Yar Tsanar Zinari Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

The Checkpoint and the Car
 
A dozen policemen stood across the main road into town, rifles held like real firearms — military-grade, solid weapons — their hands steady. They had positioned a small black car on the road; its value would shock anyone who heard the price. They waited for the signal: when the car moved, they would execute orders to set it ablaze if necessary. No smiles, no mercy; these faces showed no pity. They made it clear: if the occupants failed to obey, the police would drag them out and force them to surrender exactly as instructed.
 
I leaned close and peered into the car, trying to identify a known criminal rumored to be trapped inside. The scene I found made me rub my eyes to confirm it truly was what I saw. There was no man at the wheel — a woman was driving. From what I could see she was not particularly large; she looked of average height and build, but her visible cheek was very pale and striking. The skin beside her ear was startlingly white; the area around that ear lay in an unusual, elegant arc. Her gloved hand wore a black gripping glove. Her hair was bundled under a facing cap tied like a donut; over her nose she wore a black nose mask. On top she had a long-sleeved black jacket and black full-length trousers — effectively concealing most of her body. Only the curve of her ear and a few outward details were visible; otherwise, I couldn’t make out much.
 
The woman seated in the passenger seat beside her wore similar attire, but she trembled, and tears streamed directly from her eyes. She seemed terrified — the kind of fear that radiated from her. Unlike the composed driver, who listened to a car radio and nodded along to some song while glancing at the riot police ahead, this passenger could barely hide her panic.
 
“BIBA — is this what you brought us to? To be executed?” the passenger wailed. “Oh God, who sent me to this trouble? Maybe it was some bad fate — they’ve taken me to Gambia. Lord have mercy.”
 
Biba’s voice came out cold and steady, quiet but hard. “Why are you talking so much, Ummita?” she said, turning her head slightly.
 
Ummita sobbed harder. “BIBA, now you speak like we’re finished. You said this job wasn’t dangerous. Now I face certain death. You told me it wasn’t dangerous, but now—”
 
Biba glanced at her calmly. “Don’t worry, Ummita. Life offers two paths. You choose which to take. You can choose the good path or the bad one. I, Biba, chose the bad path.”
 
“Are you telling me you chose the bad path?” Ummita asked, trembling.
 
A faint smile creased Biba’s voice. Though the mask hid much of her face, a smile showed in the shape of her eyes. “Yes — that’s the way I chose,” she said, and started the car. The engine purred like a quality vehicle.
 
She looked once more at Ummita. “Can you swim?”
 
Ummita shook her head, peering at the shallow stream that ran by the road; they were parked where the road crossed a narrow river.
 
“Tie the ballet (garment) properly,” Biba ordered.
 
Ummita tightened the garment she wore — she had done so from the moment the patrol began. She knew if Biba drove recklessly she might need to escape through a window.
 
A rumble came from the car and a plume of smoke coiled into the air. Gunshots started — at first light cracking, then closer — and then several shots struck the vehicle. Before the police finished deciding what to do, with remarkable composure and expert control of the steering wheel, Biba slammed the car into a concrete barrier on the river bank with tremendous force. The impact blew apart the car’s frontal structure like an explosion. But that was not all: she immediately reversed, smashed the car again, and then, in the second violent motion, heaved the vehicle over the embankment. The car and its two occupants plunged into the river below.
 
Everyone at the scene sprinted toward the water, shouting and scanning frantically; they had not expected the car to tip into that shallow stream, but there it lay. The commander on the spot kicked a nearby block in frustration and cursed. One of the officers said, “Boss, she’s probably dead — the car sank.”
 
With bitterness, the commander barked, “Even if she’s dead, I want the body. I need the corpse — I need that girl’s body.” He ranted that whatever she had stolen was worth more than gold, more precious than jewelry, and that recovering her body would be a political triumph. He ordered the others: “Bring the winch and pull the car out of the water.”
 
Respectfully, they broke off to fetch the crane and equipment.
 
