Hasken Cikin Duhu Book 1Complete Hausa Novel

The Night of Fire and Sacrifice
It was a night of war, not a night of rest. Flames leapt into the darkness, throwing flickers of light into a night that showed no mercy. The air was thick with dust and the stench of blood; the groans of the living and the cries of the weak mixed with gunfire and the thunder of exploding bombs. It was as though the horn of the end of the world was being blown.
Clouds covered the moon, as if even it regretted witnessing such suffering.
The strong and the weak alike fell to the same ground. What the night left behind was cold, fear, and the smell of ruin—a sign that the world has no mercy for the vulnerable. General Khal B. Musa raised his eyes to the sky, darkened into an unnatural black, then lowered them again as the sound of gunfire rang from his right. He clutched his chest as his heart recalled something—someone—more important to him than anything else, the one thing that was also his greatest weakness. His friend, Colonel Bashir, beside him, placed a hand on him and said softly, “She is safe, In shā’ Allah.” Khal lifted his eyes, glowing like embers from redness and exhaustion, and stared at him. He slowly parted his lips to speak, but before any word came out, a terrible sound erupted—the sharp blast of a landmine—followed by the screams of hundreds who lost their lives once again.
“Don’t go! We don’t have enough ammunition, wait!”
Khal B. Musa didn’t turn back or listen. After moving some distance toward the direction of the explosion, he stopped, turned fully, and said in a deep, echoing voice:
“I did not become a soldier to save myself.
I became a soldier to protect those who are weak.”
He turned and continued forward, stepping over rubble inside the camp. Despite the heavy gunfire, Khal B forced his way into a building, even though he knew he might not come out alive, lacking proper equipment. He shot one of the NLEP fighters, who fell dead instantly. He reached a nurse lying in a pool of blood, beside her a small child—clearly she had been trying to save the child’s life. Enraged, Khal B raised his weapon to fire again, but before he could act, a bullet tore through his chest, straight into his heart. He collapsed, clutching the wound, yet he did not surrender. He tried to rise again, but the attacker fired once more, the bullet striking him directly. He fell backward as if in a slow-motion scene, pain flooding his entire body. Tears slid down his face as he closed his eyes—he saw her image before him, thinking of her condition.
“Come back early. I want to give birth in your presence. Come back, Yallabai!”
Her voice echoed in his ears as if she were speaking to him at that very moment. His lips trembled, his breathing faltered, and he whispered,
“Jidderh… Jidderh!”
Suddenly, his breath stopped. His eyes closed—signaling that life had truly left him. He died.
Life Given, Life Taken
Nigeria, Asokoro District Hospital
3:45 a.m.
Her heart thudded violently. She quickly clutched her chest as something seemed to lodge in her throat. Slowly, she rose from the bed and reached for the small bedside cabinet, staring at it as hot tears streamed down her face. At that moment, the door opened. She did not lift her head; she hadn’t even realized someone had entered. Her thoughts were fixed on the one she loved more than anything in the world. She felt a hand on her shoulder, which made her raise her tear-filled eyes.
“Be patient, Jidda, for the sake of what you carry inside you.”
She collapsed into the woman’s arms, crying weakly.
“Khalid, Hajiya! Khalid has come back, Hajiya! I don’t want to give birth while he’s away. He promised he would stay with me until I delivered. I feel something is wrong, Hajiya. Something is happening. I want to see him.”
The older woman sighed deeply, still holding Jidda, and said, “Khalid is fine, and he will return to you, In shā’ Allah.”
Before she could say more, a sharp pain twisted her abdomen. She gripped the woman’s hand tightly. Alarmed, the woman exclaimed, “Hauwa’u, are you okay? Is it labor?” Hauwa’u could only shake her head. The woman helped her down and rushed out, returning shortly with doctors. They attended to her immediately. She endured intense pain until about 4:50 a.m., when Jidda finally gave birth. The doctor lifted the baby with a smile and asked, “What did you give birth to?”
Jidda only smiled, tears rolling down her cheeks. She looked at her baby, smiling and crying at the same time. A final tear—one that seemed to say “I have finished my duty”—slipped from her eyes as she closed them forever.
