Sakata Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

Punishment and Pain
 
I was kneeling in front of Uncle Mudi as he lashed me with a whip that felt like hot soup splashing on my body. He kept striking me with all his strength; my eyes were squeezed tight as if they would never shed tears. Yet inside my heart, I was praying:
 
“Oh Lord, finish Mus’ab with the calamities of this world and the Hereafter. Oh Allah, make him collide with misfortune, let him meet destruction and loss.”
 
Another whip landed sharply on my back, forcing tears from my eyes before I could stop them. Quickly, I lowered my head and wiped my face with my hijab.
What have I done to Mus’ab in this world that he hates me this much? Every day his dream is to see me beaten like a newly bought sack—or an old one, since I’m used to being beaten.
 
Truly, I know I am stubborn, hot-tempered, and talk back sometimes—but I am not rude. And even if I were rude, would I just stand outside insulting people who have done nothing to me? Am I mad? And my parents are the most disciplined people! Just because someone said they saw me outside “being rude to people,” that becomes a reason for him to beat me?
 
“Get up and leave this place,” Uncle Mudi’s voice entered my ears.
I stood up and went to our room. I knew my mother wouldn’t even ask if I was okay, so I lay on the long couch and cried quietly, my heart burning with even deeper hatred for Mus’ab.
 
A few minutes later, Sadiya and Ummi entered. Mama was in the inner room.
 
“Honestly, Yaya Mus’ab isn’t being fair. Every day his joy is to see you beaten. Even when he sees you doing something wrong, he is the one correcting you,” Ummi said.
 
Her words made me angrier. To her, her brother can never lie—only I lie. They already believed I was rude. What happened was simple: a group of men asked me for Alhaji Idi’s house, and I pointed it out. One of them said, “Thank you girls.” I laughed. That was all. But because Mus’ab hates me, they beat me as if Yaya Ilyasu didn’t slap me just last night.
 
Sadiya answered for her.
“Honestly, what Yaya Mus’ab is doing is too much. He doesn’t stop us from doing anything, and he doesn’t let anyone stop us. It’s only her he makes them beat, and not because of love—just because of the bitter tension between them. In this whole house only Mus’ab separates himself, acting like only their mother’s children are his siblings, unlike the rest.”
 
“Sadiya, stop that talk,” Ummanah said from inside. “There is no favoritism in this house. All of you are one blood. Hajja is your root. As for Mus’ab, that’s just his nature—he doesn’t like people at all.”
 
I felt frustration swallow me. Ummanah had never complained about Mus’ab. I turned my back to them and lay down. I heard their voices fading as sleep finally carried me away—my heart full of hatred for Mus’ab.
 
School, Bitterness, and Confrontation
 
I woke up at exactly 1:45 pm for Islamiyya, so I got up immediately. I went to the bathroom, poured water over myself, performed ablution, and prayed Azhar. Afterwards, I went to the kitchen and served myself food. Honestly, Allah has blessed me with good appetite—just as Mus’ab mocks in front of people, calling me “the greedy one.” It’s true I eat, but once I eat heavily, I won’t eat again until night.
 
After eating, I wore my hijab and headed to school. In our house (The Galadima House), whenever we go to school—morning, afternoon, or night—we must greet Hajja. But because of how much I hate her stubborn grandson, I refused to go greet her and went straight to class. Even at Islamiyya I sat like someone in mourning. Hatred for Mus’ab was pounding inside me.
 
When I returned, I still didn’t greet Hajja. I went straight to our side of the house and lay down.
 
Meanwhile, in Hajja’s quarters, she noticed everyone had come to greet her except me. That worried her deeply. Students started returning from Islamiyya, and still I wasn’t among them. She said to Iki:
 
“Ikirama, call Salame for me.”
 
Iki came to our section and found me lying on the couch.
 
“Salma, Hajja is calling you.”
 
“Tell her I’m not coming—”
Before I could finish, I felt a slap across my mouth.
 
“I’ll deal with you! You dare tell Hajja you won’t come? You want to prove you have no shame?”
 
I pushed my lips forward angrily, stepped off the couch, and left without even wearing my veil.
 
As I approached Hajja’s side, I saw Mus’ab walking slowly like someone who had an egg cracked inside him. His eyes were bloodshot. Out loud, I whispered:
 
“May this headache be your death.”
 
I reached the door of Hajja’s room and said, “I’m here.”
 
“I see you, you stubborn thing,” she replied.
 
I turned to leave without saying anything. My mouth felt bitter; everything inside me was hatred.
 
“Salame, you’re leaving now?”
 
“Well, Hajja, what do you want me to say? Your cursed unbeliever of a grandson has turned your children into my beaters. I’m treated like a random market sack.”
 
“So now you’re insulting Mus’ab, even cursing him? Leave my sight!”
 
“I don’t belong to anyone here. You’re the one who sent for me,” I said and walked out.
 
On the way, I bumped into Mus’ab again. He still hadn’t entered. I hissed loudly and said:
 
“Anyone who makes oppression his career will end his life on a sickbed.”
 
Even I knew that if Mus’ab wasn’t sick today, I would have said that sentence holding my broken teeth in my hand.
 
He continued walking. I returned to our section, repeating my usual prayer:
 
“May Allah finish Mus’ab with the calamities of this world.”
 
Our Family Line
 
First of all, my name is Salamatu Yunusa Galadima. Our grandfather is called Galadima, not the royal palace title—just a name he chose. My father, Yunusa, is his third child. Yakubu is the eldest, whom we call Abban ciki. Then comes Aisha, known as Mami. After her is my father Yunusa, known as Abba. Then Halima, called Ummah, and Abbas (Alhaji Karami). Then Ilyasu, known as Yaya Ilyasu—he hates being called Kawu, so everyone calls him Yaya Ilyasu. Their last is Kawu Madu.
 
In summary, our grandfather Galadima had seven children—five boys and two girls—all from one wife, Hajiya Hajja.
 
Grandfather Galadima was a rich man. This house we live in now is so big that each section can accommodate four wives. Before his death, he allocated a portion to each of his children because he hated seeing siblings fighting over inheritance. His dream was to see us grow as one family.
 
Abban ciki married first, a woman from Kano named Jamila, whom we call Maman ciki. Her kindness is beyond measure—she loves us like her own. She has five children. The eldest, named after Hajja, is now married in Abuja. Then Yaya Amira, married in Zaria. After her comes Mus’ab, the eldest son on their side, then his younger brother named after our grandfather, and finally Ummi, their last-born.
 
Mami also has six children, but they don’t live in Galadima’s house, and they don’t use the Galadima surname. In this house, we don’t use our parents’ names—just like my father uses Yunusa Galadima, I use Salma Galadima, and everyone in the house follows that.