Hukuncin Allah Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

Halima’s Bold Decision
 
Halima sat alone, lost in thought at the doorway of her room. Her husband had left early for his mechanic work, as he always did. Their daily routine was tough—he worked long hours, and only when he returned would they prepare whatever little food they could find.
 
Tired of the hardship, Halima made a decision: she would sell her room’s furniture to buy even a small used fridge and start a cold drinks business. She hoped this would help her contribute to their daily needs.
 
When her husband returned that evening, she wasted no time. She told him her plan. He sat quietly, sighing deeply on his mat, enjoying the evening breeze.
 
“Halima,” he said gently, “your plan isn’t bad, but times are hard for everyone. If you sell those things, there's no guarantee you’ll be able to replace them later. You might regret it.”
 
She replied firmly, “I’ve made up my mind. Please just allow me.”
 
Realizing she wouldn’t change her mind, he let her be. He understood the times had changed—even village women no longer blindly obeyed their husbands.
 
A Risk Turned Reward
 
The next day, while he was out, Halima called a local reseller and sold her furniture for a modest sum. With the money in hand, she waited eagerly for her husband’s return.
 
When she told him, he simply nodded—he didn’t want to argue or make her feel he wanted a share of the money.
 
After Maghrib prayers, she went straight to the market. Luckily, she found a dealer with three fridges for sale and managed to get a decent one within her budget. Overjoyed, she hired someone to help transport it home.
 
When her husband came back and saw it, he wished her well. From that day, Halima began her small cold drinks business and slowly started earning some income. It didn’t solve all their problems, but it brought relief—and dignity.
 
A New Day in Town
 
Early the next morning, the town buzzed with life. People rushed about, and the smell of fried masa (rice cakes) filled the air. At Gwago Asmau’s house, customers lined up for the delicious masa she had been frying since dawn.
 
Today, Bintu, a young village girl staying with Gwago, helped her. Her hands were clean, her methods neat—very different from how she used to work. She advised Gwago to improve the masa recipe to make it lighter and more appealing for customers with stomach ulcers.
 
Gwago was surprised. “You know all this, Bintu? From the village?”
 
Bintu smiled. “I saw our neighbor in Bauchi do it. It sells well.”
 
She suggested soaking rice overnight, grinding it with a bit of flour and yeast, and adding some baking powder. Gwago was skeptical but agreed to try.
 
The first batch turned out great—light, fluffy, and tasty. The next day, customers were full of praise.
“This masa is soft, not sour at all. Even the stew is better!” they said.
 
Word of the improved masa spread fast across town.
 
Delivering Change
 
That evening, someone from Malam Habu’s house came to buy ₦1,500 worth of masa. They had no change at Gwago’s, so Bintu was asked to deliver it later. Though she usually avoided going into people’s houses, she accepted.
 
With her hijab and a small plastic bag in hand, Bintu followed the directions Gwago gave. At the gate, she greeted politely but got no response from the young man tying his football boots. He simply pointed silently toward the women’s quarters.
 
Inside, she felt nervous—it was a compound with four separate female apartments. She didn’t know who to ask.
 
“Peace be upon you,” she said, standing at the entrance. A fair, chubby woman responded coldly, “Yes? What do you want?”
 
“I brought change for the masa, from Hajiyar Masa’s house.”
 
The woman scoffed. “Go ask inside. Don’t just stand there.”
 
Clearly, Bintu had stumbled into a house with rival wives. Just as she was about to leave, a second woman emerged—darker-skinned, friendly, carrying a mop and a bucket.
 
“You’re from Hajiyar Masa’s house?” she asked with a smile.
“Yes,” Bintu replied, offering the ₦500.
 
“Come inside. Don’t just leave. Sit for a moment.”
 
Bintu entered the sitting room, surprised by its neatness. The woman showed her a seat and called out, “Amira!”
 
A tall girl emerged. Bintu greeted her politely. Her mother told her, “Ask around the house who collected masa this morning.”
 
Amira pouted. “I hate going into people’s rooms. They’ll gossip if you step in once!”
 
Her mother insisted, “Just go and ask.”
 
Warm Words and Silent Lessons
 
Amira returned after a while. “Maman Hadiza said to leave the money; maybe it's Baba’s. But she didn’t see any cash.”
 
Her mother sighed. “Why didn’t you leave it if she asked?”
 
“I just wanted to check with others first,” Amira mumbled.
 
The mother, calmly and kindly, said, “Don’t worry. When Baba comes back, I’ll ask. If it’s not his, I’ll return the money.”
 
Bintu watched quietly, deeply touched by the gentle parenting she witnessed. She admired how the woman addressed her daughter with such understanding and grace.
 
Just as she stood up to leave, a young man named Umar stormed into the room without even a greeting.
 
“I’m going to the field now,” he declared, irritated.
 
“Can you at least greet people first? You just burst in like that, smelling like perfume,” his mother scolded gently. “Is football really your life’s ambition?”
 
Without replying, Umar left the room. His mother exhaled slowly. “May Allah guide you, my son.”
 
From behind, Bintu whispered, “Ameen, Mama.”
 
That one word—calmly spoken—warmed the woman’s heart more than Bintu could know.