Buzu Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

The Desert Ride
 
A black Highlander SUV sped across the lonely asphalt, its wheels slicing through the silence of the Sahara night. On both sides stretched endless sand, dotted with dry, skeletal trees. The moon, full and glowing, bathed the desert in silver light while stars glittered like scattered diamonds.
 
The road seemed built for the driver alone.
 
“How many kilometres left?” asked a voice from the back, muffled under a turban.
 
“Not more than ninety-five,” the driver replied.
 
“In a few minutes?”
 
“Within an hour, we’ll arrive.”
 
The man’s voice tightened with fear. “We must reach exactly on time, as ordered. I dread he might wake.”
 
His gaze dropped to the young man lying across his lap, drenched in sweat, breathing in shallow bursts. His chest rose and fell heavily, his heart pounding so hard it seemed ready to tear free.
 
“Lauwalli, faster,” he urged. “His heartbeat grows weaker.”
 
Lauwalli nodded grimly and pressed harder on the accelerator.
 
The Girl and the Sleep Paralysis
 
At dawn, in a well-built underground room decorated with modest beauty, a young woman lay sprawled on a thin mattress. Only a wrapper covered her nakedness.
 
She fought desperately to wake but found herself pinned by the crushing weight of sleep paralysis—or what people called “Dannau,” a spirit that sits upon the chest. Though her eyes were open, she could not move.
 
At last, the invisible weight lifted. She sat upright, gasping for breath, as though dragged back from death itself.
 
The sun had risen; she had missed her dawn prayer. Her joints ached as if beaten. Glancing down, she saw her wrapper displaced. She froze, struggling to recall the night before. She had only been folding clothes, then nothing—just darkness.
 
Anxious, she adjusted her wrapper and headed to the bathroom to purify herself for prayer.
 
Awakening in a Tent
 
Elsewhere, another man stirred. His eyelids burned from unfamiliar light. As his vision adjusted, he realized he was not in any place he remembered.
 
A tall, dark-skinned man wearing a crimson turban entered, carrying a small cup. Dropping it aside, he rushed to help the weakened man sit.
 
The young man’s features were pale, almost yellow, his thin nose fitting his narrow face, his large eyes bloodshot as if they wept blood. His long hair spilled over his shoulders like a woman’s.
 
The turbaned man leaned closer. “How do you feel?”
 
No answer. Only a silent, questioning stare.
 
“Is anything hurting you?”
 
Finally, he whispered, “Where am I?”
 
“You’re in Nigeria now,” came the reply.
 
“Nigeria?” he echoed faintly.
 
“Yes, Nigeria.”
 
The man’s mind groped for memory, but found only emptiness.
 
“Don’t you know me?” the turbaned stranger asked.
 
He shook his head.
 
“Inna lillahi… You mean you don’t even remember your name?”
 
Again, silence. A pounding ache in his skull forced him to clutch his head.
 
The stranger tried a different approach. “Do you remember ablution and prayer?”
 
A nod.
 
“How many rak’ahs is Fajr?”
 
Two fingers lifted.
 
“And Zuhr?”
 
Four.
 
“At least you recall that. Come, perform ablution and make up your missed prayers. We journeyed far from Niger.”
 
The man obeyed, copying the prayers taught to him. Afterwards, food and hot tea were offered. The warmth soothed him, though his memory remained a stubborn void.
 
His companion tied up his long hair, wrapped a turban around his head, and led him outside.
 
The desert stretched endlessly, dotted with trees. A camel stood tethered, chewing lazily.
 
“Do you know what this is?” the man asked.
 
“Yes,” he nodded slowly. “Le chameau… Camel.”
 
“Good. Mount. We must leave.”
 
With help, he climbed onto the beast, and together they vanished into the barren horizon.
 
Nana’s Troubled Home
 
Meanwhile, in a rain-soaked Nigerian town, a young woman named Nana walked cautiously through flooded alleyways. A storm had struck the night before, washing filth into streets and homes.
 
Her heart sank as she reached her family’s compound. Half their wall had collapsed, and the pit latrine overflowed dangerously close to the well.
 
“Baba,” she greeted quietly.
 
Her father, emerging from the ruined latrine, looked weary. “You see what happened?”
 
“Yes, Baba. Since the rain began, I’ve been anxious.”
 
“This is a test. Now, search your pockets. Whatever money you have, bring it so we can start rebuilding.”
 
Nana stared at him, shocked. “Baba, my salary is only seven thousand naira. Today is already the 11th, and I have nothing left. You even collected five thousand from me earlier this month.”
 
“Nana, where do you waste your money? If you won’t help, then live like this. Use the neighbors’ toilets or go to the bush.”
 
Before Nana could reply, her mother, who had been silent, snapped: “Shame on you! Your daughter gives you her salary, yet you squander it. Do you expect her to endlessly patch your failures?”
 
Embarrassed, her father slipped away as neighbors gathered to offer sympathy.
 
The Sisters’ Conversation
 
Nana retreated to her room, where her sisters lay fiddling with their phones. Dropping her bag, she sighed. “Jamila, so the rain has remodeled our house?”
 
Jamila sneered. “Remodeled? It destroyed it! I’m already calculating how to escape this shame. Imagine—no proper toilet, walls collapsing, everyone peering into our lives.”
 
“Where would you even go?” Nana asked.
 
“Anywhere but here. Poverty suffocates. They take from us yet give nothing back. I can’t live like this forever.”
 
Nana shook her head. “May Allah grant us relief.”
 
“Amin,” Jamila muttered bitterly. “But look—even your bed is soaked. This place is unlivable.”
 
Nana gazed silently at the damp floor, her heart heavy.
 
A Night of Misery
 
That night, the family slept under half-fallen walls, exposed to the stares of passersby. By dawn, some prayed in neighbors’ houses, others outside where the flood had not reached.
 
Visitors continued arriving, murmuring condolences for the damage. Jamila, however, never stopped grumbling.
 
“Only Allah can fix this wall,” she fumed. “Living like this is disgrace itself. Even if the toilet issue didn’t bother me, the broken wall exposes us to the world. What secrets do we even have, other than poverty and shame?”
 
Her words cut deep into Nana’s heart, as she sat in silence, wondering how much longer they could endure.