So Da Zuciya Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

The Cry of the Almajiri
 
“Ahidi...! Sadaka..! Almajiri bara iya...!” the almajiri chanted outside. His tattered voice echoed through the neighborhood. The young boy held a plastic container in his left hand, and wiped his runny nose with the sleeve of his blue, faded kaftan. His chants woke Zaarah from her sleep.
 
A Sudden Awakening
 
Zaarah, a Fulani girl, lay sprawled on her foam mattress inside the boarding school-like room. The soul-piercing chant of the almajiri shook her from her hunger-induced nap. She groaned, rubbed her eyes, and glanced at her mother, who sat trimming her fingernails.
 
“Dadaa…?” she called softly.
 
“You’re awake?” her mother responded.
 
“Yes, I didn’t realize I had fallen asleep.”
 
“That mountain of laundry would knock out anyone. May God bless you.”
 
“Ameen, Dadaa.”
 
“There’s food in your plate. It should be cool by now.”
 
Zaarah eagerly uncovered the dish—steamed danwake with oil and pepper. She beamed. “Wow! Iya Fatsuma’s danwake! Dadaa, where are Hamma Modibbo and the others?”
 
“Raheelah and Na’eelah are at Islamiyya. Hamma just left. He brought the danwake.”
 
“May Allah bless him.”
 
Malam Ardo's Declaration
 
Their father, Malam Ardo Borkindo, entered with a stern “Salam!” They all rushed to greet him. Zaarah knelt respectfully, but he responded with a hard face. She returned inside, used to his coldness.
 
“I want the food store swept clean. In two days, a new bride is coming,” he announced.
 
His words froze the courtyard. Both Dadaa and Mama Atuwa stared at him, stunned. Just then, the same almajiri returned, stomping loudly and repeating his plea for food.
 
“You little nuisance! Get out before I lash you,” Mama Atuwa screamed at him, hand raised.
 
The boy paused, confused, unsure what wrong he had committed. Zaarah, having overheard the marriage announcement, called him in and gave him the danwake she had lost appetite for.
 
The Wrath of Mama Atuwa
 
“What do we lack that you’re marrying again, Ardo?” Mama Atuwa yelled, furious. “May your gains curse you! How many times will you repeat this madness?”
 
Dadaa, calm and worn, tried to bring peace. “May God bless this marriage and grant peace,” she said softly, retreating to her room.
 
Mama Atuwa burst. “Bless what? You old hypocrite! Sitting there like a new bride. May Allah judge between me and you!”
 
Ardo rose, shaking his head. “The door is open. I’m ready to give you your divorce whenever you wish.”
 
“Divorce? Ha! After five children? I’m not going anywhere!” she scoffed. “I’m the thorn in your flesh. Kill me, smash the pot—let’s see who wins!”
 
She tightened her grip on his robe as their youngest daughter, Farillatu, stood nearby, nose running, tugging on her mother’s wrapper. “Mama, I’m hungry,” the little girl whimpered.
 
Yet Mama Atuwa didn’t flinch. “You made promises, Ardo! You said we’d feast every day. You promised tea, bread, and rice with soda. Since two weeks after our wedding, I haven’t seen anything! Fifteen years, Ardo! Fifteen years of neglect and broken promises!”
 
Ardo hissed, pushed her hand off his robe, and stormed out.
 
“Go!” she shouted behind him. “You think I’ll leave? Never! I am Atuwa—mother of Sulaiba, Sameerah, Hajaara, and Farillatu. The matriarch of this house!”
 
She grabbed Farillatu and stormed inside, muttering insults about every relative of Malam Ardo, near and far.
 
Reflections: A Glimpse into Zaarah’s World
 
“Reflection... the ornament of a traveler,” says the wise.
 
This story echoes the new wave of Zafafa Biyar novels—heart-touching tales with diverse, soulful plots. These emotionally rich narratives are resonating with readers across Hausa literature, redefining storytelling.
 
Zaarah’s Journey Home
 
The rain had bathed the streets of Rimin Kebe. Trees glistened green and fresh. The pungent stench of the gutters had eased with the downpour. Zaarah walked alone, returning from school.
 
They were released early due to heavy rain leaking into the classrooms—no windows to shield them. The decrepit government school, long forgotten, bore every sign of neglect: broken roofs, worn-out chalkboards, and students seated on mats.
 
Zaarah, in her faded sky-blue uniform and yellow scarf (marking her as a prefect), walked solemnly. Her clothes bore signs of wear—patched, torn, and resewn countless times. Her sandals had been stitched with shoemaker thread. Beneath her hijab, her thick hair was wrapped in plastic. On her back hung a UNICEF-donated backpack.
 
She walked silently, reciting lazimi as Dadaa instructed, even as other pupils screamed and laughed behind her. Carefully, she stepped through the muddy alleys, navigating overflowing gutters that had turned the street into a river of filth.