Ba A Boran Namiji Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

The Day of Confrontation
 
“Kyauta, where are you? Come here! Wallahi, today in front of everyone this matter will end — I’m tired of your behavior!”
My heart pounded. What’s been planned for me today, Ummu Kulsum? I stepped out nervously.
 
The women of the house had gathered like roosters in a fight. His voice was sharp:
“Who’s responsible for the food store?”
Quietly, I said, “I am… but what hap—”
 
He cut me off, raising his hand angrily.
“Enough! How is it possible that there’s no groundnut oil and no noodles in this house?”
 
My heart sank. Ten days ago, we opened a 25-liter jar of oil, and just three days ago, two big cartons of noodles were brought in. I cooked from them only once. How could they be gone? Life is hard; I understood his anger.
 
I answered softly, “May Allah cool your heart, Yaya. I swear I don’t know anything about this. When the household grows, needs increase. We’ll fix it, Insha Allah.”
 
He scoffed.
“So you want me to watch silently until poverty swallows me? Are you trying to cause me harm?”
 
His words pierced me. My voice trembled.
“Yaya, with your own mouth you accuse me of trying to hurt you in your own home?”
 
Instead of softening, he flared up more.
“Yes! Because spite is making you steal food from me!”
 
Tears burned my eyes. I couldn’t speak. Where would I even take the food?
 
He ordered, “Bring me the storeroom key. I’ve tried to respect you, but it’s over. From now on, when it’s your turn to cook, you’ll get ingredients from Nadiya.”
 
Before I could speak, Nafisa jumped in:
“If you give her the key, the cooking should be divided — I don’t trust her at all.”
 
Aliya, the youngest wife, added, “Neither do I.”
 
Their unity against me was clear. If one of them became in charge, they’d fight among themselves, but for now, I was the common enemy.
 
The Hidden Resentment
 
Despite being childless, without even a chicken to my name, I apparently troubled them enough to live rent-free in their minds. Their schemes weren’t out of concern for the household — they simply didn’t like that I had some standing with him.
 
Nafisa treated me decently sometimes, but only because I cared for her children — especially her eldest daughter, Hajjaju. I’d buy her clothes and jewelry despite her not respecting me. Still, Nafisa was a troublemaker; half the household’s quarrels started with her.
 
Yaya’s voice broke my thoughts:
“Nafisa, do what you want, but I’ll give her the key. If you don’t like it, you can leave.”
 
She burst into tears.
“So because Kulsum didn’t meet your expectations, you’re now punishing me? You favor her because her father is your master!”
 
He roared back, “Mind your tongue! Yes, her father is my master — just like I’m the master of your brothers.”
 
Nadiya snapped at Nafisa, warning her not to disgrace them in front of onlookers. He silenced them all with a threat of harsher punishment.
 
The Household Politics
 
When he turned to Aliya and challenged her lack of trust, she fell silent. He stormed off, leaving the room tense.
 
I wasn’t hurt by losing the key; in fact, I welcomed the relief. My mind, however, churned at the malice in the women’s hearts. How could wives plot to strip another of even basic access to food, just to see her fall?
 
Nafisa was his first wife. She had four children — two boys and two girls. After she stopped bearing sons, he married Nadiya, the daughter of his master. Nadiya quickly gave him four boys, earning herself immunity from public disrespect.
 
Aliya came last, with two young children.
 
Retreat to My Room
 
I left the scene, walking like a hen shielding her chick. Once in my room, I collapsed on a chair, numb. What does anyone gain from stealing food? From pitting a husband against his wives?
 
I used to think only older women plotted like this, but clearly, the young knew the game well. Life in this house was a daily tightening of the rope around my neck — from him, from his wives, even from his children.
 
The truth? Leaving would be best. But whenever I did, he would send people to beg me back, not out of love, but because my absence unsettled him.
 
Life Beyond Children
 
Many thought my patience was thin because I hadn’t conceived. But my room, well-kept and full of comforts, spoke otherwise. I knew my worth — though he was quick to trade dignity for children.
 
The worst insults came from Hajjaju. If I so much as scolded her, it became a war. But Walida, her sister, often snuck to visit me, drawn by my generosity.
 
I ran a small trade in perfumes, sweets, and milk treats. The children — mine, the neighbors’, and the household’s — often visited for snacks. I had so many little ones around me daily that I barely noticed my own barrenness.
 
When sadness crept in, I thought of Nana Aisha, beloved wife of the Prophet ï·º, who had no children but lived a full and impactful life. A child is not the only path to legacy.
 
Faith as Consolation
 
My father’s advice rang in my heart: If you care for orphans, help the needy, and treat people fairly, Allah will send those who treat you like family in your old age — even if they are not your own children.
 
So I embraced the children around me, taught them Qur’an in my small home school every Thursday and Friday, and attended weekend classes myself to deepen my knowledge.
 
Still, my work in the home angered some. My little Qur’an school, meant to spread light, became a source of gossip. Even my husband, at times, viewed it with suspicion.
 
But I stood firm. I had no one but Allah — yet somehow, that had always been enough.