Masifaffiyar Kauna Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

Fatima’s Long-Awaited Results
 
She stood inside the computer café, in front of the counter, her long maroon hijab faded and dragging on the floor. Her wide, oily eyes were fixed on the young man behind the desk, fingers flying across the keyboard. Clearly, he was working on her request, because she stared as though she could see her future on the screen.
 
Her chest tightened. She feared failing WAEC. Baba had struggled to pay the exam fee, and she dreaded disappointing him. At least, if she passed, she might gain admission—even into a modest FCE.
 
The young man rose, went to the printer, and returned with a paper in hand. Her stomach dropped, eyes wide like electric bulbs. He picked up her WAEC card, walked over, and smiled warmly.
 
“Congratulations, Fatima Zarah. You passed. Six credits—masha Allah. May Allah bless this result,” he said, handing her the paper.
 
Snatching it eagerly, she scanned the results—C in Mathematics, English, and the essential science subjects. A charming smile broke across her face, dimples deepening, white teeth flashing. Overwhelmed, she dropped to the floor in sujood.
 
The shop owner laughed. “Wayyo, ustaziya Faty!” He turned back to his seat, still chuckling.
 
She rose shyly, stuffed the paper into her worn schoolbag, zipped it, and adjusted the strap. Smiling, she whispered, “Nagode, Yaya Habu.”
 
He turned, eyes lingering on her, but she ignored it and hurried out, her joy unstoppable. Smiling like there was no tomorrow, she walked home, past children playing noisily in the street, until she entered their compound—a rented house with five rooms, shared bathrooms, kitchens, and wash areas. The cement floor shone so smooth one might slip.
 
The Family Compound
 
The courtyard was quiet. Spotting Baba’s sewing machine outside their room, she knew he was home. She greeted the women from the kitchen, who replied half-heartedly, then slipped into the sitting room.
 
The room was simple but neat: milk-colored paint, nice curtains, small wall TV, and a clock. Four children were playing inside—Habib, twelve, in mechanic’s clothes; Ishak; Bashir; and little Abida, barely weaned.
 
“Baba yadawo, Habib?” she asked.
 
He nodded. “Yes, he’s with Mama.”
 
Knowing they disliked interruptions, she went into her own small room, sat on a thick mattress, and pulled out her result again. Smiling, she thought—Now I can join the university like Hafiza. When Baba comes out, I’ll borrow his phone and tell Mami the good news.
 
From the next room, she heard Mama’s voice. “Habib, where’s Zakiyya?”
 
Before he could answer, Baba’s stern voice rang out: “I told you not to call her Zakiyya! Call her Fatima. That’s the name of the Prophet’s daughter.”
 
Mama snapped back angrily, accusing him of constant complaints. Then she stormed out, carrying Abida.
 
Moments later, Mama called for her. Fatima hurried respectfully. Mama scowled. “You heard me calling. Why didn’t you come until your father pushed you? Hypocrite! Always parading in that hijab like some herbalist’s wife. Here, take Abida. Go to the kitchen. Fetch the hot water for your father’s bath, then cook lunch.”
 
Fatima nodded, lowered her gaze, and accepted the baby. When she tried tying Abida with her hijab, Mama barked, “Remove that hijab! You’ll suffocate my baby!” Embarrassed, she set it aside and strapped Abida silently. Mama eyed her chest with envy and muttered insults as Fatima left for the kitchen.
 
Meanwhile, Mama tossed bread to Habib. “Eat, share with your brothers, then take Ishak to mallam’s Quran class. Don’t delay work again, lazy boy.” Without another glance, she disappeared inside.
 
Baba’s Burden
 
In their bedroom, Baba lay on the bed, hands clasped behind his head, staring at the fan. At forty-five, maybe fifty, he looked older, weighed down by worries. Mama Rukayya entered boldly, removed her wrapper, and slid onto the bed. She pressed against him, trying to draw his attention.
 
“Haba, Rukayya,” he muttered, pushing her slightly. “I’m drowning in problems, and you act like nothing matters. You threw me into this mess. You made me borrow three million, promising profit, but instead I rented this costly house, bought furniture, fridge, TV—just to please you. Now the creditors are coming next week. Where will I get the money?”
 
She pouted. “Don’t say I don’t care. At least now we live like elites—TV, fridge, fine bed. The neighbors envy us. Relax, money will come.”
 
His anger boiled. “Money from where? Am I a magician? You don’t even save from your contributions. You wasted everything. Even now, you’re still ordering things uselessly.”
 
She smiled slyly. “Well, not useless. I ordered quality goods from Mom Afreen Pre-order. Cheap, beautiful—things even rich folks don’t have. The pots, flasks, designs—kai, wallahi, nobody in this area owns them. Soon I’ll open a shop, we’ll resell, and pay the debt.”
 
He stared at her, eyes glassy with tears of frustration. She only cuddled closer. “Be patient, Baban Habibu. In sha Allah, it will pass.”
 
He pushed her gently aside, wore his white jallabiya, and left. She followed quickly, pretending not to notice the co-wives in the courtyard, trailing him into the bathroom.
 
Fire, Fury, and Silent Tears
 
In the kitchen, Fatima was struggling with the firewood stove. Smoke stung her eyes red, but she fanned the flames patiently with Abida tied on her back. Mama stormed in, glaring.
 
“When you finish, take her to bed,” she snapped.
 
Fatima nodded quietly.
 
But as she turned to leave, Mama sneered, yanked Abida from her, and spat, “Give me my child! You close your eyes like a witch every time. Don’t kill my daughter with your nonsense.”
 
Fatima trembled but obeyed, loosening the wrapper. Mama carried Abida out, muttering more insults, while Fatima remained behind, alone with the fire and her silent tears.