Baroroji Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

The Birth and the Curse
 
Zainabu groaned deeply, biting her lip as another wave of labor tore through her. She turned her head in anguish and frustration, a lump tightening in her throat. For over fifteen months she had carried this burden in her heart, and only now did the release finally come.
 
“Be patient, Abuh. With prayers and Allah’s mercy, you will deliver safely,” a man encouraged softly.
 
She raised her head to look at him, her eyes burning with hatred and pain, before lowering it again against the wooden bedpost. With one final, powerful cry, the baby slipped from her, sneezing loudly before bursting into harsh cries. In that moment, the Creator delivered both mother and child safely.
 
Zainabu smiled faintly as a great weight lifted from her chest. She wrapped herself in a scarf and cloth, then tied the large wrapper he had bought for her, securing herself firmly. Before him, she spoke bitterly:
 
“In every life there is gain and loss, victory and defeat. Just as you oppressed me, may Allah multiply your punishment. Just as you made me weep, may Allah make you weep. Just as you denied me joy, may Allah deny you happiness. May He cast you into the fire of Hell, beneath Pharaoh and Haman. May He bring you calamity upon calamity.”
 
Turning to her newborn, she gazed at the tiny face before looking back at the man standing nearby. Smiling through her tears, she said:
 
“I will not wish you the life of that criminal. My son, I want you to live in peace. The man who fathered you is evil—faithless, filthy, shameless, and corrupt. He has branded you with the stain of his sin, yet you must hate him for what he has done to your fate.”
 
A Plea Rejected
 
Stepping closer to him, she whispered, “Sama’ila, here we are—you, me, the world, and Allah, the Judge of truth.” She turned to leave.
 
In desperation, Sama’ila grabbed her hand, dropped to his knees, and pleaded, “For Allah’s sake, cover my shame. Take your child. He is yours more than mine. I am ready to stand before your family and admit my fault. Do not abandon us now, at this moment when we need you most.”
 
Zainabu froze, then broke into sobs, releasing grief she had held for so long. Shaking her head, she cried, “May Allah’s peace, mercy, and compassion never reach you—from this world to the hereafter.”
 
With that curse, she left the room, tears streaming as she wandered away in the middle of the night. She walked far, through sand and silence, until dawn broke. Weary, bleeding, she collapsed under a tree and fell asleep.
 
Meanwhile, Sama’ila sat staring at the crying infant, whose wails filled the hut. For a moment, he considered strangling the child, to silence both the cries and his shame. But he stopped. Instead, he studied the baby closely: golden-brown eyes, a small dark dot at the center, thick silky hair, joined brows, fine features—every detail a mirror of his father.
 
Regret overwhelmed him. Why had he destroyed Zainabu’s happiness? Why had he yielded to selfish desire instead of patience? He thought of her wandering family, nomadic Bororos who would never return. Now the boy was left only with him, cursed with a broken fate.
 
As dawn prayers echoed, the child’s cries pierced him. He almost lifted the baby to kill him, but the sound of neighbors stirred him back. Shame gave way to pity, and he wrapped the child quietly, stepping outside after Fajr.
 
The Weight of Shame
 
After ablution, he returned, unable to quiet the infant. Neighbors began whispering, suspecting that the baby’s mother had run away. At last, a woman confronted him:
 
“Sama’ila, what is this I hear—that Abuh fled and left you with a child?”
 
He bowed his head and silently handed her the baby. She broke down in tears. “What kind of fate is this? Why did you do such a thing? You have ruined trust, shamed a servant of Allah. Innalillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un!”
 
Taking the baby, she sobbed bitterly, carrying him out. Each hut she passed echoed with scorn—“Tir!”—until she reached her own home. Her husband, Sanda, emerged and asked gently, “What happened?”
 
She replied through tears, “Sama’ila’s selfishness has destroyed us. What shall we do with such a man?”
 
Sanda frowned but said quietly, “Take the baby inside. The people are gathering already.” He then went to confront Sama’ila.
 
Inside his hut, Sama’ila sat with his head buried in his hands. When Sanda demanded answers, he said hollowly, “She left. Everything is ruined. I welcomed it, for it is the fruit of my sin. But how will I face the world when they ask me questions I cannot answer? How long will men like me continue to oppress women, causing endless tears?
 
How many daughters will we drive to flee their people? How many secrets will we bury in shame? Tir, tir, tir to my soul! I destroyed her happiness and mine too. This is the punishment for my greed.”
 
Sama’ila wept bitterly, while Sanda watched with pity. Then Sama’ila added, “Go. Take care of the child for me.”
 
A Village in Judgment
 
The woman washed and cared for the infant, cut his cord, and wrapped him in clean cloth. Yet she marveled at how dark his tiny lips looked, as if stained with sorrow before tasting life. She cauterized his navel with hot metal while he wailed, then fed him goat’s milk.
 
Meanwhile, Zainabu awoke in a strange room, an IV drip in her arm. A tall man in a white coat entered, smiling. “How are you feeling?”
 
“Better,” she answered coldly.
 
He examined her, reminding her she had nearly bled to death. “Why do you keep harming yourself like this? Why run?”
 
She retorted bitterly, “Why not? Everyone abandoned me. Even you—didn’t you chase me away because I came here selling milk?”
 
“Zainabu!” he said softly. “Nothing has changed. What happened to you was cruel, but not every parent would understand such a destiny.”
 
“If this is truly destiny, then return to me the family who fled because of it. Only then will I believe you.”
 
Shaking his head, he replied, “You don’t understand destiny. But in three days, if you are stronger, we will fetch your child—if he still lives.”
 
Through clenched teeth, she cried, “He lives, but I will not take him. Let him grow under the shadow of his father’s sin.”
 
The doctor stormed out, leaving her weeping into the silence. She knew she was in Maradi now, far from home.
 
Days passed. In the village, Sama’ila was shunned. No one greeted him at prayers; whispers followed him everywhere. Five days after the birth, Zainabu’s sister came to check on him, carrying the baby who wailed with hunger. She entered his hut but found it empty. Only a scrap of goat skin with words scrawled in Ajami script remained—a final message from Sama’ila.