Idan Kaya Ya Gaji Part 3 Complete Hausa Novel

Morning Uncertainty
 
By morning, Sabuwa didn’t know what state she was in. Her bag was in Dr. Kamilu’s car, and since he’d thrown the bag into the car he hadn’t remembered any other bag — not until the woman’s phone went silent. Dr. Kamilu didn’t bring her to the hospital until evening; by then Dr. Mu'awiya was getting ready to leave for rest. He went straight into Dr. Mu'awiya’s office and found him seated, but Sabuwa’s bag was on the desk in front of him.
 
“Ah, Doctor, you’re here? I was about to switch these machines off and rest,” Dr. Mu'awiya said.
 
Dr. Kamilu eased himself into a chair. “I only just managed to come in. I came to hear what’s troubling the patient you brought, and how she is now.”
 
Dr. Mu'awiya straightened and replied, “She’s in a very bad condition — truly. She’s suffering from severe anxiety. Her pulse is high and she’s taken very strong drugs. You know how high blood pressure and hard drugs mix with anxiety, right? Her symptoms show she’s deeply troubled. Before the nurse could inject her she was muttering, calling someone’s name we couldn’t understand. It could be pain, it could be shock, maybe delirium. We sedated her and she’s lying down now. Keep watching her since you came.”
 
Dr. Kamilu kept shaking his head, bewildered about why Sabuwa would risk her life like that. May God protect her — maybe when she fell in that hotel he held her and prevented a worse injury. Now people are saying different things, but God sent him so he could become her shield.
 
“May God help her, Dr. Mu'awiya. Women have been ruined by drugs; they throw themselves into these lives only God can save them from,” Dr. Kamilu sighed.
 
“Hmm, Doctor, most who abuse hard drugs do so to escape a heavy distress that haunts them. They don’t realize they’re risking their lives. This good woman you brought — someone so fine — didn’t deserve to throw her life away like this.”
 
Dr. Kamilu stood up, took a breath and asked, “Which room is she in?”
 
“Room 4, second bed. That ward is for patients with similar problems — they’re grouped together so it’s calm; they need quiet and rest.”
 
He nodded and went to Room 4. The room was silent; there were four patients, each lying on their bed, apparently sleeping. Each bedside table had patient items — juice, snacks, food containers, even milk bottles. Sabuwa’s bed had no belongings on the side. He looked at her face; though he did not know her well, her features showed pain — as if she was consumed by suffering.
 
He didn’t stay long — he returned to his office and sat. That’s when he remembered Sabuwa’s bag in the back of his car. He suddenly rose to go fetch it, but Nurse Samira came in quickly.
 
“Doctor, the patient you brought yesterday has woken. She’s not speaking, but tears stream from her eyes.”
 
Sabuwa Wakes
 
I slowly felt my eyes open and a heavy weight across my whole body. With difficulty my eyes opened but everything I saw was blurry and I couldn’t tell where I was. I heard a man’s voice near me saying, “She shouldn’t have been given that injection yet. How did she wake? Show me the injection you gave her.”
 
After that I lost sense of where I was again. A dark kind of sleep overwhelmed me — my first meeting with Babangida kept replaying in my mind, dragging at my thoughts and reason. I felt as if even my enemy would pity me and weep for me.
 
Continuing Memories
 
“Tell me, what is your name, beautiful?” he asked.
 
Because Babangida’s hand kept roaming my body, I couldn’t answer at first. Then, reluctantly and truthfully, I managed to say my name.
 
“Sabuwa — the name suits you. Come, let’s take a little walk and dance. I don’t even know if you smoke, let alone whether I should bring you cigarettes.”
 
I had been missing those things so much that a faint craving stirred inside me.
 
“Come on,” he said, taking my hand. We moved to where people were dancing — a place full of disgrace and bad manners. What had happened between Babangida and me became obvious there: the smoking, the rest of it — I can’t even count how many cigarettes I smoked.
 
Babangida led me out of the club to a long sitting room that connected to the private rooms of guests. He pushed me into a room where his friends sat — Mustapha, Gaddafi, Hannafi, and Sani (may God have mercy on him — he’s dead now). Each man had a woman beside him, chatting, eating, and smoking.
 
“Men, this one is hot,” Mustapha joked, licking his lips. Babangida slapped his shoulder. “You fool. She’s not like your Karina. Look at her — you can tell she’ll burn down the place. Baby, let’s go.”
 
He guided me into the main room where his friends and their girls sat. The bed there was torn and showed signs that a lot had happened. Babangida climbed onto the bed and offered me his hands. That night became the worst night of my life, the night whose story I could never bear to tell. Yet somehow, that night felt special among the many nights I spent with men at clubs.
 
