Rashin Haihuwa Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

Mirror Reflections
 
From head to toe, I examined myself in the large mirror fixed to my bedroom wall. I saw no flaw, no fault. Still unsatisfied, I tilted my head again, observing the cascade of black hair flowing over my shoulders. My youthful face bore the signs of a maturing woman—bright eyes, full lips, a firm nose, and healthy skin.
 
I smiled gently. My teeth weren't perfect white, but their creamy glow suited me. Something stirred inside me—an emptiness. I looked at my neck, my firm chest, my flat stomach. That flatness stabbed deep. I longed for a swollen belly, the kind every mother carries with pride. But mine remained empty.
 
My Body, My Worth
 
My waist—wide and curved—remained my pride. The only part of me that still held value in my marriage. My body, my shape, the last thread tying me to my husband. I admired my henna-stained feet, the way the red patterns kissed my pale skin.
 
I sighed, reaching for my perfume. I rubbed the oil along my arms and behind my ears, then chose another to dab on the sensitive parts of my body. As I dressed in soft, alluring sleepwear, I styled my hair into a neat ribbon and sprayed a final scent that filled the room with calming sweetness.
 
Preparing for the Night
 
My phone rang. It could only be him—my husband, Salees. He hated waiting, especially for me. I didn’t answer; instead, I hurried my final touches and headed upstairs to his room.
 
Before entering, I knocked softly, then called out a greeting. Some might wonder why I bothered knocking on my husband’s door. But after years of unpredictable mood swings and tension, I learned: knocking avoids war.
 
Tension in the Room
 
I found him on the bed, scrolling through his phone. He glanced up once, then ignored me. I placed my bag near the mirror and walked over to him, pressing my body against his, voice lowered into apology.
 
“I’m sorry, my love. I was preparing myself so you could enjoy your night. Forgive my delay.”
 
I reached for his chest, using the gestures I knew he found irresistible. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them, fixing them on my face.
 
“You always apologize, Khadijah. Yet nothing changes. You have no child, no excuse. Even Mariya with a baby doesn’t offer as many excuses as you. I’m tired.”
 
His words sank like stones in my heart. I didn’t need reminding—I lived daily with the ache of childlessness. But I smiled, kissed him gently, and whispered promises of change. That softened him. He wasn't one to hold grudges. Soon, his hands explored me as he always did. I gave in, letting myself disappear into his world.
 
Interrupted Peace
 
Even after our time together and showering, he remained close—until a baby’s wail pierced the air.
 
The cries grew louder. My chest tightened with a familiar dread. Then came the knock—more like a pounding—on the door. Salees groaned, stood up, and opened it.
 
Mariya, his second wife, stood outside, holding her baby.
 
“He won’t stop crying,” she said. “I’ve tried everything. Maybe he wants his father.”
 
Salees’s face, tense a moment ago, melted into concern. He took the child in his arms.
 
But the baby screamed louder.
 
My heart burned.
 
The Breaking Point
 
I couldn’t hold it back anymore. “This is unfair!” I blurted. “Why can’t we sleep in peace without interruption? Must my rest be sacrificed too?”
 
Salees turned sharply. “It’s his father’s room. If anyone should leave, it’s you.”
 
His words struck hard. Still, I stood my ground.
 
“Well, I have a father’s house too. Maybe I’ll go there!”
 
“Go then,” he spat. “But the boy stays. You wouldn’t understand—you’ve never carried one.”
 
Tears welled in my eyes. Again, he reminded me. I’d never had a child. No womb’s weight, no baby’s cry. I said nothing more, just walked to my bag and left the room with resolve swelling inside me.
 
Silent Grief
 
Back in my room, I collapsed on the bed, tears rushing out uncontrollably. My body trembled with grief, heartbreak, and a deep fatigue I couldn’t name.
 
I still loved him. But this marriage... it was breaking me. Not because he stopped loving me, but because I was losing myself. Every fight chipped away at what little strength remained. Every reminder of what I lacked—every cry that wasn’t mine to calm—cut deeper than the last.
 
And yet, every time I checked my blood pressure, it read normal. Wasn’t I supposed to be sick by now?
 
Final Words
 
To every woman like me, hear this: it is not your fault.
 
Infertility is not a failure—it’s a test. A test of patience, of faith, of inner strength. If Allah withholds a child from you, know it is not punishment, but wisdom—perhaps mercy.
 
Don’t let society break you.
 
Don’t let a man’s harshness define your worth.
 
You are still enough. Whole. Worthy.
 
And Allah sees you.
 
“Indeed, Allah is too shy to disappoint a barren woman.”