Idan Rana Ta Fito Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

Chasing the Car — The Third Time I’ve Seen It
 
I almost missed the car; not everyone in the village was watching it, but for me this was the third time — the third time a car had come, and it was going to Maigari’s house. Maigari’s people are the ones who have relatives in the city. I followed the car to see the house so I would forget about the errand I was sent on, but when I reached Maigari’s gate the car stopped. I moved on because I really wanted to see inside the car; I wanted to know if it looked like a room. I widened my eyes when I saw who stepped out — a handsome young man from the city wearing neat clothes, with a scent rising from him. I didn’t know when I opened my mouth and stared. He headed into Maigari’s house and, without realizing, I followed him. Suddenly I felt dizzy; that’s when my senses came back and I remembered what I was supposed to buy: roasted guinea corn (kanwa). Today I decided I would beat everyone at Baba Gaje’s place — there is no day I don’t get scolded three or four times. Sometimes I know it’s my own fault because I can’t help looking at things; I’m easily surprised.
 
When I returned after buying the kanwa I circled Maigari’s house again to see if I could spot the car and that city boy once more. What I saw amazed me and tied my head in knots. He had a small girl in his hand; he put her by his ear and talked to her as if she were the only one, while the village boys continued to stare. He got in the car and the driver started it. I wanted to move closer and touch the car or at least get nearer, but I was afraid. The car drove off and I didn’t go straight home until it had disappeared.
 
When I arrived home, people were busy: Baba Gaje was carrying her tuwo (staple) and had placed the soup on the edge of the hearth — it looked like it had already been served. She glared at me and said, “Only now you see fit to come back? You wicked, lazy girl — what would stop me from beating you today, you good-for-nothing?” I began to cry and pleaded, “Please Baba, forgive me.” She stared and asked, “Where are you standing?!” Through my tears I said, “Uh… uh… at Maigari’s gate… I just stopped to look at the car.” She cut me off and kept scolding. Jummala, who was nearby, said, “Women in our house chatter like that.” Baba Gaje continued to scold me — that’s how quarrels go in our home, especially with me: nobody shows mercy because everyone knows Baba Gaje’s temper and they fear her. She’s more prosperous than others — she has many trades: kola, groundnuts, oil, rice and beans, and even koko (a drink). She’s the wealthy matriarch of our village. I hung back behind the hearth when I heard my father calling me; I came out and tried to compose myself.
 
The Scolding and the Market Errand
 
Behind the hearth I heard my father call me; I came out wiping my face. He said, “Jidda, why do you always look for trouble that will worry you?” Between sobs I said, “Baba, I was sent to buy kanwa.” He grabbed my hand and scolded, “So you dawdled and stared for a long time?” I said, “There was a car at Maigari’s gate so I stopped a little.” He said, “Stop standing and gawking.” Gaje would always do as she pleased — yes, she would give me a good telling-off. Then we heard Baba Gaje’s loud voice: “You are used to wandering and causing trouble; I will not accept that. Enough.” My father tried to reason: “Gaje, I’m not stopping you from scolding her — I’m advising so she stops gawking. But for now, forgive her; if she does it again, beat her.” Baba Gaje snapped back: “I will beat her, and she will not eat in this house again. If they send her because she’s a troublemaker, let her go to her place. She will go and return with kola, showing her mischief.” I begged for mercy, saying “please be patient…” But before I finished, I felt a slap. My father left the room because he knew he couldn’t stand to watch what would happen. In our household, if she beats one of the children and someone speaks up telling her to stop, she says that person is siding with the child. From then on the household divided: some sided with her, others with him — and if a woman interfered for me, she would also be dragged into the quarrel. Because of all this, people kept their eyes on me but if they spoke it would just be said that it was my fault, and then I would be beaten until she was satisfied. I cried, exhausted, and moved to the side. Indo and Shafa followed; Hinde, who is like the matron’s little favorite, called Salame and Laminde to come out. I wanted to follow them even though I knew Hinde might chase me away — until Baba Gaje said, “You Kuluwa, come here today. If we can’t go to the square, at least carry this tray of kola back; show me you know its worth.” She kept ordering me, pulling me to work. Her voice said, “Jidda, don’t be there.” I knelt and said, “Present, Baba.” He said, “Ungo, I know you haven’t eaten,” and handed me a black plastic bag whose contents I didn’t know. He said, “Eat it, okay? Get up and go. Where will you take the tray?” I said, “To the square to sell kola.” He nodded: “Don’t worry; be patient. God rewards the patient. Go and take care of yourself and your trade, you hear?” I said, “Okay Baba…”
 
