Makwabciya Part 2 Complete Hausa Novel

The Rich Man's Illness
 
He lay helplessly on his massive, imported orthopedic bed — the type that once made his rich guests jealous. Now, it felt like a prison. His two hands were clutching his belly as if trying to keep his insides from exploding. One look at him and you could tell he was going through intense, unforgiving pain.
 
He hadn't eaten in two days, yet his stomach was distended like a drum. Nothing he consumed ever stayed. Every time he tried to take even a spoonful of pap, it came back out violently. He groaned.
 
The ceiling fan above him kept spinning slowly — too slowly for comfort. The silence in the room was disturbing, broken only by his labored breathing and the occasional groan that escaped his cracked lips.
 
“Damn this pain,” he muttered, trying once more to sit up. But his body wouldn’t obey.
He reached out to the small drawer beside his bed, where his phone usually rested. It was only a few inches away, but for someone in his condition, it might as well have been across the street. He stretched his arm, trembling as he did, and barely managed to grab the phone.
 
The screen lit up with his fingerprint, and he scrolled slowly through his contacts, his vision blurring. He finally stopped at a familiar name.
“Abdallah.”
 
With a trembling thumb, he dialed. The phone rang once… twice…
“Hello, Alhaji?” a sleepy voice answered.
“Abdallah… please, come. Now. I can’t take this anymore.”
His voice was barely above a whisper.
 
Abdallah didn’t ask questions. He had known Alhaji for over ten years — as his loyal driver, personal assistant, and the closest thing Alhaji had to a friend. Within 15 minutes, Abdallah was at the gate, honking frantically.
 
The gatekeeper, who had been dozing in the shade, jumped up and ran to open the gate. “Oga Abdallah! Wetin happen?”
“Open! Oga dey die inside!” Abdallah yelled.
 
In no time, he was in the bedroom. What he saw made him freeze.
Alhaji looked nothing like the man he saw two weeks ago — strong, arrogant, full of pride. His face was sunken, eyes red and hollow, his skin a sickly pale shade of yellow. He smelled faintly of sweat and vomit.
 
“Oga! Alhaji!” he rushed to his side. “Wetin happen nah?”
“Take me to the hospital,” Alhaji whispered, his lips barely moving.
 
Abdallah didn’t wait. He called two of the domestic staff, and together they carefully lifted the frail man into a wheelchair.
At the hospital, the nurses quickly rushed him in. Blood tests, scans, IV drips — everything happened in a blur. The doctors said his liver was failing.
 
But what shocked Abdallah wasn’t just the diagnosis — it was what happened later that evening.
 
Alhaji's relatives started arriving one by one. People who hadn’t called in years. Suddenly, his phone wouldn’t stop ringing. His cousins, brothers, half-sisters, even people he barely remembered from the village — all flooding in, asking for updates, pretending to be concerned.
 
Abdallah stood quietly in a corner, watching.
 
Then came the wives. Alhaji had three — one legally married, two unofficially. They started arguing in the corridor over who had the right to sign medical documents. The tension was thick.
One of them, Mariya, stormed out in tears.
“Wallahi, I warned him. Too much alcohol, too many parties! He never listened!”
Another responded sharply, “But he was still your husband when the money was flowing, right? Now you’re crying because the ATM is closing!”
 
 
Back in the room, Alhaji opened his eyes briefly and saw Abdallah sitting beside him. Everyone else had gone to argue or gossip outside.
 
“You’re still here,” Alhaji said weakly.
“Where else would I be, Oga?” Abdallah replied. “You need anything?”
 
Alhaji sighed. His eyes welled up with tears.
“Abdallah, I have money. Plenty of it. But look at me now… no peace, no real family, only drama. I thought wealth could protect me.”
 
Abdallah said nothing. He just held his hand firmly. That small gesture meant more to Alhaji than all the millions in his accounts.
 
 
Three days passed. Alhaji’s condition worsened. The doctors recommended an urgent liver transplant. The cost? Over ₦25 million. Abdallah didn’t even flinch. “We have it,” he said confidently.
 
But then, the real horror began.
 
The bank accounts were frozen. One of the wives claimed to be the next-of-kin and reported to the bank. Another relative filed a court motion. The hospital, seeing the legal complications, refused to continue expensive treatments without guaranteed payment.
 
Alhaji, half-conscious, was told the news.
 
“They're… fighting already?” he whispered. “I’m not even dead yet…”
 
Tears rolled down his cheeks.
 
 
On the fifth day, the doctor came out with a straight face and simply said, “We lost him.”
 
Silence.
 
The room was full of people, yet no one spoke for a moment. Then, like bees swarming a hive, they all began to argue.
 
“Who will take the body?”
“Where will we bury him?”
“What of his will?”
“I’m the first son!”
“No, I’m the legal wife!”
 
Abdallah stood there, numb. None of them cared when he was alive and in pain. Now they wanted his property, his name, his money.
 
 
As the mortuary doors closed behind them, Abdallah walked away quietly, muttering under his breath:
 
“So this is how it ends? With noise… not love.”
 
Moral:
 
A man may build houses, drive exotic cars, and stack millions in his account. But in the end, it’s the people you loved and treated right — not the wealth you acquired — that will truly stand by you.