Underwater Rescue and Reveal
 
Underwater, Biba moved with control. She shed the ballet she wore over her clothes, reached behind the car seat and opened a small bag she had stashed there. Quickly, she pulled out two emergency breathing devices — small respiratory canisters with a compact gas container — plus a pair of swimming goggles designed to keep water out of the eyes. She fitted one device to Ummita and then removed Ummita’s ballet strap which was being flooded from her inhaling water.
 
She placed the breathing apparatus to Ummita’s nostrils, supported her with a small makeshift float, and began to swim with her toward the nearest bank. It took an exhausting forty minutes of swimming in that current before they reached shore. When they finally clambered out, Ummita gasped for air, coughing and retching despite the nasal aid Biba had given her. She removed the goggles that had kept her eyes from burning, and finally lay down, breathing heavily and waiting to see what would happen next.
 
Biba sat up, watching the scene. She looked over at the police and then looked skyward, assessing escape routes. She moved with the calm of someone who had planned contingencies.
 
Slowly she removed the facing cap covering her hair. The moment it fell away, the view was arresting. Her face was broad, not tall; round but striking. Her eyes were large and luminous; the irises were dark like coal and the whites exceptionally bright — a contrast so sharp they pulled attention inescapably. Her eyelashes seemed thick as if given a natural frame, and her brows arched perfectly. Her nose was neither long nor short — proportionate and pleasing. Her lips were soft, plump and a moderate width; her teeth were white and even. Biba’s presence alone could distract anyone.
 
She pulled off her jacket, and then the shirt beneath it — revealing a white garment under the jacket. For a heartbeat an almost sacrilegious hush fell across the onlookers: the arrangement of her chest beneath a pink bra, the gentle slope of her cleavage, the shape of her breasts contained in that bright pink fabric — even a small metallic ornament at the center caught the eye like a bright nugget of metal. The sight of her figure was impossible to ignore: smooth skin, flawless tone, and a natural shape that drew looks without any contrivance. She removed her shoes and then the long trousers down to a single pant; she stood there composed, every movement revealing a deliberate, almost theater-like confidence. Honestly, her figure was anything but ordinary; it had curves and a presence that made gazes linger.
 
Turning to Ummita, who had pushed herself up, Biba unfolded a large plastic bag and pulled out clean clothes, handing them over briskly. “Quick, put these on. Wear them properly. Our flight leaves for Nigeria in twenty minutes,” she said.
 
Ummita stared as she fumbled with the garments. “Biba, where did you get these clothes?” she asked.
 
Biba didn’t look back. “I don’t have time to answer that,” she said calmly. “If you want to live, do as I say.”
 
Ummita swallowed the question and started dressing. Biba watched the taxiing activity of the policemen as they tried to winch the car; she kept an eye on the perimeter. The police were fully committed to retrieving the wreck and any evidence inside. Biba, meanwhile, had already thought beyond the scene to the next leg of their escape.
 
The Stakes and the Order
 
At the waterside, tension mounted. The officers, now convinced the woman might be dead, demanded the body. The commander had pinned an unappeasable value on whatever item Biba carried — an object he believed surpassed money and gold, the kind of commodity that could buy loyalties or erase scandals. He wanted it recovered at any cost and saw the recovery as his own road to influence. He barked orders to retrieve the car; the men moved to fetch the heavy equipment.
 
Unknown to them, the two women were alive and scrambling to recover. Biba’s coolness in the water, the pre-packed breathing devices, and the bag with clothes were evidence of careful planning. She had accepted danger as a choice and had already made her own exit strategy.
 
When Ummita finished dressing, Biba shoved the rest of the spare garments and items into a plastic sack and motioned for them to move. “Come,” she said, tight and uncompromising. “We must be gone. No explanations now.”
 
Ummita, still trembling and coughing, followed. The police and their winch filled the scene with noise and focused purpose, but Biba and Ummita had a small head start on escape — a plan executed with ruthless efficiency. Far from the officers’ schematic of power, Biba’s plan was personal: survival, a secret cargo, and a flight out in minutes.