Sanadin Boko Part 2 Complete Hausa Novel

The Missing Child
 
Every house I entered, the same response echoed—he has not come here. My heart pounded as I hurried to Mama Rahma’s house, but she too was absent. Only her daughter-in-law told me, “Shadad hasn’t come.”
 
I rushed back home, searching everywhere. The well was sealed with a heavy stone, so I knew he hadn’t fallen in. His school shoes and homework still lay untouched. Tears burst out of me uncontrollably.
 
Stepping outside again, one neighbor found me peering anxiously down the street. “Have you seen him?” she asked. I shook my head, trembling.
 
“Perhaps someone tricked you—waited until you left and took him,” she said. I stared at her, horrified. Who would dare? She only sighed, “This world is full of wickedness. Even adults are stolen, not to mention children. Just pray.”
 
I rushed back inside, collapsing in the middle of the room. My eyes darted everywhere, imagining his tiny footsteps, until I wept again. Whoever took him had wronged me more than words could bear.
 
By the time the call to Zuhr prayer came, my body was heavy with sorrow. I prayed and begged Allah for help.
 
Then came Mama Rahma, asking, “Hafsa, have you seen my husband?”
 
“No,” I sobbed. She gasped when I explained. “So your son is missing too? My God!”
 
She sat holding her head, lamenting. “If it were livestock, it would return, but a child? Humans are prey in this world. What will you tell his father’s family? Your own parents?”
 
Before I could answer, the front door burst open.
 
Shadad Returns
 
It was Shadad! He ran toward me, shouting happily, “Aunty! Uncle took me out—we rode horses, ate ice cream, even took pictures!”
 
But instead of sharing his joy, fury overtook me. I slapped him so hard he fell crying. Moments later, his so-called uncle stormed in, crouching to shield him.
 
Rage blinded me—I rained blows on him too, screaming, “Who told you to take him? Who are you to play with my child’s life?”
 
Mama Rahma pulled me back and slapped me herself. “Are you mad? Beating a child like this?” she scolded.
 
The uncle lifted Shadad gently, speaking calmly, “I knew this would happen. That’s why I took him—to teach you. Leaving him alone was reckless. Anyone could have taken him.”
 
Still crying, I snapped, “What’s your business? Who are you to interfere?”
 
Mama Rahma intervened, sighing, “Hafsa, enough. You nearly went mad when he was gone. Be grateful he’s back.”
 
The uncle apologized softly, “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Forgive me.” He even pressed money into Mama Rahma’s hand before leaving.
 
That night, guilt gnawed at me. Shadad shrank into silence, afraid of my temper. Slowly, I realized—children are not corrected by beatings but by love, guidance, and the fear of God.
 
So I drew him close, listened to his stories, and encouraged him in school. His innocence softened my anger, but the shadow of that uncle lingered.
 
A Stranger’s Interest
 
Days later, when I struggled with school registration fees, Shadad suddenly produced a receipt. “Look, Aunty! Uncle paid my school fees for the whole year!”
 
Shock froze me. I never asked him. Why would he meddle again?
 
When I confirmed at the office, they said, “Yes, his uncle came and paid.”
 
My heart burned with suspicion. Was this generosity—or a way to tie me to him? I wanted peace, not unwanted obligations.
 
Abubakar Lamido. That was his name. A Fulani man from Adamawa, tall and striking, with wealth and confidence. Yet every time our paths crossed, I prayed he would vanish.
 
Meanwhile, in his own grand house in Yola, he returned from work to his sisters who adored him. They greeted him warmly, speaking in Fulfulde. He spoke English with ease, his presence commanding respect.
 
But behind his composed face, he was restless. My voice, my face—he had recognized me from the past. He wondered what had become of me, why hardship had hardened me.
 
His youngest sister, Ummi, noticed his distraction. “Hamma, what troubles you? You don’t eat, you only think.”
 
He smiled faintly. “It’s nothing, Ummi. Just tiredness.”
 
But his heart whispered otherwise: Only she can answer the questions haunting me.
 
Crossroads of Fate
 
Back in Kano, I tried to bury thoughts of Abubakar. I focused on Shadad—his homework, his laughter, his growth. I wanted him to fear God, not fear my anger.
 
Yet his uncle’s shadow lingered. He paid fees, bought gifts, slipped money into Mama Rahma’s hands. Every gesture made me uneasy, as though he was weaving invisible chains around us.
 
I told myself—this man will not trap me. I refuse to be beholden to him. But my heart was restless. Could it be gratitude I was mistaking for resentment? Or something more dangerous?
 
At night, as I lay awake listening to the children breathe, I prayed for strength. For Shadad’s future. For mine.
 
Because deep inside, I knew this was not the end—only the beginning of a story I hadn’t chosen, but which fate had already written.