Diya Mace Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

Hunger, Humiliation, and Father’s Cruelty
 
As soon as the isha’i prayer was over, people trooped out of the mosque. Hajara, popularly called Hajjo, hurried along, her stomach growling loudly in hunger. The strap of her worn-out slippers had snapped, so she clutched them in her hand, balancing a large calabash of guinea corn flour on her head — she had gone to buy it so that her mother, Inna, could prepare their night meal.
 
Excitement bubbled in her heart. “At least tonight we’ll eat tuwo. Maybe even enough for days. Thank God Baba bought us plenty of guinea corn. We’ll finally rest from eating cassava flour.”
 
Crossing the street, she passed by a tea seller. The scent of fried egg and hot bread hit her nose. Without realizing, she stopped, inhaling deeply as if the smell alone could fill her empty stomach. She had no greater wish at that moment than to sit and eat like others.
 
But then she froze — her father was right there, seated in the tea seller’s hut. Before him was a huge loaf of bread, slices of fried egg, and a steaming cup of tea. He tore the bread, wrapped egg inside, and ate with satisfaction.
 
Shocked, Hajjo cried, “Laa Baba! It’s you! Baba!”
 
Her father turned sharply, eyes blazing. Recognizing his daughter, he barked angrily:
“Ke uwarki! Uwarki nake magana! Foolish girl, why are you standing here idle instead of taking the flour to your mother? Get home this instant!”
 
People around turned to watch. Before she could speak, his palm landed hard on her cheek. “Shegiyar kaya! Useless! Run home before I make you drop that calabash!” Trembling, Hajjo staggered away, thankful she hadn’t dropped the flour. Behind her, Baba resumed eating, grumbling as if nothing had happened.
 
At home, Hajjo set down the calabash before Inna, still shaking. Inna looked up, frowning. “Only now, Hajjo? Were you caught in a queue? Why do you look so troubled?”
 
Hajjo sighed, trying to steady her voice. “Inna, I saw Baba at the tea seller’s… eating bread and fried eggs. I only greeted him, but he shouted and beat me.”
 
Inna placed a consoling hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Hajjo, you know your father dislikes being spoken to, especially about such things. You must be careful — he will beat you again when he returns.”
 
Shivers ran through Hajjo’s body at the thought. She whispered, “Wallahi, Inna, it slipped from my mouth. If it had been just a slap, I wouldn’t mind. But I’m so hungry, Inna.”
 
“Hungry?” Inna nodded toward a bowl. “Your sister Indo sent danwake earlier. Eat that.”
 
Hajjo didn’t wait. She pounced on the food, eating hastily with both hands. Inna sighed deeply. “Oh Hujja, it’s as if you haven’t eaten in years. May Allah rescue us from this hardship, amin.”
 
The Household of Baba
 
Hajara Mamman Mansur — Hajjo — was the daughter of Mallam Mamman Mansur, known as Baba, a respected man in Kumurya village near Kano. Though wealthy, Baba’s family lived in deprivation because he never cared to provide properly. Worst of all, he despised female children.
 
In his mind, daughters were burdens — no profit, no benefit, only mouths to feed. Because of this, he married six wives in search of sons. Any wife who bore him only girls was divorced and sent away with her daughters.
 
Only Inna, Hajjo’s mother, remained — not because Baba loved her, but because she had given him two sons: Mahmud (Mudi) and Ayuba. When she later bore a girl, Indo, Baba raged. He despised the child and cursed Inna for giving him “jidali” — a useless daughter. Still, because of her sons, Inna was tolerated.
 
Years passed. Other wives came and went, but none gave him sons. Finally, after a decade, Inna conceived again. Baba threatened her constantly: “If you give me another girl, you’ll regret it.” When the baby was born a girl — Hajara — Baba nearly threw mother and child out, but relatives intervened. The girl was named Hajara, though Baba never once acknowledged her with affection.
 
By age twelve, Hajjo had never heard a kind word from him. Her existence was marked only by rebuke and neglect. She was slim, fragile, neither strikingly beautiful nor ugly, but she possessed a quiet charm that shone through her lively smiles and dimples. Her bright laughter often masked her pain.
 
The Desire for Education
 
The next morning, as Inna washed clothes, Hajjo entered singing a playful rhyme from the village square. She laughed, teasing her mother with the verses. Inna smiled, shaking her head at her daughter’s liveliness.
 
Soon Hajjo asked eagerly, “Inna, please tell Baba to let me attend school after primary, just like Mudi and Ayuba.”
 
Before Inna could answer, Baba stormed in, already furious. “Shegiyar kaya! Who do you think you are to demand school beyond primary? Girls are worthless! Boys like Ayuba and Mudi will benefit me. You? A girl? You’ll only grow up for marriage so your husband will feed you. Do you think I’ll waste money on you?”
 
He yanked her ear painfully until she screamed. “Next time I hear you mention school, I’ll beat you until you can’t stand!”
 
Tears streamed down Hajjo’s face. Baba ignored her, pulled a bundle of money from his pocket, and handed some to Inna. “Here, Aminatu, buy foodstuff. I’m off to a wedding. May Allah return me safely.” He swept out in his flowing robe, leaving silence behind.
 
Inna turned to her sobbing daughter. “Rise, my child. Finish your tuwo before your friends come and eat it. Don’t cry too much, or your father will be harsher.”
 
Life of Resilience
 
Despite the harshness of her father, Hajjo’s spirit remained lively. She sang, played, and laughed with her siblings, often hiding her wounds behind smiles. Indo, her elder sister, shared her pain — both sidelined for being girls, while their brothers were pampered.
 
The family lived in a large compound: six rooms in a row, one for Baba, one for Inna and Hajjo, one for Mudi and Ayuba, one for cooking, one for storage, and another cluttered with junk. Though Baba was wealthy, his stinginess kept the household perpetually struggling.
 
Yet Inna maintained cleanliness and dignity. She encouraged her daughter, telling her she was beautiful in her own way, even if others mocked her. “Your features are balanced, Hajjo. That’s what makes you shine.”
 
But deep down, Hajjo longed for something greater — a chance at education, freedom from poverty, and a life where she was valued, not dismissed as “jidali.” Her laughter and resilience were her only shields against the crushing weight of her father’s cruelty and the gnawing ache of hunger.