Dingishin Kwado Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

It was exactly one-thirty in the middle of the night in Katsina. Rain was pouring heavily as if from an overturned calabash. The air was cold. You could hear nothing except the unrestrained sound of rainfall. From time to time, lightning flashed across the sky.
 
At that moment, when most people were asleep, lying peacefully with calm and rested hearts because of the soothing cold of the night, I was lying on my bed with tears flowing endlessly. My heart had reached its limit from the heaviness of the matter concerning my husband.
 
I sat up and increased the dim light of the bedside lamp. I stared at him intensely. There he was — tall, light-skinned, and extremely handsome. A man whose beauty could be pointed at with pride. The kind of man any woman would see and say “wow.” Even his body structure appeared perfectly chosen — not too slim, not too heavy, everything balanced as if molded by his own hands.
 
Most of my friends always told me how lucky I was. When we took pictures together, people would say, “Just looking at your husband alone is enough to wash away your worries.”
 
Tears filled my eyes again as pity for myself overwhelmed me. I knew deep down that it was his beauty I built my marriage upon. Among the four things the Prophet advised us to consider in marriage, I chose beauty first, not character. I spent years crying bitterly — tears of regret and sorrow. But today’s tears were DIFFERENT. The tears I cried today were out of longing, deep yearning for intimacy.
 
The hot season and rainy season naturally increase a woman’s desire, while men usually desire more during the cold season.
 
My thoughts intensified over the long months I had spent hanging. Yes, hanging — because in name, I was a married woman, but in reality nothing marital had occurred between us for eight months. In the past, if anyone had told me that Baba Amrah and I would reach this level, I would have strongly denied it and called the person a liar.
 
But here we were, living in a strange emotional wilderness, as if love had never existed between us.
 
I know, and he knows, that according to Islamic law, a woman’s patience in such a matter lasts only four months if she has no husband. Yet today, husbands leave their wives hanging for years without shame or fear of the consequences they push their wives into.
 
If not for the fear of Allah and the punishment for a married woman who commits adultery, I might have fallen. Because outside, young men look at me differently, unlike my husband, who now sees me as old.
 
Many women have been destroyed because of this problem. Men are the reason married women fall into the calamity of zina. Islam restricts a woman from unnecessary interaction with any man besides her mahram, and even with mahrams, there are limits. But men today have no time for their wives. They spend the entire day chasing livelihood; when they return, their phones become their true partners. A woman speaks to her husband, and he replies distractedly, his attention glued to his phone.
 
A woman cooks, dresses beautifully, yet receives no glance of appreciation.
 
I removed that burden from my heart long ago. I stopped dressing up for him. I stopped cooking to please him. I now do everything for myself and my children — purely as an act of worship. And worship requires patience and sincere intention.
 
The only thing I cannot remove from my heart is the matter of intimacy. My patience is almost exhausted, and this is not because of weakness but because it is human nature. Blood runs in my veins, and I cannot erase desire from my body.
 
I reached for the tissue from the bedside and wiped myself. I recited Hasbunallahu wa ni’imal wakil repeatedly until I calmed down.
 
I struggled within myself, unsure whether I had done the right thing by suppressing my desires or if I had simply allowed patience to swallow me again.
 
With courage, I moved closer to him and wrapped my arms around him. I gently stroked his hair, trying to stir him. I spent a long time touching him in different places, but he remained stiff like a block, even though I knew he was awake.
 
With a trembling voice, I whispered, “Baban Amrah, the day before yesterday, you promised today.”
 
Without opening his eyes, he said, “I’ll postpone again till the day after tomorrow. I’m not feeling well. I’m weak.”
 
Before he even finished speaking, a heavy wave of pain and humiliation descended on my chest. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t lie down either.
 
For over an hour, I sat there drowning in the humiliation he poured on me as if I was forced upon him.
 
Do all women face this disrespect from their husbands after childbirth, or is it just me?
 
Yesterday I turned thirty-five. My eldest daughter Amrah is fourteen. Faruk is twelve, and our baby Farha is five.
 
It has been two years since the situation worsened. And I am convinced it will not stop because every day he finds new ways to hurt me. Fear now grips me whenever we sit together under the same roof.
 
No matter how much I swallow my pride and approach him, he repeats the same excuses.
 
What kind of oppression is this, beyond the limits of Shari’ah?
 
Seeing that I would lose both ways, I stood up, performed ablution, and prayed nafilah, begging Allah to protect me from falling into sin.
 
While I was on the prayer mat, the call for assalatu was made. That was when he stretched, stood up, and entered the bathroom. He came out, prayed nafilah, dressed up, and left without saying a single word to me.
 
When I heard the mosque begin prayer, I performed my own Fajr prayer. I was used to staying on my prayer mat until daylight.
 
Afterward, I went to the kitchen to supervise the housemaids. I instructed Alti to peel and fry potatoes while I prepared kunun tsamiya with lemon.
 
By seven a.m., breakfast was ready. The children were dressed. Amrah attended a different school, while Faruk and Farha were in the same one.
 
We ate happily, pretending to have no worries. Afterward, he left with Amrah, and I drove the younger ones to their school.
 
“Thank you, Mahmah! Bye!” they said.
 
“Ameen, my dearies. Study well,” I replied.
 
Then I headed to Umaru Musa Yar’adua University (UMYU), parked the car, and walked quietly to my office at the Faculty of Science and Technology.
 
Greetings followed me everywhere, and I responded kindly. I checked the time: fifteen minutes left before my pharmacology class.
 
I took my teaching materials and went to the hall. Everywhere I passed, students stared at me. I kept reciting WaAllahu yas’muka minan-nas to shield myself from their eyes. I often overheard the girls saying:
 
"This woman is blessed — beauty, wealth, knowledge, a handsome husband, lovely children, and health. What could possibly be missing?"
 
I only smiled. They were right — but they did not know the storm I lived with. Even my relatives admired my marriage because my sisters’ husbands earned more, yet my home looked more peaceful.
 
But only I knew the truth. Only I knew the burning emptiness inside me.
 
Teaching gave me peace; it was one of the few things that kept me sane.
 
By late afternoon, I picked up the kids from school. At home, the gatekeeper opened the gate before I even honked. My husband was outside pressing his phone, as always.
 
The children rushed to hug him. “We’re back, Daddy!”
 
He hugged me, took my handbag, saying, “Welcome, dear.”
 
I smiled and replied, “Thank you.”
 
We entered the mansion and headed straight to our room. He helped me unzip my dress. I was left in my bra, panties, and skirt.
 
Instead of his usual gesture of touching my chest, he simply lay on the bed and returned to his phone — the device that had shattered my marriage.
 
I went to shower. When I returned, dressed, he didn’t even notice. He was deep in another page on his phone.
 
I waited for when he would fall asleep to take the phone. He was a heavy sleeper, even fear and chaos could not interrupt his sleep.
 
Not long after, he left for the mosque with Faruk.