Encounters, Kola Trading, and Family History
 
When I left I saw a tray full of kola and groundnuts; I thanked God and Baba. As I walked eating one, I didn’t notice until I bumped into someone and the tray tipped over. I looked to see who had bumped me and saw Ado standing there, watching me. I angrily grabbed the kola and muttered I would suffer today if I didn’t beat them all. Ado bowed slightly with a small smile; a little girl stood nearby, shining in the moonlight — although tonight the moon was in its fourteenth day and was especially bright. He said, “Look carefully,” and I looked at the little girl — she was pretty but not like my father’s style, bought from the city. Then he spoke to me — I never imagined Ado would speak to me because he’s known to be proud. In our village, when a letter is to be read or delivered, people always seek out Ado; he’s the big city son of Maigari and wealthier than anyone: livestock and farms; theirs are the ones who go to the city. When someone took the tray away from me I came back to my senses, trembling and anxious to see who it was… It turned out to be Bint o, Ado’s sister. She said to me, “Kuluwa, you keep staring; one day you’ll be stolen.” I laughed a little and said, “Binto, where are you going?” She asked, “To the marketplace — are you taking kola to the square?” I said, “Yes.” She said, “Hmm — you really don’t rest; you stopped going to Mkrnt.” I told her the truth: “If not for you, I’d be beaten at Mkrnt over the Wednesday money.” She told me to stop going there, that Baba took it and wouldn’t let her have it. Binto told me that’s why she stopped coming to our place and warned me to take care; Hinde and others act like they’re the men when they pay attention to us. We reached the square and I sat by the peanut seller while she lit the lamp — the tin can lamp.
 
On March 6, 2015, Aisha Ummu Shureim Sa’eed (note: likely a marker or signature in the original) — Binto sat with me and we talked; I told her about the trouble I’d had with her brother. When we returned home it turned out no one had taken the kola, so I gave her ten naira from what I earned. She counted and put it in her bag, saying, “They like these kinds — who was that man?” I said, “Ado of Maigari’s house.” Hinde jumped up saying I was lying: “Ado would listen to you?!” She kept taunting me, making my heart heavy and making me cry. Baba Gaje said, “You think you can trick people with crying? If the men pay attention to you, I don’t care — I have money.” I stood up and went to perform ablution for prayer because I always try to pray, though they said I shouldn’t groom myself to pray at odd times; even Baba Gaje doesn’t care for prayer much — if she prays she does it by habit, not by proper rules. I returned tired and hungry; my share of rice and beans had finished. I entered, crestfallen. Baba Gaje was selling kola; I gave her the money and she counted, then put the rest in the container. She told me to take the leftover porridge and go. I looked at her and said, “Baba, I’m not Hinde.” She snapped cruelly, “Yes you are — go take it and don’t come back even with a single bowl,” and I left with the small porridge dish, crying. I went along the line toward Maigari’s house to sell to some people there, when a boy ran in and startled me; the tray fell and the porridge spilled. My body trembled and I started to cry, saying, “Go to their house and tell them I’ve paid…” Later, remembering my mother who had died, I started crying again. My father told me to stop crying — people may gossip and accuse wrongly. “May God have mercy on her,” I said through tears. I looked at him. My mother was from the village of Rimi in Sumaila; my father is originally from the nearby village of Garko. He had married her because a friend arranged it; her parents had died and she lived with that friend who then gave her to my father in marriage. As you know, our home is one that gathers kin — my father is the eldest and has four younger siblings, each with their own household. Baba Dije is married in Sekahu. My mother Ladidi gave birth to Gaje (the matron), then Sani, Awwalu, Musa, Isa and Hamisu. Hinde is particularly malicious; everyone fears her the same way they fear my father. Since my mother came to this house she never rested; she did housework and the things she used to sell. Even during pregnancy she had a hard time. Some people even suspect she was the cause of my mother’s death, because she kept others away while my mother gave birth and the story goes that she announced the birth and then the death. People blamed her but no proof exists. Maybe she tried to kill; I might have died as an infant. I drank cow’s milk and grew up in my father’s house because Baba Gaje wouldn’t let anyone take me away. If I made a mistake I would be cursed and spat on; only my father defended me. As I became older and entered the school, Baba Gaje returned me to her room and treated me harshly. From then on she continued her businesses and selling; I had to work for her — if I didn’t sell she beat me. When Hinde came back with her goods I was the one who packed them. Ado sighed sympathetically and asked if no other man in the household could take action against her. I said no because they depend on her for money — if they don’t get it they won’t want to offend her. I have no claim to the house except my father; their heads are united against us. I can’t speak up when they talk; if I intervene they mock me. He asked what I had done wrong today and I told him everything. He stood and opened his box and
 took out money.