Love Cycle Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

Checking the Time — A Sharp Exchange
 
She glanced at the wristwatch strapped to her wrist, then lifted her head and pushed out her small mouth in a tight pout. Her big eyes looked ready to cry as she watched the few people gathered in the garden — all officials and members of their department — staring at her. One look and you’d know she was beautiful: light-skinned, the kind of delicate complexion that made other women pale beside her glow. She didn’t look like the other guests; she looked more like an Arab woman, though her skin wasn’t exactly the same — it had a softer sheen — and the country’s climate had added to its graceful glow. She looked elegant and striking. She could not be older than nineteen; tall enough, not fat, not thin — just perfectly proportioned. From one glance you’d know she came from a privileged background by her clothes and her skin.
 
She checked her watch again. Before she could raise her head, someone said, “I’m sorry, my Fannah.” Furious, she turned as if she would burst into tears and snapped, “Don’t say sorry to me. If you knew how long you said you’d be gone and then left me waiting, I’m not coming back. Just five minutes — but you kept me fifteen. You know I have so much to do.”
 
The girl who had called out to her was also clearly from a privileged background; her appearance hinted at Nigerian roots, with a lively, fashionable look. She hung her head. “I’m sorry, love — I didn’t mean to…”
 
Fannah stood up, clenched her face, said nothing, and headed for the exit. Quickly the other girl rushed up to her as if about to cry: “I said I’m sorry. Okay, punish me if that’ll make you forgive me — I’ll do it.” Fannah looked at her; she knew she couldn’t stay angry at her long, but she kept her face drawn tight. Seeing her soften, the girl whispered, “Please…”
 
Fannah grabbed her ear hard and hissed, “Maryam!” in a voice full of pain. Maryam replied, “Yes, love.” “Maryam.” “Yes, dear.” “Maryam…” “Yes — please, stop! Don’t take my ear off.” Fannah snapped, “How many times did I call your name?” Maryam, near tears, said, “Three. But put your hand down so I can hear you — it hurts.”
 
“Enough. Know the value of time. You’re not in Africa — stop African time,” Fannah scolded, pushing her away. Maryam stuck out her tongue. Seeing Fannah’s look, she shrugged and said, “But I’m Nigerian — anything I do, don’t blame me.”
 
Fannah shot back, “I’m Nigerian too, but yours is worse.” They began walking. Maryam teased, “Are you saying we’re still in Nigeria?” Fannah looked at her sharply. Maryam, provoking, said, “Okay then — you’re Nigerian, right?” Fannah nodded confidently. Maryam grinned, “Name the 36 states of Nigeria.” Fannah sighed, “Don’t mock me…” then began: “Abuja, Katsina, Kano, Kaduna… Lagos…” and faltered, rubbing her head. “See, you can’t even name them. Madam, you were born and raised in the UK — you’ve never lived in Nigeria, so you’re not really Nigerian.”
 
Angry, Fannah justified herself: “My father is Nigerian — I’m a citizen. I look Nigerian; my relatives live there; I speak Hausa-Fulani — I can communicate in our language.” Maryam waved a hand: “Then live there. Know your culture. Vote. Show you belong. But you only know your father is a citizen — you don’t know what the country is going through. You can’t call yourself Nigerian just like that.” Maryam laughed and finished with a parting jab. Fannah fell silent, stung by the insult.
 
Her mother explained: Fannah had only been to Nigeria once since then and hadn’t returned. She wanted to visit again to see relatives, though she wasn’t sure whether they even wanted to see her — she just wanted to meet them. She dreamed that someday they would visit and she’d live among them forever. Maryam, listening, could tell Fannah worried — she wanted to understand her homeland for Fannah’s sake but had no way to learn everything.
 
A knock came at the office door. It wasn’t his PA; they knocked for a long time but no answer. Fannah’s face crumpled as she realized, “He left.” Maryam felt bad: “I’m sorry — this is my fault. I shouldn’t have asked you to wait.” Without a word, Fannah walked off. She wasn’t angry at Maryam personally; she was upset because the meeting didn’t happen as planned — she’d come to meet Hisam and expected him to be there. Maryam tried to comfort her: “Do you have his contact?” Fannah refused, “I won’t call him — calling is pointless; he’d get annoyed.”
 
They got into the car; Fannah drove. She dropped Maryam at her apartment and then headed home. In the parlor she found her mother watching her. Fannah rushed into her mother’s arms: “Mummy!” Her mother stroked her head and laughed at the sight of Fannah ready to cry. “When will you grow up?” her mother teased. Fannah clung to her, sniffing. “You’re getting older — I’m already planning your parties,” her mother joked. Fannah sat up, upset: “I’ve saved my money, mummy — I’m almost ready to pay my dowry; you see how grown I seem?” She grabbed her bag and dashed off. Her mother watched, knowing how to draw her out.
 
A Quiet Bathroom, A Heavy Heart
 
Fannah pushed open her bedroom door. The room smelled cool and clean — pink and ash tones decorated everything, a room clearly fit for a young woman. She undressed into her bathrobe and went into the toilet. After a short while she came out, smelling of soap and looking refreshed. She moisturized, sprayed perfume, smoothed her long black hair, and slipped into soft clothes. She wanted to lie down and sleep, but she knew her mother wouldn’t let her skip food, so she went to the parlor to eat.
 
She ate reluctantly, pulling faces but forcing herself to finish. Her mother asked, “How about school?” and Fannah answered, near tears, “Mummy…” Her mother probed, “Tell me what happened.” Fannah said, “I went to Dr. Josef’s office but he’d left. I know daddy won’t listen.” Her mother scolded, “This is your fault.” Fannah explained: she had to be present — she didn’t want the person in their group to miss out on choosing a representative. Her mother criticized how she showed her feelings and even kept an assignment in her hand — “Is that how you show your interest?” Fannah said nothing, pushed away her food, and returned to her room and slept. She did not wake until after Asr; later her mother called Hisam to wake her. She opened her eyes to see a handsome boy of maybe ten years — “Daddy’s back?” she asked. He replied no. She followed to her mother’s room where prayer was being said.
 
That night when her father returned they spoke quietly; she didn’t tell him about Dr. Josef. She thought maybe he had forgiven it, so she wouldn’t go the next day. The next morning she slept until nine; then heard her father wake her. Her sleepy eyes looked like her father’s — similar shape and skin tone. He gave her a look and said, “Well, so I selected your play’s theme?” She shook her head, feeling… (the passage ends mid-sentence).
 
Underlying Strains and Identity
 
Throughout the scene, identity and belonging are recurring themes: Fannah’s Nigerian heritage is questioned by peers who see her British upbringing; she longs to reconnect with family in Nigeria but doubts and distance make it complicated. The tension between her modern lifestyle and cultural roots shows in her interactions with Maryam, her frustration with missed appointments and people who don’t value time, and the gentle domestic moments with her parents that reveal where her comfort truly lies.