Kutkale Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

He Is Not Mad
In a state of agitation, both in his movements and in the tone of his voice, he said,
“Untie me! I’m not mad! Untie me!”
The doctor rushed in with a stethoscope hanging around his neck and papers in his hand. A nurse followed behind him, pushing a trolley carrying medicines. They hurried toward the bed where Abdul was struggling and causing a commotion. The doctor quickly moved close to the bed, adjusting the sedative he had already drawn into a syringe, intending to inject it into the IV line.
In a weak, strained voice Abdul said,
“Please, doctor, don’t give me another sedative. When will you let me go and see my mother? Just leave me like this, doctor, please.”
He paused, breathing heavily.
His aunt slowly stepped closer and placed her trembling hand on his. Looking at him, she said,
“Abdul, if you behave like this, they won’t be able to release you. Don’t hurt yourself by fighting like this or raise your blood pressure. Abdul, isn’t every living soul destined to die? Please, for our sake, gather yourself and calm down. You are a Muslim, Abdul. There is illness, shock, and trauma, but your faith should restrain you from certain things. Calm down, Abdul. She is gone. She is gone and won’t return. Wake up, Abdul. You should be standing strong, gathering courage and encouraging yourself. Stop like this, Abdul. I have no one left now except you… I have no one, Abdul…”
As she tried to console him, she broke down in tears and sank to the floor.
Abdul closed his eyes. He stopped struggling and stopped making noise. Images of her face and the life he lived beside her before she answered Allah’s call flooded his mind. He had insisted on having a guard because he thought only his own life was in danger. How did it get this far? How could this happen when he never imagined it? So now there was no Ummih? She was gone. Had he even prayed enough for her?
He quickly opened his eyes and looked at Muhammad.
With his hand, he gestured toward the restraints on his wrist. Muhammad came closer and handed him his prayer beads.
Abdul took them and said,
“Muhammad, untie me.”
Muhammad nodded and began unfastening the belt restraining him. The doctor wanted to object, but Abdul signaled that it was fine.
Once he was untied, he asked them to hold him steady. He went to perform ablution and returned. Sitting on the prayer mat, he began making up the prayers he had missed. He couldn’t stand because he felt extremely dizzy, so he prayed sitting down, which took him a long time.
When he finished, he devoted himself to reciting supplications for his mother, his parents, and all deceased Muslims. He prayed intensely, lost in thought, until he lifted his head and stared into space, imagining how a body is shrouded: the fingers tied together, the nose and ears plugged, the body wrapped in the burial cloth, the feet tied.
(So this is a human being—in the end, they tie him up.)
He imagined the tightness of the grave, being laid on the right side, wooden planks placed over him, soil covering everything. Then he would be left alone, hearing the footsteps of his relatives as they departed the cemetery.
Was this how his mother had been buried without him? Was she placed there without him knowing whether prayers were recited for her? How did she answer the questioning in the grave? Now that it had been ten days since her death, was she in the mercy of her Lord within that chamber that could be either a garden or a prison?
“O Allah, have mercy on our parents. O Allah, have mercy on our forefathers. O Allah, have mercy on all deceased Muslims. O Allah, grant us provisions to reunite with them in goodness…”
He continued to shed tears, crying deeply from his heart.
The Next Morning
The next day, she got ready for school around ten o’clock.
She only watched her silently. When she spoke to her, she wore loose trousers, a small top, and placed a cap on her head. To her surprise, even when she tried to stop her from wearing it, she instead handed her the bag she had packed with her school necessities. They both went out and entered the car.
As the driver drove, Hafsat looked out at the road while she stared at Hafsat.
She smiled and said,
“Are you upset?”
Hafsat knew she was being addressed but pretended not to notice.
She reached out to touch Hafsat’s thigh to talk to her, but Hafsat pulled her leg away and glared at her.
“Don’t you dare touch my leg.”
She smiled again, withdrawing her hand apologetically, as if to show she meant no harm.
Looking at her, she said,
“You know I’m older than you, right?”
Hafsat turned her big eyes toward her face and stared. Yes, she was older.
Hafsat turned her head away without replying.
She persisted,
“If I’ve offended you, please forgive me. You see these clothes I’m wearing—did you forbid me from wearing them?”
Hafsat turned to look at her again. Forbid her? Was she crazy or what?
She shook her head slowly and said,
“Enjoy your freedom while you still have it. Don’t be foolish…”