Haqqi Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

On Saturday morning at a quarter to 11 O'clock, I left the ghetto after heavily abusing intoxicants to the point of losing my mind—weed, sukudai milk, codeine, and various pills. In short, except for alcohol, I took every mind-altering substance you can think of before heading home. As I walked, I was staggering like a wobbly bicycle wheel. Children gathered in a crowd, shouting at me, "He's wasted! He took capsules!" My eyes were completely shut like someone fast asleep because of the heavy intoxication. Right then, I felt around for stones on the ground and began blindly throwing them everywhere like a madman, even breaking the head of Malam Yusuf, our neighborhood Imam. The children scattered, everyone running away from the new madman.
Suddenly, I felt whips raining down on my body indiscriminately. The elders of our neighborhood gave me a severe beating like a donkey for the foolish thing I had done. I collapsed on the spot and fell into a deep sleep right next to a gutter and a refuse dump. I didn't wake up until after the Asr prayer. No one came to wake me up, let alone drag me away from the edge of the gutter. I felt severe pain and throbbing all over my body, alongside an overwhelming hunger. Slowly, I dragged myself home.
With a heavy, agitated heart, I kicked open the door of the house and barged in. Since our house was a rented compound, all the women in the house ran into their rooms with their children, fearing I might harm them. I went straight to the kitchen and began opening pots as if I had left food there, but I couldn't find even a scrap of burnt rice. This infuriated me, and I began screaming my mother's name, Daso, at the top of my lungs.
Daso!! Trembling, she came out with her heavily advanced pregnancy, looking as though she could give birth today or tomorrow. "Where is my food?!" I demanded.
She began stammering anxiously, "Umh, umh, please forgive me, Muh'du. By Allah, I didn't think you would want the food, which is why I gave it to Fatima and the others earlier."
"What?! My food?! By Allah, you are lying! Is it your father who provides for this house, or mine?"
"For God's sake, ple—"
Before she could finish her sentence, I slapped her hard across her left cheek! Tas! I lifted her up and slapped her right cheek again. Then, I began kicking her around like a football while she wept. "By Allah, today you will taste bitterness! I will kill you, and I will kill the child inside your womb!" By Allah, that was how I brutally beat my own mother without an ounce of pity. She began crying out in agony, weeping a heartbreaking cry that the very son she gave birth to was beating her instead of protecting her from insults.
Musa, as I tell you this story, whenever I remember the things I did to my mother in life, I feel like setting myself on fire just to see if it would bring some peace to my heart. My friend Aliyu and I, who are listening to this story, can do nothing but weep. Truly, HAQQI (Divine Retribution) is no joke; by Allah, it exceeds the imagination of humans, let alone jinn. Anyone who knew Muh'd would weep if they saw him in this condition now. He is severely swollen. His current shirt is so massive that if it were divided into two, just one half would be too big for me. In this state, even though no one can predict the dead, by Allah, I don't think he will survive to see the morning. Anyone who doesn't know what happened would think he is suffering from a severe illness, but by Allah, it is nothing but divine retribution catching up with him.
Anyway, let us get back to the story. Back then, I didn't care at all, nor did I feel any pity for the unborn child in her womb, as if she wasn't the one who gave birth to me.
I picked up a shovel. First, I kicked her to the ground with my foot, then I raised the shovel, preparing to strike her with it. She screamed with all her remaining strength. Hearing her scream, Ali, Hamza, and Dauda rushed into the house, running. They shoved me aside, sending me staggering as if I was about to fall.
Ali confronted me furiously, shouting, "What kind of madman are you? Isn't this your mother, you bastard? Or do you not know she is pregnant that you beat her like this?" Before I could react, a hard slap landed on my left cheek! Tas! By Allah, I literally saw stars. As I looked up, Hamza was standing over me. Before I could even try to get up, he delivered a powerful punch straight to my face, bursting my nose and mouth open.
Normally, Hamza stutters heavily when he speaks even when he isn't angry, but now that he was completely enraged, he couldn't even form words to curse at me; he just kept hitting me relentlessly. All of them were my friends and age mates, but for some reason, I feared them more than any living soul on earth. Among them, only Hamza was my drug partner, while Ali and Dauda had never even tasted a Tramadol pill, let alone other mind-altering drugs.
In his stuttering voice, Hamza barked, "You bastard, isn't this your mother? What kind of pills did you take today?!"
Ali and Dauda were over by my mother, who was weeping bitterly. They apologized to her and eventually helped her up, taking her into her room. Throughout this entire commotion, no one else from the neighborhood entered the compound, nor did any other woman living in the house come out. They grabbed me and tied me up tightly from top to bottom with a clothesline, then dragged me outside.
They took me to a secluded garden where no one could hear my cries or come to my rescue. As always, since I knew Dauda and Hamza never went anywhere without their thick, ten-strand cable whips hidden on them, I watched in surprise as they lifted their shirts and pulled out the cable whips from their waistbands, each holding his own.
With his stuttering voice, Hamza said, "Today, you will learn a lesson. Are you trying to show me what drug abuse is? When did you start taking drugs that don't even relieve exhaustion, only to come home and beat your own mother?!"
I screamed from the bottom of my heart, begging for their forgiveness. Then I saw Ali step away and leave the area. It turned out he had gone to cut a thorny whip. I saw him emerge stripping the leaves off a thick, thorny branch. The volume of my screaming doubled, as if I had seen the Angel of Death. Looking at their furious faces and bulging eyes, I knew I was in for a brutal beating—the kind that, if I were taken to a hospital, the doctors would ask if I had been mauled by a leopard or a lion.
Before I could process anything, the lashes began to rain down on me. I screamed until my voice cracked and went completely hoarse, leaving only the sound of the whips striking my flesh echoing through the air. They only stopped when my body went completely limp. I remained unconscious for over two hours. When I finally woke up, I found myself lying on a hospital bed with an IV drip in my hand. It turned out they had carried me home, and my father had thrown a massive fit of anger. In the end, he had called the local vigilante group (Kato da Gora), and they had locked my friends up, stating that they would only be granted bail once I regained consciousness. By Allah, I was severely battered that day. My body was completely torn apart—covered in deep scratches from Ali's thorny whip and swollen bruises from Hamza and Dauda's cable whips.