Kundin Kaddarata Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

A Neatly Arranged Living Room
It was a medium-sized living room furnished with a set of chairs, curtains, and a carpet, all in ash-colored tones—clean, elegant, and bright. On one side stood a medium-sized plasma TV with a receiver and DVD player neatly arranged beneath it. From every corner of the room stood flower vases with moderately priced artificial flowers. The living room was very attractive, not because a fortune had been spent on it, but because everything was well arranged and in its proper place. Added to that was the high level of cleanliness, filling the room with the calm, pleasant scent of burning incense.
The owner of the living room was seated on one of the chairs. She was a young woman, not more than eighteen years old, fair-skinned but not overly pale, with a moderate beauty that was further enhanced by the orange shadda bubu she wore. Her shadda veil lay beside her, revealing her neatly braided hair—tiny braids numbering close to one hundred and fifty. Just as the living room smelled pleasant, so did she.
Slowly, she raised her head for the umpteenth time and fixed her gaze on the wall clock hanging above the plasma TV directly in front of her.
Waiting and Silent Longing
She lowered her eyes again and focused on the small center table in front of her. Reaching out, she picked up her Tecno W3 phone and once again dialed the number she had been persistently calling for a while now. Even though she kept receiving the same response—that the number she was calling was switched off—it did not stop her from trying again.
The answer was still the same. It was unusual for him to be out this late without returning home. Most times, he did not stay out past eight o’clock, unless something serious had delayed him. Often, when that happened, she was certain he had gone to their elder sister’s house, Hajiya Yahanasu. But today, the house felt unusually quiet and uncomfortable, because all the children who usually kept her company had gone home, leaving her alone.
She sighed deeply and closed her eyes, then slightly shifted and lay back on the chair as loneliness washed over her. She missed children dearly; she loved them passionately. But Allah had not blessed her with children of her own in the six years of her marriage—especially since she had married at the tender age of twelve.
Lost in thought, she suddenly heard the sound of the door being unlocked with a key. She opened her eyes and checked the time—9:45 p.m., fifteen minutes to ten. She sprang up, grabbed her veil, covered her head, and gently walked out into the spacious courtyard. After the inner room and the living room, there were two en-suite rooms—one belonging to the man of the house, the other used for storing miscellaneous items. There was also a bathroom to one side with a well nearby, and a spacious kitchen facing the rooms. The entire compound, like the house itself, was spotless—so clean one could jokingly eat off the floor.
A Quiet Evening Conversation
She stood there as he finished opening the gate and pushed in his motorcycle, a Lifan Companion, parking it at one side of the compound. As she approached him, she greeted him with a smile, saying, “Welcome.” But her smile slowly faded when she noticed the absence of cheer on his face as he replied,
“Thank you, welcome home. I left you alone and stopped by Ya Yahanasu’s place.”
“Yes, I thought so,” she replied softly, reaching out to collect his bag and nylon from him. Her gentleness only deepened his surprise, as this was not how she usually welcomed him.
She walked ahead while he followed behind, watching her intently. Everything about her simplicity fascinated him. He still remembered marrying her at such a young age, when she could barely be called mature, yet now she was far from the little girl he married six years ago.
She left him in the living room and returned to the courtyard to prepare water for his bath. Her heart kept telling her that something was troubling her Mukhtar today. He was the man she welcomed home daily by opening and closing the gate for him, the man who would hug her, praise her appearance, and tease her endlessly just to make her laugh. Sometimes they even prepared the bath water together. He never let her lips rest whenever he returned; he was playful and loved seeing her smile.
She returned to the living room, drying her hands, and found him sitting exactly where she had left him. Without saying a word, she walked up to him and helped him remove his clothes. He said nothing, only watched her until she was done, then took the towel she handed him, hung it around his neck, and walked out.
Before he returned, she had already arranged the food and water for washing hands. He went straight to his room, changed into a jallabiya, and came back to the living room.
They both ate quietly, only moving their spoons. The worry she sensed in him prevented her from eating properly, despite her hunger. She could hardly eat unless they ate together. If not for the children who often came around and whom she treated like younger siblings, she would usually skip lunch as well. She wanted to ask him what was wrong but did not want to interrupt him. He usually told her his worries without being asked, as he treated her like a confidant. Her heart remained restless.
Slowly, he raised his eyes and looked at her, remembering where he was. Pity filled his heart; he disliked seeing her worried, and he feared that if this continued, her concern would only deepen.
He placed his spoon down, forced a smile, and held her hands.
“Are you okay today, my Sumy?” he asked softly.
With a trembling voice, struggling to hold back the tears gathering in her eyes, she tilted her head weakly.
“I wanted to ask, Ya Mukhtar,” she said, her voice shaking.
He raised his eyebrows.
“What happened?”
She tried to steady her voice.
“I have never seen you this worried before, Ya Mukhtar. What is troubling you?”
He shook his head and forced another smile, trying to mask his feelings. He did not know where to begin, and he knew the burden would weigh heavier on her than on him. He did not want to trouble her at all, yet Ya Yahanasu wanted to drag them both into the worry. Her love and tenderness meant everything to him.
“Sumayyaaa,” he stretched her name softly while looking at her.
“There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m just tired. Come closer and eat; I’m sure you haven’t eaten anything.”
He pulled his plate closer and removed her spoon, stirring the food with his own, clearly intending to feed her himself as he sometimes did.
She shook her head, her eyes filled with tears.
“Ya Mukhtar, please forgive me, but I don’t believe you’re not worried. I won’t eat this food until you tell me what’s bothering you.”
He set the spoon down and sighed deeply. He had no intention of telling her anything, but he realized that if he did not, she would refuse to eat and spend the night in distress. So he said,
“Alright. I will tell you—but not now. It’s late. God willing, I’ll tell you tomorrow. For now, come and eat.”
“You promise?” she asked, her childish tone making him laugh.
“Yes, I promise,” he replied.