Chef Zeey Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

Chef Zeey’s Dream and Struggles
 
My name is Ziyada Sadiq Haruna, a.k.a Chef Zeey. Of course, I went to culinary school, so I’m a certified chef. My certificate is even kept in a folder under Grandma’s bed.
I slowly flip through the book before me. According to my calculations, I need just ₦4,870,000 more to open my restaurant. That means I’ve gathered only ₦130,000 out of the ₦5 million I need.
I want to open a classy restaurant in Zaria that will sell only traditional food. I hope to raise the complete amount before the end of this year — that’s my biggest dream.
 
Six months ago, my Instagram account went viral, and that’s how I began earning a little from promoting small businesses like spice and kitchenware sellers.
Anyone who sees my social media numbers might think I’m now rich — one of those “blown” influencers — but the truth is, Chef Zeey hasn’t blown. My followers have grown, yes, but the money comes slowly. Many advertisers underpay me simply because I cook only traditional food and don’t have a fancy kitchen like the big food bloggers.
It’s not really their fault. Instagram is a house of aesthetics, beauty, and pretense. No one wants to pay a huge sum to a small-town chef cooking on a firewood stove. But Alhamdulillah, the little I earn covers our needs — not just mine but the entire household’s.
 
Everyday Life and Family Responsibilities
 
"Adda Ziya, Mama said I should ask if you can lend her one thousand naira if you have it."
I glared at the little girl standing before me, nose running, wearing only a wrapper with no top.
 
"So you’re misbehaving now, Atika or whatever your name is?"
"It’s Assima’u," she corrected boldly. I threw my pen at her.
 
"I’ve warned you all not to enter my room without greeting! You’re being taught manners to improve your life, yet you’re so stubborn!"
The girl just stared blankly.
"Go back and greet properly!" I shouted. She went out, then loudly said, "Salaama Aleekumm!" before entering again.
 
"Whose child are you?"
"Mama’s — Baffa Zakari’s wife," she sniffed.
"Come, come — go away, you’re dirty," I said, pulling a ₦1,000 note from my purse and handing it to her. I knew she wouldn’t return it. Out of all the women in this compound, only Aunty Hafsah pays back borrowed money. The rest? Never.
 
Currently, I have 70,000 Facebook followers (where I started my food content), and 38,000 Instagram followers — 30k of which came within six months after my viral video of me and Grandma cooking kwaɗo da zogale (fried dumplings with moringa). That one video changed everything.
 
I opened my YouTube channel last year, after noticing that major food bloggers had moved there. But YouTube has been tough — sometimes I barely get 1k views per month. It took me a year to reach 2k subscribers and six more months to hit 8k, joining the Partner Program. But since my views are low, I haven’t earned yet.
 
As for TikTok, it’s chaotic. People mock me there, calling me “the poor chef” or “the traditional girl.” I even have a trending hashtag, #ChefDinTalakawa (“Chef of the Poor”). I don’t mind — it’s true. I’m a poor girl raised by my grandmother.
 
Daily Struggles, Education, and Another Story Unfolding
 
While calculating my expenses, Grandma called from the yard:
“Ziyadatu, aren’t you leaving for school?”
“I’m coming, Grandma,” I replied, closing my notebook and hiding it deep in my box — too many gossipers in this house. If they ever find out I’m saving money, I’ll be in trouble.
 
I picked up my black handbag, slid my handouts inside, and got ready for school. I still have two carryovers from my first year due to a heartbreak that distracted me. But I’ve promised myself — no more love, only education and success now. My three goals are:
 
1. Renovate Grandma’s section of the house
 
 
2. Open my restaurant
 
 
3. Graduate successfully
 
 
 
But life isn’t easy. My studies are tough, my restaurant savings are slow, and though I managed to change our toilet from pit to water system, everything else feels stuck.
 
When I stepped outside, Grandma was sieving maize flour.
“Are we eating tuwo today?” I asked.
“Yes, it’s from the flour Ladidi sent months ago,” she said.
“Wow! It’s been almost four months since she sent it,” I laughed.
 
After cleaning my shoes, I waved goodbye — “Kaka, I’m off!”
“May Allah grant you success and protect you,” she replied.
 
Jay-Kay
 
Slowly, he descended the stairs leading to the large living room. He had a meeting with some investors at 9 a.m. His mother was already in the lounge sipping green tea.
 
“You’re up,” she said when he greeted her.
“Yes.” He adjusted his wristwatch. “Where’s Janan?”
“She’s probably still asleep,” his mother replied.
 
He checked his watch — 8:07 a.m. “Still asleep?”
“You know her habits,” she said, sipping her tea.
 
He stood to leave, and she called, “Jamal.”
He froze, chest tightening painfully.
“Sorry! I mean Jalal — about that plaza, nothing has been done yet.”
 
It took him 30 seconds to steady himself. “We’ll discuss it when I return,” he said.
 
Every time she mistakenly called him Jamal, he felt that same sharp pain. Jamal was the perfect son — loved, admired, everything he wasn’t. He could never forget the day she told him:
 
> “Jamal would never bring me a wife who doesn’t pray.”
 
 
 
It broke him. During Jamal’s wedding to Cassandra, she was overjoyed — traveling everywhere for preparations. When the wedding was finally held in London, she didn’t attend; instead, Jamal and their father went alone to the court where it was officiated.