Matan Asokoro Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

Inside the Elegant Office
 
The room was extremely beautiful — at first glance you would think it was an office, because everything inside reflected a full office setting. There was a long, very soft couch decorated with throw pillows, and further ahead a modern desk holding a desktop, keyboard, and other accessories. A bookshelf filled with various books added even more beauty. The room was cool, the air-conditioner spreading a gentle chill.
A woman who looked about 35 or 36 years old sat on the office couch. She was dressed elegantly, sitting with her legs crossed, lightly swinging them. Her feet were decorated with henna and she wore simple orange Hermes slippers, with a matching Hermes handbag. She wore an expensive, stone-designed atampa gown with a large, luxurious veil whose price you could almost feel just by looking at it. In her hand was an iPhone 12 Pro Max, which she tapped while smiling — a smile that highlighted her beauty and the glow of her chocolate complexion.
When she heard the door open, she raised her head. A chocolate-skinned doctor entered, wearing a white lab coat. At first glance she looked like a Black American. Under her lab coat, she wore a classy half-gown with red heels. In her hand was a pad attached to a pen — clearly an iPad. She smiled, gently closed the door behind her, walked to her desk, took a pair of white glasses and wore them before sitting. She tapped her pad, then looked at the woman with a warm smile.
“Hello, Mrs. Bakori, right?”
The woman nodded. “Yes.”
The doctor took her pad again, pulled her chair backward, walked around to sit on a one-seater couch facing her patient, crossed her legs and rested the pad on her lap.
“This is your first time in our facility, right?”
“Yes, right,” the woman answered.
“Good,” the doctor said. “My name is Dr. Elizabeth Matthew Browns. I’m the psychotherapist here. Before we begin, know that whatever we discuss remains strictly confidential. Your information and identity are safe. So feel free to talk to me — your doctor. I am a counselor, a consultant, a therapist, and more. Now, Mrs. Bakori…” She lifted her pad, held her pen carefully, and looked into the woman’s eyes.
“I want to know you better. Tell me who you are.”
The woman adjusted her sitting position, paused briefly as if recalling something, then said,
“My name is Hassana Lawal Bakori. We are twins — I have a twin sister, Hussaina, but she’s not in Nigeria; she’s in Dubai. I’m 35 years old. I’m married to Alhaji Alhassan Bakori.”
She became silent.
The doctor glanced at her iPad, then asked, “What about kids? Your record here says you have children, is that correct?”
“Yes. I have two boys — Khalid and Khalil, twins. They’re 14 years old in SS2, both in boarding school.”
Calmly, the doctor asked, “Which means you gave birth only once? How long have you been married?”
“15 years.”
“And why?” the doctor asked quietly. “Why did you stop giving birth? Was it health-related? Or was it your choice?”
The woman gave a small smile. “My husband doesn’t want many children. That’s why I didn’t have more.”
The doctor smiled gently. “So, Mrs. Bakori, why are you here? What do you want to discuss? How can I help you?”
She spoke softly, in a way that made her patient feel safe.
The woman took a breath, set her phone aside, folded her arms on her chest, released a deep sigh and said,
“It’s about my husband.”
The doctor nodded, encouraging her to continue.
 