Babangida took care to outdo himself, but he did not surpass Khalid — they made only a show of dominance. But Babangida was better at charming a woman; he could make a woman feel he was the best, with his gifts (Khadija was an expert at flattery). After everything settled we bathed together and when we came out Babangida sat me on his lap and, in a quiet, soft voice while lowering his eyes said:
 
“Sabuwa, I love you. You made my heart stubborn. But I am jealous. How will you calm my jealousy? I go mad when I see my girl with another man. I am stubborn; I want you to live like I was created for you. How will we do it?”
 
I teased him lightly, “Do you want me to abandon all my other suitors just to keep you alone?” I finished with an inner smile that I did not speak aloud, but his features showed he liked it. He adjusted my position on his lap.
 
“That’s what I want,” he said.
 
But then playfully he said, “You know you don’t love yourself enough. When someone like me appears, things get sweet.” I laughed and he made loving noises, seeming to plan to take me again. Indeed he did.
 
Before we left the living room Babangida made sure he had offered every pleasure you know, and had me promise to keep myself for him alone; he promised we would meet secretly and he would give me money every week, by God. In those living rooms we stayed overnight with his friends; some would go to a room and come back later.
 
The next morning Babangida took me home in his friend Sani’s car. He gave me some leftover food, sweet drinks, and he counted out ten thousand naira for me. The money made me feel humiliated — but the effect of his love had grown so deep in my heart that it almost erased Khalid’s memory in my life; I felt I could give myself to him freely and not demand repayment. I thanked him and entered my house.
 
Little Shuwa saw me and ran to hug me. My heart filled with joy and the thrill of the new love, I felt luckier than other women in this world. We went into a room laughing mischievously. We could hear Rakiya calling and warning us, “Tell me what happened! I saw the two of you go out together. He looks even better than Khalid.”
 
He wasn’t just better in looks; he surpassed Khalid in every way — only money Khalid could show off. Little Shuwa laughed — I know her love of money well.
 
“If a boy takes me out and gives me gifts, I won’t stop seeing him. I don’t love hardship; I love money. If he gives me everything, I’ll prefer him — money matters most,” she said, and we all laughed loudly.
 
I told her the whole story; I was happy. “Just don’t be naive. You know the club life is untrustworthy. If a guy takes you to a room and sleeps with you, gives you money and you think he’ll marry you — that only happens if you use magic or if Maigogul plans it.”
 
We all laughed. Later the other girls who stayed in our room came in and we relaxed our conversation. Each woman showed off the gifts she’d received. Rakiya came in and announced, “Everyone must bring three hundred for electricity — they warned that if we don’t pay soon the power will be cut. Lolo, your body got strong because you didn’t come back for days and stayed. Remember what the doctor said. If only you had married someone better than this trouble.”
 
I handed Rakiya five hundred naira; others gave amounts too. “Even if it’s three hundred, give it so I can buy soap to wash my clothes,” one said. A woman said she had no money; another said the service charge was pending. I gave Rakiya two hundred as change. I felt compassion for her — a mother despite her vices. I gave her five hundred again. Her face brightened as if blessed.
 
That day was full of pleasure and joy. In the evening Babangida borrowed his friend’s car and picked me up; we drove around the town, chatting with love. I didn’t sleep at home that night — he took me to a friend’s room behind their street and I stayed there.
 
After everything settled, at around Maghrib prayer Babangida took a quick bath in the room and came out hurriedly. I lay watching TV, nothing special at all in my heart.
 
“Baby, I’ll go to the mosque to pray. I won’t come back until nine. I’ll go to our house — there’s a school I teach at after Isha. It’s my father’s school; we’re helping him. After I dismiss the students I’ll return — should I come in to see you?”
 
I opened my eyes and asked, “What do you teach them? So you’re a teacher now?”
 
He bent and laughed. “You think I was joking? I’m serious — my father is a teacher and my mother a teacher. My children are all students — we help our father’s school. After you come out from those lanes you’ll see our house full of pupils.”
 
I nodded, amused at the “teacher” persona of a man who resisted the manners of a real teacher.
 
“All right. If you come, bring me a cold fanta and chilled watermelon; I’ll like that.”
 
He did as he said — Babangida got up and brought me a message; we spent the night until almost dawn doing what I knew well: sinful acts and losing dignity. That night we didn’t go to the club. We stayed in that room and in the morning after I bathed and got ready to go home, Babangida pulled me close and fell onto me.
 
“But you said you wouldn’t be long. Don’t leave me waiting here. Though I want to go home to greet my mother.”
 
We laughed. In my heart I knew Babangida would not marry me; he only wanted the freshness of my youth. Even though he promised marriage, he never made me speak of it seriously. He gave me sweet words but my routine continued: I would go home to fetch my things and return to his friend’s room, staying two days and then going back. We lived that life — may God protect us — me and Babangida.
 
Gradually our love deepened into a powerful affection — there was a love he always showed me. Although he didn’t have Khalid’s money, Babangida gave me everything else: his time, his presence. We were always together. Because of Babangida, I opened my eyes to nights out and clubbing; he himself went to clubs often. Whenever a suitor paid attention to me, Babangida would confront him until he tired. He fought a lot, and many men were hurt by him.