Kundin Qaddarata Final Part Complete Hausa Novel

It was a medium-sized living room furnished with a set of chairs, curtains, and a carpet, all in ash colors—elegant, neat, and bright. On one side stood a medium-sized plasma television, with a receiver and DVD player neatly arranged beneath it.
From every corner of the living room stood flowers placed in upright flower vases of moderate cost. The room was very attractive, not because a huge amount of money had been spent on it, but because everything was well organized and properly placed. In addition, the high level of cleanliness filled the room with the cool, pleasant scent of burning incense.
The owner of the living room was seated on one of the chairs. She was a young woman, no more than eighteen years old, fair-skinned but not overly pale. She possessed moderate beauty, which was further enhanced by the orange shadda bubu she wore. Her shadda veil lay beside her, revealing the small, neat braids on her head—no fewer than about one hundred and fifty. Just as the living room smelled pleasant, so did her body.
Slowly, for the umpteenth time, she raised her head and fixed her gaze on the wall clock mounted above the plasma television directly in front of her.
She lowered her eyes again and turned her attention to the small center table before her. Stretching out her hand, she picked up her Tecno W3 phone and once again dialed the number she had been persistently calling for some time. 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.
Once more, the response was the same. It was unusual for him to stay out this late without returning home. Most times, he did not go beyond eight o’clock. If he stayed out longer than usual, she often assumed 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, shifting slightly as she lay back on the chair, feeling loneliness wash over her. She missed children dearly; she loved them passionately. Yet Allah had not blessed her with children of her own throughout the six years of her marriage—especially considering that she had married at the tender age of twelve.
She was deep in thought when she 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 their spacious courtyard. Besides her inner room and the living room, there were two en-suite rooms—one belonging to the man of the house, and the other used to store miscellaneous items. There was also a bathroom on one side, with a well beside it, and a spacious kitchen facing the two en-suite rooms, larger than their own rooms. The courtyard, like the entire house, was extremely clean—so spotless it felt as though one could eat straight off the floor.
She stood there as he finished opening the gate and pushed in his motorcycle, a Lifan Companion, parking it to one side of the courtyard. As she approached him, she greeted him with a smile, saying, “Welcome.” But her smile slowly began to fade when she noticed the lack of cheer on his face as he replied,
“Thank you, welcome home. I left you alone and stopped by Ya Yahanasu’s house.”
“Yes, I thought so,” she said softly, reaching out to collect his bag and nylon from him. Her gentleness surprised him even more, because this was not how she usually welcomed him when he returned home.
She walked ahead while he followed behind her, watching her closely. Everything about her simplicity fascinated him. He still remembered marrying her at such a young age, when she could barely be considered mature. Yet now, one could hardly believe she was the same Sumayya he married six years earlier.
She left him in the living room and returned to the courtyard to prepare water for his bath, her heart telling her again that something was troubling her Mukhtar today. He was the man she always helped bring in his motorcycle by opening and closing the gate, the man who would hug her upon entering, praise her appearance, and tease her endlessly just to make her laugh. Sometimes they even prepared the bath water together. Whenever he returned, he never let her lips rest—he was playful and loved making her smile.
She returned to the living room, drying her hands, and found him sitting exactly as she had left him. Without saying a word, she walked up to him and helped remove his clothes. He said nothing, only watched her as she worked. When she finished, she handed him a towel. He took it, 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 then returned to the living room.
They both ate quietly, only moving their spoons. The worry she sensed in him prevented her from relaxing enough to eat, despite her hunger. She could hardly eat unless they ate together. If not for the children who often came around—whom she treated like younger siblings—she would hardly eat lunch as well. She wanted to ask him what was wrong but did not want to interrupt him. He usually shared his worries with her without being asked, treating her like a confidant. Her heart remained deeply unsettled.
Slowly, he raised his eyes and looked at her, realizing where he was. Pity filled his heart; he did not like seeing her worried. Worse still, he feared that if this continued, her worry would soon become heavier than it already was.
He set his spoon down, forced a smile, and held her hands.
“Are you okay today, my Sumy?” he asked gently.
In a weak voice, struggling to hold back the tears gathering in her eyes, she tilted her head sadly.
“I wanted to ask you, Ya Mukhtar,” she said, her voice trembling.
He raised his eyebrows.
“What happened?”
She tried to steady her voice.
“I have never seen you this worried, Ya Mukhtar. What is wrong with you?”
He shook his head and forced another smile, trying to place it firmly on his face. He did not know where to begin, and he was sure the burden would weigh heavier on her heart than on his. He did not want to trouble her at all, yet Ya Yahanasu seemed determined to drag both of them into worry. Her love and compassion meant a great deal to him.
“Sumayyaaa,” he slowly drew out her name while looking at her.
“There is nothing troubling me. I’m just tired. Come closer and eat—I’m sure you haven’t eaten anything.”
He pulled his plate closer, removed her spoon, and began stirring the food with his own spoon, 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 that 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 do something, she would refuse to eat and spend the night worrying. So he said,
“Alright. I’ll tell you—but not now. It’s late. God willing, I’ll tell you tomorrow. For now, come and eat.”
“You promise?” she asked, making him laugh because of how her childish innocence showed clearly in her tone.
“Yes, I promise,” he replied.
Even when they went to bed, he continued trying to hide his worries, forcing himself to do everything he normally did to ease her mind and make her relax. It can be said that he slept very little that night. In the darkness of the room, he kept turning over, replaying the conversation he had earlier with Ya Yahanasu. While lost in those thoughts, sleep eventually overtook him.