Tubabbiya Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

A Village Scene: Khadija and Her Mother
 
In the village of Nahuce in Zamfara State, a striking woman sat on the mat in her small, worn-down house. She couldn’t have been older than 40. Fair-skinned, wrapped in a faded Ankara cloth, her voice broke the silence with a loud yell:
“Khadija! Khadija! You won’t stop chasing useless money, will you?”
 
She was speaking to her daughter. “We barely manage to feed ourselves,” she continued. “Other girls go to the farm to gather firewood and earn something, but not you. You're always chasing money and big contracts when you don’t even have a single naira to your name. Are you better than everyone else?"
 
Khadija, her daughter, pouted her lips—soft, full lips—and calmly responded:
“Mama, can’t you see all the effort I’m making just so we have food to eat? You refused when I said we should move back to the city. There are no jobs in this village apart from farming. I want to take some boys to work on farmlands and earn something. We'll get paid, Mama. That’s the only way I see us getting out of this.”
 
Her mother sighed. “You're just 16, Khadija. What big boys will listen to you? And don’t think your beauty is everything.”
 
Khadija smiled, her dimple showing. “Mama, you forgot who you gave birth to. I may look ordinary, but I could be the future wife of a governor. Just pray for me, Mama.”
 
Her mother couldn’t help laughing. “Go and pray Asr, then come finish your chores!”
 
A Day in Their Lives
 
Khadija did her ablution and prayed. Later, she began sweeping. Around 5 p.m., her siblings returned from Islamiyya: Maryam (aka Merry), Ihsan, and Ahmad.
“Hey Sister, hey Mama!” they shouted as they dropped their uniforms and ran inside.
 
Khadija was fresh from a bath, now dressed in tight pants and a shirt—urban wear uncommon in northern villages. They all had dinner, prayed Isha, and picked up their wooden boards as they prepared to attend the night Qur’anic school.
 
At the Qur’anic School
 
“Malam Liman,” their teacher called, “Khadija, recite for us.”
 
Khadija began reading the Arabic letters—clumsily. “Alu... ambaki… wau… zal…” she stuttered.
 
Then she paused and raised her head:
“Hey Malam, so there’s ‘Shadda’ in the Qur’an? No wonder it’s so sacred and expensive!”
 
The teacher smiled; it was clear Khadija didn’t fully understand what she was reading—just memorizing.
 
She burst out laughing. “I swear I’ll never name my son after this confusing stuff! I’ll call him Nu’ara instead!”
 
The class erupted. “This is not a joke, Khadija!” the teacher yelled.
 
Even Merry, her younger sister, tried to help. “Say ‘Lungu’ not ‘Lunguda’!”
 
Khadija laughed again. “Wait, is this even real Arabic or some Hausa remix?”
 
She barely stopped laughing before the teacher gave her a sharp cane across her back. She screamed, quieting the class. But her voice had already traveled across the neighborhood—her Igbo-accented Hausa hard to miss.
 
New Neighbors from the South
 
The next day, a southern couple, Madam Ngozi and her husband Dennis, visited. They’d recently moved to the village and opened a provisions shop. They spoke fluent Hausa with a thick Igbo accent, and they often helped Khadija’s family with food and supplies.
 
Over casual conversation, Ngozi confided in Mama:
“One of my sons in Enugu wants to convert to Islam. I’m not happy, but he insists. My husband says let him be—but I don’t want him to become an ‘Almajiri’.”
 
The women burst out laughing. Ngozi thought being Almajiri was part of the Islamic conversion process. Mama explained the difference between religious education and child abandonment, and Ngozi seemed satisfied.
 
Child Almajirai and the Harsh Realities
 
Early the next morning, Mama pushed the kids to Qur'anic school again. After class, Khadija sat observing the young Almajirai—most no older than 7. These children had been sent away by poor or negligent parents, roaming from house to house for food. Many were orphans; others had families who couldn’t care for them.
 
She thought:
"These kids are exposed to danger—some may grow into thieves or worse: kidnappers, gangsters, terrorists. All because no one gave them love or guidance."
 
She watched one small boy struggle to carry a heavy axe meant for firewood. Another one had gone to fetch tools from a house. Some boys were washing clothes for their teacher’s wives, others farming or doing construction—none of it related to learning.
 
Their teacher wasn't paid, so he relied on these children to work and feed him.
 
Meanwhile, parents paid thousands for western education, but Islamic education? They expected it to be free.
 
Khadija Confronts the Teacher
 
Malam came out and began beating the boys. “You didn’t finish chopping the wood!” he shouted, raising his whip.
 
Khadija ran up and snatched the cane from his hand.
 
In broken Hausa, mixed with English and Igbo, she yelled:
“Why beat them? Where are your own children? Off to school in clean uniforms while these ones suffer?”
 
Malam glared. “Who are you to speak to me like that, you infidel! Even your father wouldn’t dare!”
 
“Oh, wow,” Khadija snapped. “So I’m an infidel now? Animal fool! You’re abusing children and calling it religion. You’re not holy—just a lazy man using kids as slaves!”
 
“Because of you,” Malam shouted, “no man will marry you! You’ll grow old in your mother’s house! No respect!”
 
Khadija laughed.
“Me? I’ll get married before you know it. I’ll bring my husband here to show you. He’ll be rich, and we’ll be living big!”
 
Malam fumed. “You and your useless city clothes. Even your family will suffer disgrace because of your mouth!”
 
“Are you God?” Khadija shot back. “In fact, look at your wives—flat chest, no hips! See me? Full body like city babes! I’m beautiful, even fairer than your ghost-looking face!”
 
She turned around and shook her hips deliberately.
 
Malam nearly swallowed his tongue.
 
“Stop drooling!” she snapped. “You won’t get this, not even in your dreams.”