Disastrous Love Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

A Nervous Wait
 
Fatima Zarah stood at the computer shop, dressed in a worn maroon hijab that dragged on the ground. Her wide, anxious eyes were fixed on the young man behind the counter, who was busy at the system. She watched with silent hope and dread, praying she hadn’t failed WAEC — the exam her father had struggled to pay for. She couldn’t afford failure; even an admission into a modest college would mean everything.
 
The young man finally got up and walked to the printer, collecting the freshly printed paper. Fatima's heart pounded harder. Returning to her, he smiled warmly and said, “Congratulations Fatima Zarah! You passed — six credits! Well done. May this result be a blessing for you.”
 
Her eyes widened in disbelief as she took the paper, reading the grades again and again: Credit in Math, English, and other core science subjects. With a joyful shriek, she dropped to the floor in a sujood of gratitude. The shopkeeper chuckled, calling out, “Look at ustaziya Faty!”
 
She stood, smiling ear to ear, revealing dimples and perfect white teeth, and slipped the result into her tattered bag. “Thank you, Yaya Habu,” she said gratefully before hurrying off, joy lighting her every step.
 
Life at Home
 
Children played loudly in the streets as Fatima entered their rented compound — a five-room shared home with a large corridor, communal kitchen, and shared bathrooms. It was cemented but already weather-worn.
 
Fatima greeted the other women from the house with a soft “sannunku,” receiving dull responses as usual. She entered the modest living room, painted a pale milk color, decorated with a small TV, decent curtains, and simple but clean chairs. Four children were inside playing: her brothers Habib, Ishak, Bashir, and her baby sister, Abida.
 
She asked Habib if their father was home, and he nodded. Knowing not to disturb him while he was in the room with their mother, she entered another room instead, sat on a mattress, and pulled out her result slip again, admiring it. Soon, she would call her mother, “Mami,” to share the news.
 
A Mother’s Bitterness
 
She heard her mother come out, cradling a crying Abida. When asked about Fatima’s whereabouts, her father’s voice cut through the air: “Call her Fatima, not Zakiyya! That’s the Prophet’s daughter’s name, not some local slang.”
 
Her mother snapped back. “You’re always eavesdropping. What’s so wrong with the name Zakiyya?”
 
Knowing her presence would soon be demanded, Fatima stepped out respectfully and knelt. “I’m here, Mama.”
 
Her mother threw a glare. “You were inside and didn’t respond until your father spoke up? You’re just like those two-faced people, always wandering around in that hijab like a shaman’s wife.”
 
She handed her Abida to carry and barked more orders. “There’s hot water on the fire. Give it to your father and start preparing lunch.”
 
When Fatima tried to carry the baby in her hijab, her mother scolded her again. “Remove that hijab! You want to cook my child with heat? You’re hiding those massive breasts every day like a secret!”
 
Fatima said nothing, simply removed her hijab, blushing in shame, and walked quietly to the kitchen with the child.
 
Behind Closed Doors
 
In the bedroom, their father, a man of about 45 or 50, lay in deep thought, staring at the ceiling fan. His wife, Rukayya, entered the room and climbed onto the bed beside him, snuggling close. He pushed her away with frustration.
 
“Rukayya,” he began, “you’ve gotten us into serious debt. You made me borrow three million naira! Where am I supposed to get that money within a week?”
 
She responded sharply, “Don’t act like I spent it all! You bought that fancy fridge, the wall TV, and this massive bed. Aren’t you proud of how people respect us now?”
 
He sighed, disappointed. “If I had invested it in business, I could’ve paid it back. Now it’s all in this house. Even the neighbors think we’re rich, and now they beg us for everything.”
 
She tried to comfort him. “Don’t worry. We’ll pay it off. God will provide. These things take time.”
 
He didn’t respond but stood, wearing his white jallabiya, and left the room.
 
Fatima’s Silent Struggles
 
As they exited to the yard, Fatima continued cooking inside the kitchen. The baby had fallen asleep. She didn’t hear anyone enter until her mother’s harsh voice rang out: “When you’re done, lay the child down!”
 
Fatima simply nodded, fighting back tears. When her mother reached over to take Abida from her chest, she flinched, frightened. Her mother sneered. “Look at you flinching like some cursed child. Give me my daughter!”
 
Once again, Fatima stayed silent, handing over the baby and returning to her work, lost in a swirl of smoke and hurt.
 
A Marriage Without Peace
 
Back in their room, Rukayya was still complaining. “I didn’t waste the loan. I ordered top-quality goods from Mom Afreen Pre-Order Group. Her prices are unbeatable! I’ve never seen flask and pot designs like that — they look like imported treasures.”
 
Her husband, still silent, watched her. His heart ached not just because of their debts but because of how powerless he felt. She continued to praise the online vendor. “Even the baby’s dowry items are here — under the bed. Neighbors have started asking about Abida for their sons.”
 
He turned sharply. “Abida? She’s not even two! What about Fatima? Shouldn’t you be preparing for her?”
 
Rukayya dismissed him with a scoff. “Fatima? She has no prospects. No car, no suitors. Abida has admirers already!”
 
Conclusion: A House Divided
 
As the day moved on, it became clearer that Fatima’s life was not only shaped by hardship but also by neglect. Despite her academic success, she remained invisible — unloved, undervalued.
 
In that house, love wasn’t something you earned — it was either inherited or bought with shallow charms. Fatima had neither. But in her heart, the fire still burned. This result, this one sheet of paper, was her first step toward freedom.
 
And nothing, not even her own family, could take that away.