Matar Shege Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

The Day My Destiny Opened
 
7th January 2016—the day my destiny book opened, and I walked into a sorrow I never thought I’d escape. That day marked the beginning of a pain I felt would never end.
I was in a tricycle, heading back to Brigade from my sister’s place in Hotoro. My attention was on a call from my fiancé—our wedding was just two months away.
“Please, young lady, let me quickly collect something for my boss,” the tricycle driver said politely.
I nodded, glancing at the laundry spot he pointed to.
 
A Sudden Encounter
 
What happened next felt like fate. A sleek black car tried parking there. Though I didn’t know much about cars, this one screamed wealth. For three minutes, the door stayed shut. Then, slowly, it opened.
 
And he stepped out.
 
My heart skipped. Just one look and I felt breathless. He was incredibly fair, with clear, tearless eyes, a clean face with gentle features, and no sharp edges. He wore an all-black outfit—shirt, trousers, wristwatch—that glowed against his pale skin.
 
Something stirred deeply inside me. I sighed and stared.
 
He frowned, ran a hand through his well-groomed hair, and gave it a tousle. That gesture alone made him even more striking—he didn’t even look Nigerian. Where had this kind of beauty been hiding in Kano?
He didn’t go far. He just pulled out a red face cap and put it on.
At the same time, my driver returned with a package.
“Sorry for the delay,” he said. I smiled faintly as we moved off.
 
Who Is Salim?
 
“That guy? His name is Salim,” the driver said. “He owns the laundry and that Seven Thirty restaurant. He’s rude and smokes too. They say he owns a company in Sharada and lives there.”
I wasn’t surprised. The way he’d seen me staring at Salim likely prompted all this info.
“Hmm,” I exhaled. “Do you know anything else about him?”
“That’s all,” he shrugged.
“Do you have his number?” I asked, heart racing.
He laughed. “Me? No way.”
“Please take me back. Follow him when he leaves.”
The driver stared at me like I was crazy. “Please don’t get me killed. I have a family.”
I chuckled. “Following him won’t kill you.”
“I may not die, but I could end up in jail!”
I laughed again. “Okay, you said he smokes? How do you know?”
“I’ve seen him puffing twice here, in broad daylight. It seems like a habit.”
“May Allah guide him,” I said softly.
 
Home Isn’t Peaceful
 
We arrived at my neighborhood. I stayed quiet, lost in thoughts of Salim.
I entered with a tired "Salam". My stepmother, Mama Saude, was cooking, her rice pot filling the house with smoke. She wasn’t my real mother—my parents had divorced, and I blamed myself for it.
Mama Saude didn’t like me. She always tried to cause conflict between me and my father. He believed everything she said and often scolded me harshly. I hardly blamed him though; I was stubborn, rebellious. They were rushing to marry me off just to be rid of me.
I walked straight to my room and threw myself on the bed.
 
No Escape From Thoughts
 
The call to Asr prayer woke me. I bathed and made ablution. Just as I was about to enter my room again, I heard Mama Saude return.
I didn’t answer her greeting. Instead, I hissed. She knew I was asleep, yet she left the house unlocked. What if a thief had come in?
“May God guide you,” I muttered.
“What did you say?” she snapped.
I ignored her and shut my door. If I responded, we’d argue until Maghrib. She never let anything slide, and neither did I. We argued daily like rivals. That’s why I preferred staying outside. Coming home meant dealing with her nagging and Dad’s lectures.
 
Who Is Zinatu?
 
That’s me—Zinatu, a 20-year-old girl, bold and proud. I finished secondary school three years ago. I’d also stopped going to Islamiyya long before that. I had begged my father to let me pursue further education—maybe even get a degree—but he refused. He feared I’d mingle with boys and “spoiled” girls.
Truth is, I never listened. I did what I wanted. Despite my beauty and the attention I got, I never believed in love. I didn’t trust men, and so I never committed to any.
I had no female friends—only male ones. People judged me harshly for it. They even suspected I was immoral. But I never cared.
 
Haunted by Salim
 
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Salim’s face kept flashing in my mind. It felt like a curse. I eventually got up, picked up the Qur’an, and read until sleep finally came.
At dawn, the call to prayer woke me. I prayed and went back to bed. But soon, Baba turned on his loud radio. I hissed, frustrated.
Then his voice rang out: “Zinatu! Hey, Zinatu!”
I sighed. “Something’s wrong. If Baba calls like this, there’s a lecture or trouble coming.”
 
What Next?
 
I wrapped my hijab and stepped out.
Baba was seated by his door. Mama Saude was preparing her morning rice cakes. I greeted her; she responded coldly. Baba gestured for me to sit.
“Oh Allah,” I prayed silently. “Please get me out of this.”
If Baba invited you to sit, it meant one of two things: advice or accusations.
And neither ever ended well.