Zuciyar Mace Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

Tragedy in the Morning
 
“Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un! People, bring help!”
 
The cries from outside pierced through the sweetness of Nuratu’s morning sleep. She groaned, pulled her worn-out blanket tighter over her head, hoping the noise would fade. Their house was always noisy, filled with confusion and quarrels, but this time the uproar was different. Men, women, and children were all screaming without restraint.
 
Her heart froze when she heard Mama Karime’s voice: “Salamatu has fallen into the well!”
 
Shivers ran through Nuratu’s body. Could it be her mother, Salamatu? She prayed it wasn’t true. But when she looked around the room, her mother was nowhere. Just then, her sister Nusaiba burst in, panting: “Nuratu! Get up! Our mother has fallen into the well!”
 
Nuratu dashed out in panic, brushing past Nusaiba. Neighbors were already gathered, chanting prayers. She wanted to jump straight into the well, but people held her back. She struggled, crying: “Mamaaa!”
 
Moments later, Malam Haruna, an expert in well rescue, arrived. He and another man went down and managed to pull Salamatu out. They laid her on a mat and tried to revive her, but she was motionless. Baba pressed his ear to her chest, then raised his hands to his head: “Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un! Salamatu is gone. She has left us.”
 
Nuratu collapsed, shaking her mother, weeping uncontrollably.
 
The Struggle at the Hospital
 
The compound erupted with wailing. Some insisted she was not dead and urged Baba to take her to the hospital. But Baba, bitter and broken, snapped: “What hospital? Am I a child who doesn’t know death? I have buried my parents, my wife, and four of my children. I know death when I see it.”
 
Neighbors scolded him, urging him to at least try. But Baba, with empty pockets, pulled out both sides of his torn pockets: “With what money should I take her? I have nothing.”
 
Finally, a neighbor carried Salamatu’s body and rushed to the hospital. Baba and others followed. Nuratu, without even a headscarf, ran behind them until her younger sister lent her a hijab. She climbed into a tricycle, not caring about fare, and hurried after them.
 
At the hospital, after a tense wait, the confirmation came: Salamatu was indeed dead.
 
Nuratu sat on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, as people tried to comfort her. Mama Karime also arrived, helping arrange for hospital bills and transport for the body. When they returned home, Salamatu’s corpse was washed and prepared for burial. Relatives pulled Nuratu forward to pray for her mother, but all she could do was choke through tears: “Mama… Allah have mercy on you. May He grant you peace.”
 
Deep inside, guilt gnawed at her. Her mother had died angry with her, after harsh words the day before. Was this why fate had taken her so suddenly?
 
Shadows of Guilt and Secrets
 
That night, relatives filled the house. Food was prepared for mourners, but Nuratu could not eat. She remembered how her mother had been preparing dough for waina (bean cakes) the previous evening. Out of stubbornness, she had refused to help her mother, retreating instead to her bed with fever and chills.
 
And worse—she carried a secret her mother never knew.
 
At only two months pregnant, Nuratu had been battling fear and shame. She had not yet found the courage to tell her mother, or anyone else. That morning, as her mother was restless and troubled, she had overslept under the weight of sickness, hiding her condition. Now, her mother was gone—angry, disappointed, and forever unaware.
 
The weight crushed her chest as she imagined facing the world with her secret swelling inside.
 
A Marriage of Bitterness
 
Time passed, and Nuratu’s life shifted into the routine of marriage. She was now known as Hasana, wife of Nura, mother of three boys—Aiman, Salim, and Amir.
 
Her mornings were filled with chores: lighting the charcoal stove, boiling tea, preparing food, and tending to the baby Aiman. Her husband, Nura, was a man of constant irritation, full of complaints, quick to anger. He had little affection for her, showing love only to the children once they were old enough to talk.
 
That morning, as Hasana worked in the kitchen, Aiman cried. She picked him up, humming a lullaby, but her husband barked from the bedroom: “Take him out of here!” She obeyed quietly, used to his harshness.
 
She cooked noodles for the schoolboys, prepared their uniforms, and served Nura his breakfast. Without a word, he dressed sharply and left for the market with the boys, ignoring her question about groceries.
 
Later, her friend Ramla visited from the market. Hasana served her food, and they chatted happily—until Nura returned unexpectedly.
 
He greeted them, then frowned at the pot of beans and rice. “Hasana, how many times must I tell you not to cook plain meals like this? You embarrass me before visitors. Why no meat? Why no proper stew?”
 
Hasana stayed silent, tears brimming. She hadn’t seen meat in the house since Eid.
 
Turning to Ramla, he said: “Please, advise your friend. What kind of woman refuses to cook well even when her husband provides?”
 
Ramla, embarrassed, gave a weak smile and nodded.
 
Nura stormed out, only to return moments later with shopping bags filled with meat and drinks. He handed them straight to Ramla: “Here, take these. A guest cannot be treated poorly in my house.”
 
Ramla, delighted, thanked him profusely.
 
Hasana’s heart burned. Her husband rarely showed her such kindness, but to outsiders—especially her friends—he displayed generosity. Rumors had long spread that Nura chased women, even her own acquaintances. Now she believed it.
 
Lonely, humiliated, and trapped, Hasana wiped her tears, praying silently: “Ya Allah, give me patience, for this is the life I must endure.”