Ido A Duhu Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

A Terrifying Cry at the Gate
 
A sudden piercing cry erupted from the direction of the gate, spreading fear across the mansion. The gatekeeper had barely opened the gate when a car sped in recklessly, nearly crushing him. He leapt aside in fright, releasing the gate as the vehicle forced its way through.
 
The driver—clearly the master of the house—stopped abruptly, stepping out with panic written across his face. The other passengers dashed into the compound, confusion consuming them. Who was inside the house making that dreadful cry? Hadn’t they left no one behind?
 
“Musa! Who is inside this house?” the master demanded, glaring fiercely at the trembling gatekeeper. Musa stammered, “By Allah, I do not know, ranka shi dade.”
 
“What? You don’t know? Then whose car is parked at the entrance? How could someone enter my house without your knowledge? What is the purpose of your work then?” His anger was cut short when suddenly, a young lady rushed out screaming:
 
“Wayyo Allah! They’ve killed him! Wallahi they’ve killed him!”
 
The man froze, rooted to the spot, heart thundering. Who was killed? he wondered. The girl pointed frantically towards the living room. He released her and bolted inside, his chest heaving.
 
Inside, the sight before him shook him to his core:
 
A young man stood clutching a blood-stained knife, his face hard, unremorseful.
 
Nearby, a girl crouched, weeping uncontrollably.
 
In the arms of an older woman lay a young man, motionless, soaked in blood.
 
 
The woman wailed, shaking the lifeless body, before storming toward the knife-wielding boy. She slapped him hard twice, screaming:
 
“Who are you? Who sent you? What did my son ever do to you?”
 
But the boy only lowered his head, showing no remorse, no fear—only defiance.
 
The master, overwhelmed, muttered, “Innalillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un,” then called the Commissioner of Police. Within minutes, police vehicles stormed the compound. They arrested the knife-wielding youth, though he resisted, boasting arrogantly:
 
“Do you know who my father is? Even if you arrest me, nothing will happen! I do not regret his death!”
 
His words enraged everyone present. An officer struck him with the butt of a gun, dropping him to his knees. He was shackled and dragged out, but not before he cast a threatening glare at the crying girl.
 
The master, grief-stricken, commanded:
 
“Inspector, torture him until he reveals who sent him! I will not rest until justice is done. I must see the one who gave him courage to kill my son inside my own house.”
 
As the police carried the suspect away, the girl was told:
 
“You alone can testify to what happened. If you hide the truth, I will never forgive you.”
 
Still weeping, she left quietly, leaving the mother sobbing, the daughters clinging to her, and the father consumed by a burning desire for vengeance.
 
A Father’s Torment
 
At 6:35pm, the bereaved father sat in the courtyard with his wife, a beautiful Fulani woman in her forties. They had been enjoying a lighthearted conversation when his phone rang.
 
The moment he heard the voice from the other end, his entire demeanor changed. His face hardened, transforming from a loving husband into a man crushed by grief.
 
“Innalillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un,” he murmured. “Which police station was he taken to? A murder case? Fine—conduct the investigation fully. Do not spare him.”
 
His wife, startled by the sudden change, trembled with fear. Finally, she gathered strength and asked softly:
 
“My love, what is it? Why this distress?”
 
With a heavy sigh, he answered:
 
“My greatest worry every day is that boy—my only son. I raised all my children with discipline and love, never failing in my duty to Allah. But this one son has been nothing but a burden of sorrow. His stubbornness, his arrogance… I always warned you, yet you thought I was too harsh. Now look—he has taken another’s life, inside their home!
 
He thinks being my son will shield him, but I swear, I will not interfere. Let him face justice. I will not spend a single kobo to save him. He has brought shame to me.”
 
His wife’s heart sank. Dizziness overtook her. She shook her head violently, crying:
 
“No! This cannot be true! My son cannot kill. Kisa? Murder? Impossible!”
 
But her husband’s eyes remained cold.
 
“Do you not know your son’s dark heart? Have you forgotten his defiance? What is left that he cannot do? Someone’s child has been slaughtered—do you know the pain of that family? And you want me to cover it up? Never! I will let the law deal with him.”
 
She broke into uncontrollable tears, begging, “At least intervene, for my sake! A mother’s hand cannot cut off her own child.”
 
But he turned away, whispering bitterly:
 
“Even if he is my only son, justice must prevail. The blood of the innocent will not go unanswered.”
 
The Weight of Justice
 
The family was torn apart—grief, anger, shame, and helplessness intermingled. The father could not understand how his son had returned to the country without his knowledge, nor what connection he had with the victim.
 
All he knew was one thing: he would not forgive, he would not forget. The boy must pay for his crime.
 
In the police vehicle, the arrogant son kept silent, his mind racing, though his earlier bravado had shaken the girl who witnessed everything. She alone carried the burden of truth—her testimony could either expose or bury the entire case.
 
The father, meanwhile, struggled with his conscience: torn between natural love for his only child and the righteous fury of a man whose honor had been trampled.
 
A Mother’s Plea and a Father’s Resolve
 
As night fell, his wife clung to him, tears streaming down her face.
 
“Please,” she whispered, “do something. Save our son. No matter what he has done, he is still your blood.”
 
But the man’s eyes, once gentle, now burned with fire.
 
“You do not understand, woman. Do you know what it means for a parent to lose a child to murder? Do you know the torment of burying the fruit of your womb? That is what another mother is going through now because of our son. And you ask me to save him?”
 
Her cries echoed in the courtyard, but his heart remained unmoved.
 
“I swear by Allah,” he said firmly, “if the law does not punish him, I will. For the blood of the innocent must not be wasted.”