Wulakanci Dodone complete Hausa Novel

A Sweet Moment Interrupted
She was a young girl, no more than 18 or 19 years old, sitting close to an elderly man. He was laughing while she spoke confidently. She lifted a spoon and fed him fruit; he opened his mouth and accepted it, closing his eyes as he did.
“Baby, this mixture is so sweet… I never get tired of drinking it,” the man said in a relaxed, leisurely voice.
The girl laughed and replied, “It’s my pleasure, daddy…”
She fed him another spoonful, and he drank it. After about five minutes, they heard shouting from the front gate. The man lifted his head to look toward the voices, and his expression immediately changed. The girl kissed him, placed the cup on a crystal table, and said,
“Daddy, I have to go…”
With a stern face he said,
“Baby, didn’t you hear me? I have warned you to stop this phone habit. Just because we live in the USA doesn’t make us Americans. We are Africans and we will always be.”
She looked as if she was about to cry and said softly,
“Daddy, I’m sorry… they are my only friends.”
“I must do something about this,” he said, picking up the bowl of fruit salad to drink.
“What did you say?” she asked, showing she didn’t fully understand Hausa.
He turned his face away and said nothing more. The girl walked out in a long fitted gown, without a head covering. Her hair was styled just like that of the white girls waiting for her at the gate. Her father watched her from behind, many thoughts running through his mind. He felt like he was losing his only daughter, his only child. He sighed deeply and closed his eyes.
“I have to do something,” he said to himself.
A Father’s Silent Struggle
More shouts made him look toward the gate again. The girls were hugging her from all sides, chanting, “Rosey, Rosey, Rosey!”
“Stop… Daddy is watching,” she warned them.
The five girls quickly went quiet, though they were still smiling, clearly showing how special she was to them. They entered a roofless car, some sitting inside while others sat behind. One of the white girls drove off with loud music, and they left the house.
The man placed the cup down and stood up, both hands in his pockets, clearly lost in thought. He sighed again and walked slowly, looking around the magnificent mansion. Despite its beauty and perfect design, he felt it was all meaningless.
“I don’t want to lose you at all. I lost your mother and I don’t want to lose you too. Just because my work brought me here doesn’t mean I should lose my only child to Western life. No way,” he told himself, stopping every five to seven minutes as he walked.
“What am I going to do?” he asked himself restlessly.
“Should I take her to Nigeria?”
He shook his head quickly.
“No… that’s impossible. I have no one I can trust with the only child Allah has given me.”
“I wish I had good siblings. I would send Maryam to them so she could learn our culture until Allah blesses her with a husband, then she would take over my companies. But they don’t even want to see me, all because I am rich. Despite all the help I give them, I am still seen as the bad one—the greedy, the stingy, the selfish, the arrogant one. Oh Allah…”
His voice sounded bitter. His eyes changed, as if he remembered something deeply painful.
“Does a person give wealth to himself? Then why is mine different? Why has my wealth become the source of my sadness? I have no loved ones, no trusted friends, and now the only companion I have is going astray.”
He remembered how Western children often disrespect their parents, even taking them to court over disagreements. He never wanted his daughter to become like that. He wanted her to be the shoulder he could cry on, not the other way around.
“Oh Allah, what am I going to do?” he whispered desperately, searching for an urgent solution to a terrible problem.
Alhaj Mahmoud and the Call from Nigeria
He checked his wristwatch—it was 5 p.m. He walked toward the main hall, which was enormous and beautifully arranged, though not crowded with furniture. He lay back on a resting chair and closed his eyes as if to sleep.
This was Alhaj Mahmoud, the owner of Maryama Group of Companies—a powerful business tycoon known worldwide, with companies in many countries. Most of his business was abroad, which was why he lived in London.
Alhaj Mahmoud was a kind man but had zero tolerance for nonsense. The only person he tolerated completely was his daughter. She did whatever she liked, though she never did anything truly bad—except spending time with friends he didn’t approve of. Whenever he tried to correct her, she simply said she was lonely and bored.
What worried him most was that there was nothing about her behavior to show she was Nigerian, especially a Northern Nigerian. Everything about her seemed Western. He tried his best to teach her their culture, but it wasn’t working. He constantly wished he had good siblings he could send her to in Nigeria so she could learn their way of life, but they didn’t even want to see him—or his child. The last time they went to Nigeria, they almost killed him under the guise of an accident.
He adjusted his position slightly, eyes still closed.
“Oh Allah…” he whispered.
One of his phones began to ring. Someone came out from a nearby corridor, picked it up, and handed it to him. He smiled faintly when he saw the caller—it was his company manager in Nigeria, the employee he trusted most for loyalty.
He answered and exchanged greetings. After polite inquiries about family, the caller asked,
“Sir, what’s wrong with you?”
Alhaj Mahmoud sighed. “Nothing…”
“But sir, you sound worried. Please confide in me. I know something is troubling you. Let me share your burden,” the man insisted.
Alhaj Mahmoud closed his eyes again, sighing deeply. He knew this man was loyal, kind, and one of his best workers. Alhaj Ismail always took his worries personally and cared deeply about his well-being. Even from another country, he could sense something was wrong.
“Please sir, tell me what’s wrong. Remember, a problem shared is a problem solved,” Alhaj Ismail said again.
Alhaj Mahmoud sighed once more before replying,
“It’s something personal…”