Gidan Aunty Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

The Household Chaos
 
“Tahee! Tahee!”
“Yes, Oumma!” answered a young girl who, with just one look, you could tell was no more than sixteen or seventeen years old. She came out through a door—clearly from the kitchen, given the flour stains on her clothes.
 
“You still haven’t finished kneading the dough? You know your father will be home soon, and if he finds you like this, my mood will be ruined again!”
 
“Sorry, Oumma, I’m almost done. I’m just waiting for Taheer to help me…” she said, but before finishing, they heard the living room door slam open—no greetings, no warning.
 
Their attention turned toward the door. Another young girl, about fifteen or sixteen, stood there fuming as if she were an adult. Tahee stared at her, already suspecting trouble, for Ameerah’s arrival never meant peace.
 
As if reading her mind, Ameerah snapped, “Maryam and Tahee, Abba said you should come…” But she didn’t finish before a sharp slap landed on her cheek from outside, followed by loud cries.
 
She bumped into Taheer and Taheera at the doorway, both visibly angry. Taheer spoke first: “How many times must I tell you, whenever you act foolishly, leave it outside before entering our room? This is our mother you’re disrespecting, and you’re shameless!”
 
Ameerah cried bitterly—the slap had stung deeply. Holding her cheek, she ran out of the room.
 
Oumma looked at them, her face tightened. “How many times have I warned you all to be patient with others in this house? Or do you want to see me lose my temper again?”
 
In unison, Taheer and Taheera covered their ears and pleaded, “Oumma, forgive us. We won’t do it again.”
 
She knew their playful nature. She tapped both of their heads lightly, and they laughed, knowing she wasn’t truly angry.
 
Holding their hands together, she called, “Tahee!”
“Yes, Oumma,” Taheera replied.
She turned to Taheer. “You too, my son,” she said gently.
 
Taking a deep breath, she spoke softly:
“You are all I have. I don’t want anger between you. Even after I’m gone, promise to love each other, be patient, and understanding. Especially you, Taheer—you get angry too quickly.”
 
Taheer smiled shyly and scratched his head. “I’m sorry, Oumma.”
She playfully rolled her eyes. “You’re always the first to apologize!”
 
Then she added, “And you, Taheera, behave yourself too.”
Both said in unison, “Oumma, forgive us, we won’t repeat it.”
 
She shook her head with a smile, and they all embraced warmly.
 
But their peace was short-lived. Suddenly, a loud bang echoed at the door. They all stood up instantly. It was Abba, storming in, furious. Behind him stood Mamy, clutching Ameerah’s hand tightly, looking proud and spiteful.
 
Without hesitation, Abba slapped Oumma hard across the face.
“Maryam! How many times have I told you to stay out of my daughter’s affairs? You never listen! I’m tired of your behavior. Pack your things—I divorce you! Before I return, I don’t want to see your face or your children’s faces!”
 
With that, he stormed out.
 
Mamy sneered, “Good! Come, let’s reclaim our home. She’s a divorcee now.”
 
Ameerah smirked, “Let the sons of the divorcee defend her now!” knowing no one would dare touch her in her mother’s presence.
 
After the shouting and insults, Mamy and her daughter left proudly.
 
Oumma collapsed to the floor, her heart breaking apart. She burst into uncontrollable tears. Tahee joined her, crying heavily. Taheer, the strongest among them, tried to comfort them, though he too was deeply hurt—his father had divorced their mother right before their eyes.
 
Through sobs he whispered, “I miss you, Abbu. May Allah have mercy on you!”
 
He broke down too, and for fifteen minutes, the room was filled with nothing but cries.
 
When Oumma noticed the tears wouldn’t stop, she forced herself to calm down and consoled them softly. Then she gathered their clothes into small bags, told Taheer to find a local cart man to move them, and within minutes, they were loading their belongings.
 
Mamy and her friend watched from hiding, laughing cruelly. Oumma locked her section of the house, leaving nothing behind—not even a spoon.
 
Outside, Mamy mocked loudly, “Look at the divorcee leaving with her kids!” Ameerah joined in, calling them “the widow’s children.”
 
Taheer and Taheera clenched their fists in anger, ready to retaliate, but Oumma grabbed their hands and led them away silently.
 
Leaving Home for Uncertainty
 
As they walked away, Oumma wondered where they would go. She had no choice but to return to Bunkure, though the thought of how life would treat her children there pained her deeply.
 
Realizing there was no point standing around, she approached the cart driver.
 
“Please, take us to Bunkure. How much?”
“₦7,000,” he replied.
“Please reduce it,” she pleaded.
“Fine, ₦6,000,” he agreed.
 
She nodded and told her children to get in. They entered silently, each lost in sorrow, knowing the misery that awaited them in Bunkure—the endless humiliation they’d endured there before.
 
No one spoke during the journey. Each was trapped in thoughts of pain, fear, and loss.
 
In Lagos — A Different World
 
Meanwhile, in Lagos, luxurious cars sped along the highway—each one gleaming and commanding attention. No vehicle dared overtake them; everyone waited until they passed.
 
The convoy finally arrived at Nahyan Hospital, one of the finest in Nigeria—a place clearly built with immense wealth.
 
The cars parked slowly in the VIP section, drawing admiring gazes from onlookers. Doors opened, and several Black American men stepped out, dressed in black suits and sunglasses, their faces stern and emotionless, each holding a gun.
 
One of them, clearly the leader, walked toward a sleek black-tinted Lamborghini that sparkled under the sun.
 
The door opened, and after about forty seconds, a single polished foot emerged—immaculately clean in royal-style shoes. The man stepped out, and gasps of admiration filled the air.
 
It was Tahnoon, one of the youngest billionaires, a descendant of former president Zayed Al Nahyan—the type they call “one in a thousand.”
 
He wore a luxurious blue kuftan that perfectly outlined his fit, tall frame. His fair skin glowed; his face, a masterpiece—sharp features, deep alluring eyes that weren’t black nor brown but strikingly unique. His pink lips, neatly trimmed beard, and confident stride made him irresistible.
 
Everywhere he walked, people bowed slightly in respect. His charisma was undeniable.
 
Inside the hospital, he moved straight to a private elevator with one of his guards—Zaki.
 
At the fourth floor, staff stood in line as if waiting for blessings, bowing politely as he passed.
 
They entered a lavish office—ash-colored cushions, rich carpets, and a breathtaking scent of freshness. Tahnoon sat gracefully, crossing his legs.
 
In a deep husky voice, he asked,
“Zaki.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When is the meeting?”
“In a few minutes, sir,” Zaki replied, handing him some files before leaving.
 
Tahnoon’s face remained calm, expressionless. Moments later, one of his phones rang. The name “UKTI” appeared on the screen.
 
He sighed softly and answered in a composed tone,
“Assalamu Alaikum.”
A pause. Then:
“Masā’ul khair, Ukti (Good evening, sister).”
 
He spoke in fluent Arabic for nearly ten minutes, his deep voice steady and dignified.
 
Just as the call ended, Zaki returned, signaling it was time for the meeting. Together, they headed toward the reserved conference room—ready to begin.