Sanadin Boko Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

The Journey Home
 
Inside the bus, chatter filled the air. Some students rejoiced at the thought of seeing their parents again, others discussed marriage, while most argued about which schools to continue in—Poly, University, Nursing.
 
Sa’adatu nudged me: “Hafsy, don Allah ki shigo A.B.U Zariya, mu hadu mana.” I smiled faintly.
 
"Samun ABU ba kamar shiga Bakori ba, ba tabbas za su barni ba."
 
Her eyes widened: “Kada kice kina cikin wadanda za su dakile a kai gidan miji?”
 
I sighed. “Ke dai ki tayani addu’a. Allah yasa ina da rabo, dan kuwa ina son in ga karshen boko.”
 
Jamila scoffed: “Ke dai kullum kina cewa za ki ga karshen boko, sai dai boko yaga karshen ki. Lokaci ba jira yake ba.”
 
I snapped: “To malama, ba saka bakin ki nayi ba. Ke ba kince aure ba?”
 
Jamila replied: “Aure ba ya hana karatu, zan yi aurena na ci gaba da karatuna.” Sa’a cut in: “Wahala daya za ki zaba. Da kin yi ciki, karatun ya kare.”
 
I countered: “Ai yanzu muka fara boko.” She raised her hands: “Allah ya taimake mu akan niyyar alkhairi.”
 
As the bus grew quieter, my heart raced with fear of Baba. Without Allah’s mercy, it would be hard to continue school.
 
The Return
 
We dropped the Zaria students, then Kaduna students. Finally, our Bakori school bus carried us home.
 
Children screamed joyfully: “Ga Hafsat! Ga Hafsat!” Inna ran to hug me tightly, laughing as almajirai lowered my luggage. I teased: “Innarmu ba su hamsin ba.” She untied her wrapper and handed them money.
 
Relatives greeted me, Ummi clung shyly to my lap. Over alala, Inna informed me: “Kin dawo daidai da bikin Hajara da Sakina.”
 
I gasped: “Har da Sakina? Ni dai ina so in ci gaba da karatuna.”
 
Inna frowned: “Malam ne matsala. Amma ko Nursing zan so kiyi.”
 
I protested: “Ni jami’a nake so. Burina in zama ‘yar jarida.”
 
Baba entered, and I swallowed bitterness as I greeted him. To my shock, he smiled faintly and asked: “An dawo lafiya?”
 
But moments later, his anger flared: “Ba zan iya ganin Hafsa a gidan nan ba. Duk wata tana zubar da jini, ta zama Uwar mata. Karatu? Wasa ne!”
 
Inna snapped back: “Karatu ba fashi, ko da kai baka son shi.”
 
His glare silenced her. He stormed out, vowing no more tolerance. Tears stung my eyes. Always me, always their fights over me. In frustration, I resolved: “Bari Munnir yazo, zan ce ya turo manyansa ayi aure. Ko a dakinsa zan yi karatuna.”
 
Munnir’s Promise
 
After Isha’i, a boy called me outside. I knew it was Munnir; I had written him. I sprayed my perfume, straightened my gyale, and stepped out.
 
He sat on his Toyota Camry, jeans and a white shirt glowing under the streetlight. He smiled: “Babyna.”
 
I suggested we sit by the veranda, but he insisted: “Zo cikin mota, na zo da muhimmin magana.”
 
Reluctantly, I entered. His eyes held mine until I turned away, heat rising through my body.
 
“Ina sonki Hafsy. Ban san irin son da nake miki ba.” He held my hand, but I pulled back: “Don Allah ka daina taba jikina, haramun ne.”
 
He pouted: “Ni ne zan aure ki. Har yaushe za ki ce a’a kamar ba ‘yar boko ba?”
 
Despite annoyance, my heart melted when he teased: “Small baby, dan yi murmushi.” I couldn’t resist smiling.
 
I quickly spoke: “Munnir, ya dace mu yi aure yanzu. Baba ya tsani karatu. Da kyar ya bari na gama secondary.”
 
He sighed: “Baby, aure yanzu? Kin manta alkawarinmu? Bari ki gama, ni zan dauki nauyin karatun ki. Na shirya miki gagarumin party don murnar kammalawa. Sai mu je kasuwa mu zabi kaya.”
 
Disappointment filled me. I asked weakly: “To aure fa?”
 
“Soon. Sai na gama master dina. By then kin zama ‘yar media.”
 
His nearness unsettled me. Whispering in my ear, he confessed: “Ina so in yi aure tuntuni, amma Dad dinmu ya ce sai mun gama karatu.”
 
At last he handed me a bag: “Gashi—ice cream da fresh milk. Don’t refuse.”
 
Inna smiled knowingly when she saw the gift: “Kai yaron nan baya gajiya da dawainiya. Da ya fito ayi aure, sai kiyi karatu a dakinsa.”
 
I nearly told her about the party but swallowed the words, knowing she’d never allow it.
 
Between Dreams and Reality
 
That night, I lay cramped with my sisters on mats, dreaming of my own room. In the morning, we worked alala sales until Nazifi arrived: “Hafsa, ga saurayinki a waje.”
 
I adjusted my Java atamfa and gyale, whispering to Inna: “Munnir na kirana.”
 
She nodded simply: “To.”
 
I walked out with my heart racing, already caught between the weight of Baba’s threats, Inna’s quiet support, and Munnir’s promises of love and a future I longed for—but feared might never truly come.