Na Cuce Ta Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

Life in the Mud House
 
Inside a small mud house built with two rooms, a young girl—no more than twelve or thirteen—was pounding flour in a mortar, the sound tim-tim echoing because of how forcefully she pounded. On the other side, a woman was blowing air into a firewood stove, smoke entering her eyes until they changed color from irritation. Another little girl came running with a fan.
 
“Ammi, use this to fan it…” she said.
The woman looked up, smiled, and said, “Good girl… thank you, Binto.”
 
From the look of the woman and the state of the house, anyone could tell they were extremely poor—everything in the house was at the lowest standard. The girl pounding wiped sweat from her forehead and said:
 
“Honestly, Ammi, tomorrow we should take the grains to the grinding machine. I’m tired of pounding. My hands are swollen. I’m tired.”
Ammi glanced at her and returned her focus to the stove.
 
“If not for your stubbornness, Dije, you know it’s this pounding that provides the food we give those hawkers… If we take it to the machine they won’t give us flour,” Ammi explained.
 
Dije pouted again.
“Ammi, must we keep those hawkers? Why not just sell them off?”
 
“You don’t understand anything… hurry up before they leave you behind today again,” Ammi said.
 
Dije called her sister, “Binto, come and help me…”
Ammi snapped, “What nonsense girl are you? You want to leave the pounding for Binto? Better focus before time runs out… foolish child.”
 
Eventually, Ammi finished molding the flour and packed it into the small plastic bowl Dije used for hawking. She placed the tray on her head and instructed her:
 
“When you finish selling, buy Maggi for ₦50, flour quarter measure, and one soap for ₦55.”
 
Dije said nothing. She hated hawking more than anything, but she couldn’t refuse—it was their main source of daily survival. Ammi adjusted the tray on her head, but Dije winced painfully.
 
“What’s wrong with you?” Ammi asked.
 
“Wallahi Ammi, I don’t like hawking. Whenever we go to Daura garage, most men there are reckless. They say they must touch your body before they buy the fura.”
 
Ammi’s eyes widened in shock.
“Is that true?!”
 
“Wallahi Ammi. Yesterday one man said if I sit on his lap he’ll buy everything… Some are even older than Uncle Nanu. They are all useless people. I don’t like hawking…” she cried.
 
Ammi removed the tray from her head quickly, sat down and began to weep.
“Oh Allah… here we are before You… this is the orphan You entrusted to me. Don’t let them harm her…”
 
She looked at Dije again.
“If I knew what else to do, I swear you wouldn’t hawk again. But you know our situation. Did the noodles you ate satisfy you?”
Dije nodded in tears.
“But even with this hawking we still don’t get satisfied. Be patient… one day it will all be a story.”
 
Dije pouted again.
“Then speak to Inna Ladio to find me work in the city, like Ladidi…”
“God forbid! I won’t let you go for housemaid work. May Allah protect us. And don’t ever let anyone touch you—not even your fingertip, talk less your body. Do you hear me?”
 
Before she could answer, their hawker mates—about eight girls—arrived.
 
“Ah, today you are fast. You didn’t make us wait,” one of them teased.
 
Dije hissed, “Look who’s talking.”
 
Ammi placed the tray back on her head.
“Don’t forget what I told you,” she said.
 
They left. A man with a vehicle usually transported them from their village to Daura town. Ammi entered the room. I followed her in my imagination, seeing their miserable living condition. I said Alhamdulillah for my own situation. Their life was beyond hardship. She sat in thought, wondering when their suffering would end—life only seemed to worsen. She had four children, and Dije was the eldest.
 
“Oh Lord, have mercy on us…” she whispered before lying down on the mat in a room without even cement flooring.
 
Preparations in the Wealthy Home in Kano
 
Meanwhile, in another part of Kano, a luxurious house was buzzing as boxes of wedding items were being opened—clearly bridal gifts. Everyone present looked wealthy; their skin glowed, their clothes spotless.
 
“These items are so many… it’s like they belong to two brides,” one woman said.
The others laughed.
 
“Well, a person’s status shows in everything… don’t you see how my daughter looks as if she created herself?” the proud mother said.
 
In one of the rooms, a beautiful young lady sat without a headtie. Two of her friends were beside her, chatting. All the gifts seemed to be hers.
 
“You must give me that Swiss lace… since they brought you a mountain of clothes,” one friend joked.
The lady laughed, her beautiful white teeth visible.
 
Her phone rang. She smiled, answered it, and her friends whispered,
“Is it the groom?”
“Yes… my baby,” she replied.
 
“Baby…” she answered in a sexy tone.
 
On the other side, a handsome young man in an office tapped his pen, then smiled and relaxed.
 
“My angel, how are you?”
“I’m fine… how are you?”
“Alhamdulillah. Did they bring the bridal things?”
“Yes baby… they’re so beautiful,” she whispered.
 
He chuckled, biting his lip.
“Not as beautiful as you… When I come to Kano I’ll take you for personal shopping. Clothes only my eyes will see on you.”
 
She smiled shyly.
“Is that necessary?”
“Yes… what they brought is Hajiya Karama’s choice. I will make my own selections later.”
 
The 22-year-old blushed.
“Baby, when are you coming back?”
“Your wedding is in two weeks…”
“Haba baby… I miss you. Don’t you miss me?”
“I do… When I’m close to you I feel like eating you up, that’s why I’m avoiding coming until two weeks.”
 
She faked a cry.
“So you won’t come from Abuja this weekend? Please come…”
“No. Two weeks. By then the wedding will be close.”
 
Their call lasted nearly an hour.
 
The girl—Mufida—fell back on the bed in happiness
 
Yazid and His Friend
 
The young man ended the call, crossed one leg over the other and relaxed. He was surprisingly more handsome than Mufida—truly a dream man. He didn’t notice when someone pushed his leg off the table.
 
“You didn’t even greet me? You always burst into people’s offices,” Yazid said calmly.
 
His friend laughed.
“Teach me how to greet then… Ustaz.”
 
They joked. His friend suggested lunch.
 
By 3 pm, Yazid packed his laptop and files—very slowly, very gently, taking almost ten minutes. Everything about him was calm, deliberate, graceful.
 
His friend teased, “Are you sure you’re done? You always delay like a woman.”
 
Yazid ignored him and walked away slowly, his steps so relaxed it seemed he had no bones.
 
“Allah soothe the groom’s temper,” his friend joked as he followed.
 
“By the way, how many days till your wedding?” he asked.