Nahuce Part 2 Complete Hausa Novel

Arrival at Abuja Airport and the Weight of Fear
 
Habibu Mustapha Nahuche arrived at the Abuja Airport from Frankfurt, Germany, around six o’clock on Friday morning, holding his son Abdallah tightly on his right shoulder. The boy was fast asleep in deep exhaustion since they were still on the plane.
If you saw how carefully he held his son, and the tenderness with which he attended to the little boy, you would think he could swallow the child into himself—such was the depth of a father’s love. A father like Habibu Nahuche, whose kind of love is rarely found.
But his tight hold on the boy was also fueled by fear—fear that Raheenah might follow them suddenly before they landed in their home country, Nigeria.
Even though he knew it was impossible without planning, his heart didn’t settle until they reached the airport in the federal capital. For he was certain of one thing: with the way Raheenah loved her son, how she never allowed sleep to separate them, and with her stubbornness toward whatever she wanted, coupled with the pain of how he had wronged her—he believed she could crawl, fly, or ride clouds from Frankfurt just to snatch Abdallah back.
That was why he didn’t pick Abdallah from the Ambassador’s residence until he calculated the exact time of their flight.
 
When the plane lifted off from Frankfurt, he felt as though everything about Raheenah Omar had been folded and left behind like a rolled mat. He removed her completely—forever—from his life. He let her go, even though she was the only woman in the world he could ever love, the only woman he would ever marry.
Raheenah had crushed him, wounded him deeply, and killed every form of love he could ever give to another woman. She shattered his hopes regarding women—if he even had any before. She alone captured his heart; she alone was the test Allah placed on him in the hardest form.
Her refusal to reconcile when he approached her with sincerity drained every joy from his heart. She overshadowed all the achievements he brought back from Germany—his two prestigious first-class boxes.
Because of her, he learned love; because of her, he stopped loving; because of her, he ended the chapter of love altogether. She left with the charming, amiable Habibu Nahuche—none of his former traits remained.
But as a Muslim, he knew everything is predestined. Perhaps Allah wrote only seven days for their marriage. Perhaps destiny held no coexistence for them. It wouldn’t stop him from living in his homeland or thanking Allah for giving him a child through her.
Now, he would focus on rebuilding his life, securing a good future for Abdallah, raising him with both fatherly and motherly protection—especially since Hajiya and Badiya were alive—and giving him quality education.
He prayed never to meet Abdallah’s mother again, not even in the afterlife. In his eyes, Raheenah Omar had no trace of faith, compassion, affection, or love. She was no different from carved stone. If love was a disease, then patience was the cure.
He would swallow this bitter patience and keep praying for Allah to remove Raheenah from his heart completely.
He exchanged his money from Euros to Naira in Abuja, bought food for Abdallah, and took a small vehicle straight to Zamfara.
When Abdallah woke from sleep, he only looked around curiously but didn’t cry—not even a cough—because he was already used to his father.
 
Return to Zamfara and the Shock at Gidan Nahuce
 
UNGUWAR KOFAR JANGE, ZAMFARA STATE (HOUSE OF THE LATE ALH. MUSTAPHA BILYAMIN NAHUCE)
 
The Kofar Jange area was crowded with youths engaging in political activities. The neighborhood was noisy with campaigners carrying posters of candidates. The driver struggled to navigate through until he finally reached the house known as “GIDAN NAHUCE.”
 
Every corner they passed stirred memories in Habibu—nostalgia mixed with the longing for home. It had been seven years since he left, if his calculations were right.
Now he returned safely, not alone as he left, but with a replica of himself—a photocopy of Habibu Nahuche—granted to him by destiny. He was grateful for the gift of a child, Rahma from Allah.
 
Hajiya Nahuce, as everyone called her, was performing ablution by the tap when Habibu greeted. His voice hit her ears like a dream. She paused, shocked, raising her eyes—eyes that clearly showed she was truly his mother. His matured look did not hide the family resemblance.
She opened her mouth in disbelief. They spoke just the day before, yet he didn’t tell her he was coming.
“Who am I seeing like my Habibu? Habibullahi?”
No matter how much a child changes, a mother never fails to recognize her own. His German-polished appearance couldn’t hide him.
 
Habibu approached, knelt slightly out of weariness, and handed Abdallah toward her. But Abdallah refused, clinging tightly to his father.
Hajiya trembled.
“Me, Kaltume Nahuce! Habibullahi, where did you get this child who looks exactly like you?”
Her entire voice shook with fear and confusion.
 
Habibu switched to German to speak to Abdallah:
“Abdallah, she is my mother. Go to her.”
But the boy refused and clung tighter.
 
As boys carried his large trolleys inside, Hajiya began crying. Her heart feared what her mind had pieced together.
“First tell me where you got him—may Allah forbid you fathered a bastard abroad.”
Habibu quickly shook his head, eyes welling with tears.
“This isn’t the upbringing you gave me, Hajiya. I’ve never committed zina. You warned me since childhood, and by Allah, I will never do it.
Forgive me, Hajiya—I wronged you. I got married in Germany without your knowledge.”
 
Hajiya exclaimed loudly,
“Marriage how?”
He didn’t answer but handed Abdallah again. This time she took the boy, satisfied he wasn’t illegitimate. The word marriage softened her heart; everything else could be settled later.
 
Inside, she gave Abdallah kunun tsamiya, which he gladly drank since his nanny, Yafendo, used to give him kunu. She placed him on her lap and focused on Habibu—her face clouded with pain.
“So you are bold enough to marry without informing anyone? If it were Shafa’atu you didn’t want, I would understand. But what kind of childish marriage is this? Where is the child’s mother?”
 
Habibu had never shown weakness before anyone. But this was his mother—the shoulder meant for burdens. Tears fell before he felt them.
“I did everything to make her live with me and raise this child with me. It failed. I don’t know what is wrong with me that made Raheenah reject me. We separated forever, and I took the boy without her consent—but her guardians know I took him.”
 
He told her the whole truth—except one secret: the true nature of the abrupt marriage. He insisted that Raheenah simply didn’t love him and that their marriage was pure destiny.
 
A Mother’s Pain, a Son’s Confession, and a Future to Rebuild
 
Hajiya listened as he explained, her heart breaking for her son. Though he hid some truths, she understood enough.
She saw the weight of heartbreak on him, the loss he endured, and the loneliness he hid behind strength.
 
In her mind, she knew everything that followed—clarifications, questions, family discussions—would be easier now that she had confirmed the boy was legitimate and her own grandson.
 
Habibu had returned home broken but determined—to rebuild his life, raise Abdallah well, and leave the past behind.
Whatever destiny had written between him and Raheenah was over.
Allah had given him a child, and that alone was enough mercy to move forward.