the character of a man who had spent a very long time, or even a century, on the face of the earth—a character that sometimes threw her into a world of wonder. But never, not even in a flicker of an idea, had she thought such intensely painful words would come from his tongue. Words that were well-arranged! And they delivered a message as if he had been storing them for a long time... as if they had been written for him, and he had spent a long time practicing how to utter them.
The way she turned her gaze from him was the same way he turned his away. He then directed all his effort into trying to help his father lie down more comfortably. His father's body had become heavier and more relaxed, yet breath was still coming through his nostrils, which kept his mind from giving up entirely.
He had no further HOPE in her... but his attention could not move away from her; he counted the sound of her shoes as she walked out of their house. A departure that has yet to leave his mind. A departure that still causes him intense pain... a departure he connected with the cause and KEY to every kind of hardship and difficulty in life.
Promotional Interlude and New Hardship
THEY RETURN WITH NEW STORIES FOR YOU
AFTER THE GAME THAT WAS PLAYED, HERE IS A NEW ONE
A LONG JOURNEY OF ENTERTAINMENT
FOUNDATION WITH FIERY DEBATE
CONFUSING AND ENTERTAINING STORIES IN THE HEARTS OF READERS
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Page 02
His eyes, which had shrunk and sunken in from the intensity of crying, panic, and shock, opened. He cast his eyes to his left side and fixed his gaze on the softened mat (lamusashiyar shimfidar) that was spread out. The mat whose owner had died three days ago, the mat that three days prior had the owner lying on it with them. Jadda (Grandmother) to them, and mother to their father, who had become their wall, pillar, and support after their father's passing.
Even now, he could not bring himself to touch and fold the mat, and no one else cared to take it away. Why would anyone care about them, let alone what was inside the house? They were nobodies, they had nothing to offer the community for the funeral gathering. They had no support, no stable person to stand by them and share the grief of losing their grandmother, with whom they had lived for three years in hardship and a fierce struggle that was like a race between severity and relief within the severity.
The tears that would not stop welling up in his eyes returned. Even now, he felt it was a game; even now, he felt JADDA would return. Her passing brought back the pain of his father's death; it felt as if he had died today, as if he had bid the world farewell today, as if MAMA had walked out and left them today—a departure that became a factor in fueling Abbee's illness... a departure that seemed to have taken his soul and life with it. He put one hand and clutched his neck tightly as if he was about to strangle himself. Some thick, rope-like veins popped out on his head and forehead, tracing lines all over. The color of his eyes intensified to a deep red, and a cutting, hot wave of tears returned to him, as a surge of extreme hatred for his mother's blood flowed through every part and corner of his body and heart.
"Hamma... Ham..." The younger boy who burst into the room paused the repeated call he was making. In that state, he turned to look at him, and the boy stepped back a little because he was genuinely scared by how his brother's face had changed. It was a state that made him extremely afraid of his older brother; whenever he saw him like this, he felt like he wasn't his brother anymore.
He noticed this, which made him remove his hand from his neck, gather a thick, heavy wad of spit, and swallow it with difficulty, like someone swallowing stones. He distanced his heart far away, adjusted his tone, and threw a question at him.
"What is it?" His voice and body trembling slightly, the boy began to speak. "It's Abba... Farouq's Abba said you should come, he's in the soro (outer room/porch)." His eyes dropped as a portion of mercy and relief settled in his heart. The only person in the world whose sight or call signaled to him the arrival of goodness, ease, relief, or a discount from whatever situation they were in.
He walked, but he felt as though he wasn't walking on his feet. He walked as if he were between the sky and the earth, because of distress, hunger, and even thirst. Not once since the passing could he bring a morsel of food to his mouth, even from the occasional food the neighbors sent them. He was leaning on the wall, his eyes darting toward the open space of their yard, which had become like a race track... it had grown and become barren again, which signaled to him that they had truly lost another pillar and another support.