Beelal Part 2 Complete Hausa Novel

Arrival in Lagos
 
Since they arrived in Lagos, Idrisu never stopped tormenting Beelal. He dragged the boy’s weak body through the crowded motor park, ignoring the disability that slowed his steps. Beelal, silent except for tears streaming down his face, carried the added weight of hunger gnawing his stomach.
 
When they finally boarded a motorcycle, Idrisu let Beelal climb first, then joined behind. They arrived in his neighborhood and Idrisu paid the rider.
 
“Look here, crippled cat,” Idrisu sneered. “This is Lagos. Nothing here is free. Even where I sleep, I pay. Unlike the village, no one here gives a shop or house for free.”
 
Beelal tried, “But Baba—”
 
“Don’t you dare call me that!” Idrisu cut him short. “From today, we are nothing but companions. If you find money, you eat. If not, sleep with hunger.”
 
Tears flowed harder. In his mother’s care, no matter her hunger, she never let him starve. But here he was — left to a man who despised him.
 
Idrisu continued his cruel lecture:
 
“They say effort doesn’t always bring gain. I say they lie. Whoever tries will get something. You — stop crying! Do you want people thinking I stole you? With your crippled body, begging is the only thing fit for you.”
 
Beelal lowered his head. He hated that word cripple. It crushed his spirit each time, as though he chose his own form. Didn’t they know it was Allah who created all in His will?
 
“Now move,” Idrisu barked. “If you refuse, it’s your body that will pay.”
 
Entering the Shop
 
They reached a small shop. Idrisu banged the door open.
 
“Who barges in like that?” a rough voice shouted from inside.
 
“Shut up, it’s me!” Idrisu replied, storming in.
 
Inside, a man named Imran lay sprawled on a mattress, puffing a cigarette.
 
“Aa, Idrisu, it’s you,” Imran grinned.
 
The two exchanged smoke and curses before sitting together.
 
Imran complained, “Life is hard. I returned my motorcycle; no one will ride with me, saying I’m drunk.”
 
Idrisu laughed. “And are they wrong? Who trusts a drunk rider? You stink of alcohol.”
 
Imran punched his shoulder, laughing back.
 
Then Idrisu leaned closer. “But I have business. A way for money to flow.”
 
Imran’s eyes narrowed. “If it’s drugs, count me out.”
 
“Calm down. Not drugs. Something better.”
 
“What?”
 
Idrisu stood, calling loudly: “Crippled cat! Come here!”
 
The Commodity
 
Beelal, still outside, wiped his tears and limped in fearfully.
 
Imran glared. “What is this, Idrisu? You brought us a beggar boy?”
 
“Yes,” Idrisu grinned wickedly. “This is the merchandise. Straight from the North. My so-called wife bore him. I took him away without her knowing. He’ll fetch us money.”
 
Imran’s jaw dropped. “You’re mad. What can this bent child do?”
 
“You fool,” Idrisu snapped. “Don’t you see? With his deformity, begging will bring plenty. Even healthy old women make fortunes begging. Imagine this boy!”
 
Imran stared again, hatred burning in his eyes. The child looked fragile, innocent — yet in their hands, only suffering awaited
 
“Come here, crippled fish,” Imran spat.
 
Beelal limped closer, his body trembling.
 
“From now on,” Idrisu said, “you will call me Alhaji. Not Baba. I cut ties with you. That title gives me honor.”
 
“And me too,” Imran added with a smirk. “You will call me Alhaji as well.”
 
Beelal’s lips quivered. “Alhaji…” he whispered.
 
The two men burst into mad laughter, mocking his weakness.
 
Head bowed, Beelal’s tears wet the dusty floor. He remembered his mother — how she taught him never to enter a house without permission, how she fought to protect him, how she endured hunger to feed him. Here, only humiliation awaited.
 
His heart whispered: Oh Allah, give me strength. Do not let me be lost in this city where no one sees my tears but You.
 
Life Under Idrisu and Imran
 
From that day, Lagos became a prison. Each morning, Idrisu dragged Beelal to crowded streets.
 
“Sit here, cry a little, stretch your hand,” Idrisu commanded. “The pity will fill our pockets.”
 
Beelal obeyed. People dropped coins, some notes. Yet whenever he thought of food, Idrisu snatched everything, using it for cigarettes, drinks, and women.
 
Nights were worse. Smoke choked the shop, insults rained, and Beelal curled in a corner, hungry.
 
Still, in his small heart, hope survived. He prayed silently for his mother, for freedom, for Allah’s mercy.
 
Beelal’s Innocence
 
Children sometimes passed and mocked him:
 
“Crippled mage! Crippled fish!”
 
Each word stabbed. He longed to shout, Allah made me this way, not myself! But he stayed silent.
 
He missed his mother most. He remembered how she comforted him when other children mocked at school. She would say:
 
“Beelal, you are Allah’s creation. Whoever insults you insults the Creator. Hold your head high.”
 
Those words kept him breathing.
 
Idrisu’s Greed
 
Weeks passed. Idrisu boasted to Imran:
 
“See? Wasn’t I right? The boy brings money daily. Without him, we’d be starving. Now, thanks to me, we eat, drink, enjoy.”
 
Imran nodded, though jealousy burned him. “True. But we must keep him weak. If he grows bold, he may escape.”
 
“Don’t worry,” Idrisu smirked. “Fear chains him better than ropes.”
 
Yet Beelal, though broken outside, held an inner light. His prayers gave him strength to endure. He told himself each night:
 
“This world is temporary. My suffering is temporary. Allah sees me. One day, He will free me.”
 
Thus began Beelal’s painful journey in Lagos — stolen from his mother’s embrace, mocked by strangers, enslaved by those who should have protected him. Yet within his fragile body, faith remained unbroken.
 
For while Idrisu and Imran saw only a “crippled commodity,” Allah saw a child of patience, whose tears reached the heavens.