Fitar Tsiro Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

A Daughter's Defiance
 
She lifted her eyes and fixed them sharply on her father, who stood breathing heavily, gripping his belt with rage. Her heart pounded, but her voice was fierce.
 
> “You can kill us if you want, but I will never agree to this marriage. Push me and I’ll expose your filthy trade to the authorities — even if it costs me my life.”
 
 
 
His grip on the belt loosened. Shock painted his face. He turned to his wife, Na’ima, who was crumpled on the floor, her body marked with bruises from the beating he had just given her. Looking again at his daughter, he saw no fear — only raw courage.
 
“Na’ima... You told her?” he asked, stepping closer.
 
Her breath caught. She trembled.
 
> “Wallahi, I told her nothing. I don’t know how she found out.”
 
 
 
“Haulatu,” she pleaded, “where did you hear this?”
 
The girl didn’t reply. Anger and sorrow blocked her throat. She stood up abruptly and stormed off to her room. She braced for the sound of her mother being beaten again — but instead, she heard the front door slam shut. He had left.
 
Only then did she break down, sobbing hard.
 
A Mother’s Weakness
 
Na’ima rushed in, panicked. She knelt beside Haulatu.
 
“Who told you about your father’s dark business?” she whispered. “Please, tell me.”
 
Haulatu looked up, her voice choked with emotion.
 
> “Mama, stop being afraid of that man. Let’s run. If he insists on marrying me off to Nazifi, you’ll lose me forever. I’d rather escape than die in that man’s hands.”
 
 
 
Na’ima said nothing. Her tears spoke volumes. The pain in her body was deep, but the pain in her heart — of failing to protect her only child — was far worse.
 
Haunted by Silence
 
Haulatu watched her mother quietly, bitterness rising.
 
> “You’ll stay silent, as always. That same silence has let him ruin our lives. The neighbors don’t even greet us anymore. Everyone sees us as filth, because of your husband. His thug friends chant his name like a hero. One day, maybe I’ll become like him — selling drugs in the street.”
 
 
 
“Enough, Haulatu!” Na’ima snapped. But then her voice broke, and she hugged her daughter tightly.
 
Haulatu was her miracle. After six miscarriages, Allah had granted her this one daughter. She wasn’t just a child; she was hope itself.
 
A Faint Promise
 
Haulatu clung to her mother.
 
> “Please, Mama, don’t let him marry me off. I swear I’ll die.”
 
 
 
Na’ima gently wiped her tears and whispered,
 
> “You won’t die, my daughter. You’ll live, you’ll thrive. That marriage won’t happen. I promise.”
 
 
 
Haulatu closed her eyes. She heard the words, but couldn't fully believe them. Her mother’s promises had always drowned in fear.
 
The call to Asr prayer echoed. Na’ima stood up to make ablution. Haulatu leaned against the wall, lost in thought.
 
A Mother’s Vigilance
 
Na’ima returned and laid her prayer mat, stealing glances at her daughter, who hadn’t moved. It wasn’t the first time Haulatu delayed prayer — it was something that always worried her. Would she turn out like her father, who barely prayed?
 
She had promised herself Haulatu would attend Qur’anic school no matter what. Some days she’d go, other days she’d fake illness to stay home.
 
“Haulatu,” she called softly.
 
Startled, Haulatu looked up.
 
“Go make ablution and pray,” Na’ima said with gentle firmness. “Your tears won’t fix anything.”
 
Haulatu sighed and got up, muttering under her breath. Na’ima had grown used to this attitude — part defiance, part exhaustion — but she kept praying her daughter wouldn’t stray from the path.
 
Dreams and Longing
 
They prayed together. Afterwards, Haulatu sat watching her mother work — scrubbing dishes with practiced grace. Her mother was stunning, light-skinned, tall and elegant. People often mistook them for sisters.
 
Haulatu drifted into a daydream: her mother in a beautiful home, attended by staff, respected and cared for. And she herself — a powerful lawyer, defending her mother in court, bringing justice. She imagined the judge’s gavel falling: guilty. Her father dragged away. Freedom at last.
 
The vision comforted her.
 
A Mother’s Concern
 
Na’ima noticed the long, distant stare.
 
> “What are you thinking about, my child? Why are you smiling at me like that?”
 
 
 
Haulatu blinked, pulled from her fantasy.
 
> “Nothing, Mama. Just… pray for me. That I’ll achieve my dreams.”
 
 
 
Na’ima smiled.
 
> “You’re always in my prayers, Haulatu. Always. Only you, my parents… and my husband.”
 
 
 
Haulatu said nothing. She hated hearing that word — husband. That man didn’t deserve her mother’s prayers.
 
Back to Reality
 
“Go check if there’s enough oil left,” Na’ima said. “Let’s cook the leftover pasta.”
 
Haulatu remembered how her father had thrown the pot earlier, angry because she refused to see Alhaji Nazifi. He had slapped her, then beaten her mother with a belt.
 
She checked — some oil remained. Na’ima handed her ₦100 to buy charcoal.
 
Haulatu wrapped her hijab over her worn dress and stepped out, wiping away tears.
 
Small Peace
 
When she returned, she lit the fire and started cooking. Her mother had already finished the dishes and was sweeping the yard. Haulatu offered to take over. Her mother nodded and went inside.
 
As evening crept in, Haulatu chose to stay in the courtyard. She didn’t want to disturb her mother, who always devoted that twilight time to dhikr, Qur’an, and prayers. Haulatu admired it, wished she could be like that — but her nafs, her selfish desires, always held her back.
 
That night, their father didn’t return home. Na’ima dozed off and then jolted awake, heart racing, fearing how he might return — angry, drunk, dangerous.
 
Author’s Prayer:
 
> May Allah let me complete this story as beautifully as it began. And may you, the reader, honor my trust — keep the story where you found it. Thank you for your love. May Allah preserve our bond. Ameen.