Life came out of her.
She returned into calm darkness.
Light Within the Darkness
35 Years Later
Play Imperial Lounge, Adetokunbo Ademola Crescent, Wuse 2, Abuja
2:35 a.m.
The place was as bright as day. Music filled the air; confident men and women went about their business. By a chair stood a man with his eyes closed, holding a glass cup of White House wine, sipping slowly. He wore Versace Light Blue, the scent of Clive Christian No. 1 perfume lingering heavily. He checked his Rolex, clicked his tongue lightly, set the glass down, picked up his car keys, and headed for the exit.
“Where are you going? The night isn’t over yet.”
A young man spoke, holding a glass of alcohol in one hand and a slim girl in a tight short dress in the other. When he got no response, he reached out to touch him. The man pulled away sharply, giving him a cold look. The friend scoffed. “Calm down, let’s get you one more cup.”
“I’m going home,” he replied, turning away. Faisal watched him leave and smacked his lips.
The night was deep and quiet, broken only by dogs barking and distant club music. He got into a black Lamborghini Aventador, waited two minutes, whispered “Bismillah,” and sped onto the main road. A light drizzle fell—it was the rainy season. He exhaled slowly as he drove through Kwame Nkrumah Road in Asokoro. He parked in front of a mansion, honked briefly, and the gate opened automatically. The house stood in calm dignity, surrounded by high walls blending aesthetics with security. Armed guards stood alert at the entrance.
Inside was a lush, serene garden, modern lights illuminating the path, trees and flowers releasing cool, pleasant air—like a presidential retreat. The main building rose elegantly, with reflective glass windows and wide balconies. He parked, stepped out, ignored the guards greeting him, and went straight inside.
In the spacious, tastefully furnished main parlor—Italian leather sofas, large glass windows, a sparkling chandelier, modern wallpaper, a huge flat-screen TV, and powerful sound systems—everything screamed luxury and quiet power. He found her pacing restlessly. She was a large, beautiful woman, no more than 47 years old. He glanced at her and turned to leave.
“Zayyad!”
He froze without turning. She walked up to him and asked, “Where are you coming from?” He didn’t answer, just looked away.
“Is this the life you chose for yourself? Is this how you want to live? Choosing destruction over what is right? Why, Zayyad? Why?”
Her voice broke, tears filling her eyes. He sighed, his vision blurring slightly from the alcohol.
“Zayyad!”
He turned and looked at her. “Mommah, did I do anything wrong? Why do you always want to interfere in my life? Just leave me alone, please.” He clasped his hands together and walked briskly up the stairs, ignoring her. She watched him disappear, wiped her tears, and followed slowly.
At the first call to dawn prayer, she performed ablution and prayed, asking Allah to ease whatever troubled Zayyad. When the full call began, she went to his apartment. She knocked, then entered quietly. Everything was neat; the room smelled fresh. The sound system was on, a can of Coke nearby—he hadn’t left long ago. She entered the bedroom and found him applying Clive Christian No. 1 perfume, dressed in a coffee-colored jalabiya and a cap.
“So you’re awake?” she asked.
He nodded without turning. Later, he faced her. She smiled; he looked like he was about to cry.
“Mommah.”
“Zayyad.”
“Mosque,” he said, picking up his phone.
“Go and return safely,” she replied.
They walked out together. He took his car keys and left downstairs; she went back to her room.
After praying at the home mosque, he received a call, frowned slightly, and drove off in a black Lexus Jeep.
She sat on her bed, whispering to herself, “Where would he go at dawn?”
There was no answer— not even from Zayyad himself.
Transcorp Hilton, Maitama, Abuja
He parked, entered quickly, and spotted Faisal seated in the restaurant. He sat opposite him in silence.
“What’s going on? You said you’d come back yesterday. We heard nothing. That girl is grown too, yet you keep humiliating her.”
Zayyad scoffed. “What do I care whose daughter she is? I just wasn’t ready. That’s why I left. Besides, is it compulsory? I asked for her, then I changed my mind. What’s the problem?” He stood up to leave.
Faisal stood too and asked, “So what exactly do you mean by that?”