Kauna Da So Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

Evening Drive in Abuja
 
Around 7 p.m., a black SUV cruised along Ahmadu Bello Way in Abuja. Inside sat a distinguished man, about 65, dressed in a white kaftan and trousers, with a red pointed cap adorned with a long white feather. His feet rested in stylish black Prada sandals, a long walking stick leaned beside him. His skin was a pale yellowish tone, and his neatly trimmed beard framed a serious face.
 
His Samsung Galaxy Fold rang. Seeing the caller saved as ACHALOUGO, he answered.
“Good evening, my husband,” an elderly woman’s Igbo voice greeted.
“How are you?” he replied warmly.
Her tone changed. “It’s after 7, and Ziora hasn’t returned from school.”
 
He checked his Rolex — 7:30. “Have you sent Obinna to look for her?”
“They went to school, but she’s not there. Her phone is off,” she said, voice cracking.
Trying to calm her, he said, “She’ll be back.”
But she snapped, “This is always what you say. You’re spoiling her!”
He cut her short: “This isn’t the time for fighting. Let’s think where she might be.”
 
Turning to his driver, Babasani, he asked in Hausa-tinged Igbo, “Where could Amrah be?”
After a pause, Babasani recalled a dance spot she liked. “Take me there,” the man ordered.
 
The Dance Studio
 
They arrived at a sleek gym with mirrored walls, booming speakers, and cold air from powerful AC units. Young women in gym wear filled the room — many non-Muslim, with hair extensions and cross necklaces. On a raised 360° platform, a tall girl danced effortlessly, hyped by friends shouting:
“Go Ziora! Give ’em!”
 
Her face was hidden under a black cap, but her long hair flowed to her waist. She wore a black designer Alo gym top and matching tight leggings, sneakers, and white socks. Her glowing Igbo-toned skin was flawless. She moved with the skill of an international performer.
 
The Mother Arrives
 
A light-skinned woman in an adire bubu and short attachment hairstyle entered, hands over her ears from the loud music. Scanning the crowd, she spotted the dancer instantly — a mother always knows her child. Storming forward, she silenced two girls cheering Ziora with a fierce glare.
 
Without warning, she smacked the dancer’s backside just as the music stopped. Shocked, the girl turned — her cap knocked off — revealing beautiful features: baby-pink lips, defined brows, and long lashes. She kept her head down, shame written on her face.
 
“Is this the school I send you to? When did you last attend lectures? All this while, you’ve been here?” her mother barked. Ziora stayed silent, increasing her mother’s fury.
 
Pointing to the crowd, the woman declared, “My daughter comes from a well-reputed family!”
“Mommy, you’re embarrassing meee,” Ziora whined in a sweet, girlish voice.
The mother shot back, “I won’t let you ruin your home training!”
Pulling her away, she warned the girls: “If I see her here again, I’ll shut this place down.”
 
Confrontation Outside
 
As they left, Ziora protested, “My bag!” Fetching it, she also asked to change clothes, but her mother refused. Outside, her father stepped from the SUV.
“Why is she dressed like this, Nwunye?” he asked.
Before her mother could answer, Ziora jumped in: “I told Mommy I wanted to change, but she didn’t let me.”
 
Her brother Obinna scolded her — “Are you stupid?” — but she hid behind her mother. Their father told Obinna, “Don’t touch her. Let’s go home.” He directed Ziora into his car, where he retrieved an abaya from her bag.
 
“This is the last time I see you dressed like this. What did your Ustaz say about exposing your body?”
“It’s haram,” she murmured.
“And when you do haram things?”
“Astagafurullah,” she answered.
 
The Lighter Incident
 
As they drove, he searched her bag, finding schoolbooks with no notes — and a lighter.
“What are you doing with this, Baby?” he asked, using one of her many nicknames.
“It’s my friend Mirabel’s, Daddy. I don’t smoke — smell my mouth.”
 
Opening her small, adorable mouth, she proved she was telling the truth. “See? Mommy would lie and say she smelled it.”
“Don’t call your mother a liar,” he warned.
“But she does!” Ziora pouted.
 
The Real Issue
 
“Why be friends with someone who smokes?” he asked.
“Abikin barwo is not barwo,” she replied in broken Hausa, making him chuckle.
Then he asked why she skipped classes.
 
Leaning against him like a little girl, she said, “I want to be a dancer. I don’t like school. All my brothers study in the UK — why me in Nigeria?”
“Because you’re stubborn,” he said plainly. “I can’t trust you alone abroad. You’d end up in trouble. Besides, who would I see when I visit — my wives?”
She giggled. Her charm always softened him, causing endless arguments between him and her mother.
 
“Mommy hit my bombom; it still hurts,” she complained, rubbing the spot. He laughed but warned, “If you keep skipping class, I’ll scold you too.”