The Pain Behind the Marriage
 
After a long pause, the woman lifted her head and said slowly,
“I don’t have feelings for my husband. At all. Not even a drop. I don’t love him. He doesn’t interest me. I don’t find him attractive or sexy. I don’t desire him. It’s not that I don’t have desire — I do. But whenever he comes to me, my mind becomes irritated. I don’t want him to touch me, talk less of anything happening between us. I don’t know why I’m like this. I need help — serious help.”
The doctor watched her closely until she finished, took some notes, then asked softly,
“Would you like coffee? Tea? Or water?”
The facility always offered these options to every patient.
“No, I’m good. Thank you.”
The doctor nodded. “Does your husband have any terrible habit? Does he hurt you in any way? Does he do something you dislike?”
The woman shook her head slowly. “Not really. It’s just… my husband always mocks me. He insults me whenever I talk, even when I’m not talking to him.”
“That annoys you?” the doctor asked.
She nodded. “Yes, it annoys me. It makes me angry.”
“Do you think that’s the reason you don’t love him anymore?”
She went silent again — for almost 3 minutes.
After a long breath she said,
“I know I hate it when he mocks me. In front of my workers, in front of my children — he mocks me. If I say something, he claims I don’t know it, or I’m incapable. It’s very annoying. But I don’t think that’s the real reason I stopped loving him. No, I don’t think so.”
The doctor adjusted her seat. “Then what do you think made you lose feelings for him?”
The woman paused, breathed deeply, then whispered,
“I… I… I…”
Her voice started breaking. The doctor stepped in softly,
“Take a deep breath, Mrs. Bakori.”
She obeyed, inhaled slowly, exhaled.
“Are you ready? Shall we continue?”
“Yes, Doctor. I’m ready.”
“Good. I asked you: why do you think you no longer love your husband?”
The woman finally said,
“Because I feel he doesn’t love me either. He doesn’t love me.”
The doctor remained silent, watching her swollen, red eyes. Then she asked,
“Was it a love marriage or an arranged marriage?”
“A love marriage,” the woman replied quietly.
“So why do you think he doesn’t love you anymore?”
She took a breath. “Doctor, my husband doesn’t know how to comfort a woman. And he doesn’t know how to say sorry. If I fall in front of him, he won’t move. He’ll just look at me and say I’m clumsy. If I cut myself, he won’t tell me sorry. If I have a headache, he won’t ask if I’m okay.
We have a family doctor — whenever anyone is sick, he calls him for medicine. But he won’t ask me if I took mine or if I feel better. He never asks if I’ve eaten or not.
He doesn’t care about me or my life.
I loved my husband. That’s why I married him. But his lack of care… his lack of concern for me… it made my heart stop loving him.
There were times I had very high fever, and after the doctor gave me IV drip, he left the room saying he couldn’t stay because I smelled like injections. Sometimes he leaves for work without even checking on me.
Doctor, do you know something?”
She wiped a fresh tear and forced a smile.
“Don’t tell me I’m crying.”
“Oh yes, you are,” the doctor said softly. She handed her a tissue box.
The woman wiped her tears, smiling through the pain.
“Doctor, I am a very, very strong woman. I don’t cry easily. I’ve never cried for my husband’s behavior — I’m stronger than that. But I don’t know why I’m crying today. Why? Why am I crying? Look at what Baban Khalid has done to my confidence and self-esteem.”
Tears continued falling even as she tried to smile.
 
The Breaking Point
 
“Mrs. Bakori,” the doctor called gently.
She looked up, tears streaming. “Yes?”
“Let them out. Cry. Cry for yourself. Cry for me. Cry out your pain. It’s part of psychotherapy. Let it out.”
“No, Doctor. Why should I cry because of Baban Khalid? Why should I cry for a man who doesn’t care about me?” she protested — but her voice suddenly broke, the words stuck in her throat.
The doctor quietly brought the entire tissue box and handed it to her.
She took it, pulled tissues, wiping her face as she cried.
“When the kids come home for holidays, I’m even scared to talk to them in his presence. If I say something, he mocks me. You know boys — they don’t understand like girls. When their father mocks me, they laugh a lot. But I never show it hurts me — I just smile and leave.
He has no other wife. Not that another woman is involved. He doesn’t even chase women — he doesn’t have time for that. All he cares about is money. Earning money, gathering money. Weekends are the only days he stays home, and not even every weekend. Weekdays, he returns late at night.
I’m lacking nothing — except care and attention.
That is what my heart needs. But I don’t get it from my husband. So what is left? That’s why I don’t love him. I don’t desire him. I don’t even want him to come near me.”