Beelal Buk Part 2 Complete Hausa Novel

Arrival in Lagos
 
From the moment they arrived at the Lagos motor park, Idrisu kept dragging Beelal along harshly, blaming him for being too slow and paying no attention to the boy’s condition or the disability he lived with. He simply pulled his hand forcefully as they pushed through the crowd at the park. No one paid them any attention; everyone was busy with their own affairs. Tears were all that covered Beelal’s face, mixed with the severe hunger gnawing at him.
 
When they finally got a motorcycle, Beelal climbed on first, then Idrisu mounted behind him. That was how they made their way to the neighborhood where Idrisu lived. They were dropped in front of a shop nearby, and Idrisu paid the rider.
 
“Hey, crippled cat, now you see where I sleep. I’m not staying there for free—I pay for it. Everything you see in Lagos costs money, not like back home where we came from. Over there, someone can even give out a shop or a house for free just so people can stay as charity,” Idrisu said, casting a harsh look at Beelal.
 
“Toh Baba, I will—”
 
“Don’t ever call me that again, even as a joke. I stopped being your father a long time ago, the day I left your mother, Fatima. We’ll live here as people helping each other. If you help yourself and find money properly, you’ll eat. If you don’t, then you’ll sleep hungry.”
 
Tears flowed freely from Beelal’s eyes as he realized the harsh life awaiting him in Lagos. He had been torn away from his loving mother, who would rather starve than let him go hungry. Now he was with someone who despised him and hated even being called his father because of the disability Allah created him with.
 
“Are you going to beg or not? Some people say suffering doesn’t always bring gain, but I disagree. If someone truly struggles, he must get something. Stop those hypocritical tears—I’m helping you so people won’t accuse me of stealing you. After all, if not begging, what else suits someone like you, with your condition and disability?” Idrisu said angrily.
 
Beelal wiped his tears, though they didn’t stop. He bowed his head in deep pain, hating to be called disabled. Though he lived with a disability, being mocked for it hurt him deeply. People forgot that Allah alone creates humans as He wills.
 
“Move, let’s go. You heard me. If you refuse, then that’s your problem. I don’t even care if you end up breaking your bones,” Idrisu said as he walked ahead toward the shop.
 
With a heavy heart, Beelal followed him, his thoughts filled with memories of his mother’s love and care—things a child never forgets. May Allah grant us the ability to raise our children well, as He has entrusted us with that responsibility. When they arrived, Idrisu pushed the shop door open forcefully.
 
Inside the Shop
 
“Which useless fool pushed my door without permission?” a voice cursed from inside the shop.
 
“It’s me! Don’t provoke me or we’ll go upstairs and come crashing down,” Idrisu replied, drawing back the curtain and entering without greeting.
 
“Oh, so it’s you,” said Imran, lying on a mattress and smoking.
 
“Don’t try acting tough with me,” Idrisu replied, taking the cigarette from Imran, puffing twice before sitting beside him.
 
“I thought it was someone else trying to disrespect me.”
 
“So, what’s going on?”
 
“Wallahi, things are bad. No way to get money now. I even returned the motorcycle I was using because I roam all day without getting passengers—they say I look drunk,” Imran said.
 
“They’re right.”
 
“So you agree?”
 
“How do you expect to get passengers when you’re always drunk and reeking of alcohol?”
 
“Shut up! We’re both the same—your body smells too,” Imran retorted, hitting Idrisu playfully on the back.
 
“Enough talk. I’ve come with an easy way to make money,” Idrisu said. “Not that money isn’t coming in—it’s just wasted on drugs and useless women. But now I’ve found a business we can open.”
 
“Stop right there! My madness hasn’t reached that level,” Imran cut him off angrily.
 
Idrisu laughed loudly and pointed at him. “I don’t like nonsense. The business I’m talking about is legal—and profitable.”
 
He then shouted for Beelal, who had been standing quietly outside, listening.
 
“Crippled cat! Crippled cat!”
 
“Yes,” Beelal replied softly, wiping his tears as he dragged his weak leg toward the shop.
 
“Is this the business you’re talking about?” Imran asked mockingly.
 
“Assalamu alaikum,” Beelal greeted from the doorway, waiting respectfully for permission to enter, just as his mother had taught him.
 
“Why don’t you come in?” Idrisu barked rudely.
 
Fear filled Beelal’s heart as he slowly stepped inside, terrified of both men.
 
“Allah punish you, Idrisu. Why bring an almajiri here when we ourselves need food?” Imran said angrily.
 
“Shut up! I brought him all the way from the North. This is the business I told you about,” Idrisu replied.
 
A Cruel Plan
 
“Are you serious? Is this a business, or have you lost your mind?” Imran asked.
 
“Your head is empty. This boy is the son of the woman who claims she’s my wife. She gave birth to him like this, so I handed him over to her. I don’t even take responsibility for either of them. I brought him here secretly because he’ll be very useful to us,” Idrisu explained.
 
“Useful how?” Imran scoffed.
 
“I brought him to beg for us—to get food, money, and everything we need,” Idrisu said with a satisfied smile.
 
Imran burst into laughter. “Wallahi, you’ve done something big for us. Someone like this will get charity anywhere. Haven’t you seen able-bodied old women who pretend and make money through begging? They return north with huge amounts—sometimes more than those who came to Lagos genuinely looking for work.”
 
He looked at Beelal again with contempt, already seeing him as nothing more than a tool for surviv