Abidan Book One Complete Hausa Novel
She slowly crossed the street and headed straight down the long alleyway before her. Looking down its length, despite the dense population of the neighborhood, the street appeared completely deserted as if swept clean. This was undoubtedly due to the scorching sun blazing overhead—the kind of punishing heat that made one want to clutch their head and cry out in agony.
She walked with slow, deliberate steps, stepping lightly as if pitying the earth beneath her feet. To an onlooker, her measured pace might suggest the oppressive weather didn’t bother her, but in truth, she was suffering intensely from the sun. She longed desperately to reach home. The tailored lace skirt and blouse she wore, paired with a long matching sleeved hijab, trapped the intense heat, compounded by the stylish shoulder bag slung over her arm.
Before long, she arrived at the entrance of her family compound, located in a row of modest houses. Though built with concrete blocks, the structure had never been plastered, let alone painted. As she unslung her shoulder bag, preparing to enter the passageway (soro), her eyes fell upon Hauwa, who was dressed up in vibrant African print (atamfa). Hauwa was standing facing a young man; their posture made it instantly clear they were flirting. Maryam turned her head away as if she hadn’t seen them, annoyed by Hauwa’s behavior—which, like that of the other young women in the compound, constantly exasperated her.
Squeezing between them since there was no other path to pass, she heard the young man politely call out, “Welcome back, big sister.”
“Thank you, good afternoon,” she replied indifferently, slipping inside the compound.
Hauwa glared after her so fiercely it seemed her eyes might pop out, letting out a loud, spiteful hiss (tsaki). “Honestly, Haruna, you humiliate me! Why is your only goal to embarrass me in front of this woman? What are you trying to prove?”
“Is it a crime, Kulu, just to greet your elder sister?” Haruna asked softly. “You know she is kind, educated, and dignified.”
Hauwa rolled her eyes angrily. “Oho! Are you planning to go after her instead, Haruna? Are you really praising an old spinster right in front of me—a woman who has rotted in her parents’ home because no one wants to marry her?”
Realizing Hauwa was getting overly agitated, Haruna softened his tone: “Come on, my Kulu, you know you are the only one for me. What would I do with any other woman in this world if not you?” Though pacified by his flattery, Hauwa remained sulky for a while before letting it go and resuming their conversation.
Inside, Maryam offered the traditional greeting of peace to the compound, though she knew no one would answer unless her mother or Hindatu were in the yard. Sure enough, no one offered a warm look or greeting. On the eastern side of the compound sat Inna Hadiza, sorting beans and rice to sell from oversized tin containers. Beside her sat Huwaila, busy tying hibiscus juice (kunu) into small plastic bags and stacking them in a bucket.
Maryam greeted them politely anyway, and as expected, they responded with spiteful hisses and cold glares. Removing her Tom’s shoes and carrying them in her hand to avoid conflict, she headed toward her mother’s room. Before she even entered, she could hear them launching into indirect insults and bitter taunts.
“Hmm, live long and you’ll see everything,” Inna Hadiza sneered. “Go out, wander around as much as you like, and then come back to sit uselessly in your mother’s room.”
“Huwaila, why are you surprised?” Huwaila added. “Didn’t they boast that their daughter was too beautiful to marry easily? Now she’s turned into an unsold asset!”
“Nonsense! A disgrace waiting to happen in this house. People can only fetch water with a clay jar for so long before it breaks.”
Both Maryam and her mother heard every word. Though accustomed to the abuse, it still cut deep, though neither responded. She found her mother on the prayer mat, performing her afternoon (Zuhr) prayers. Maryam unslung her bag, set it on a chair alongside her hijab, and returned to the courtyard to perform ablution (alwala). Throughout her ablution, the women continued their bitter commentary. Though her heart burned with pain, Maryam kept her head down, slipped off her slippers, and stepped back into the room.
Just then, Isyaku, Inna Hadiza’s young son, came running out holding a cup full of kunu. Before Maryam could step aside, he bumped into her, spilling the cold drink all over her skirt down to her feet.
Stunned, Maryam looked at the boy standing brazenly in front of her. “Isyaku, why can’t you watch where you’re going?”
The boy twisted his mouth and glared insolently at her: “So what? No one needs to teach me! An unmarried old woman disturbing everyone in the house!”
Furious that a child nearly fifteen years her junior would stand there and disrespect her, Maryam grabbed his arm. Before she could act further, Inna Hadiza’s harsh voice boomed across the yard: “Hey! Don’t you dare lay a finger on my child! I swear, if you touch him, we will have a serious showdown today!”
Ignoring her threats, Maryam delivered a sharp slap to Isyaku’s face—recalling how earlier that morning he had insulted her while his mother watched and laughed. Inna Hadiza charged toward her: “By God, today you will learn your lesson!”
Just then, Malam Mamuda walked into the compound. “Hey, what is going on here?”
“Malam, thank God you’re here!” Inna Hadiza yelled. “We are sick and tired of living with this mature spinster! She won’t get married, she won’t leave, and she takes it out on our children!”
“What happened now?” Malam Mamuda asked.
“She slapped this poor young boy just because he accidentally spilled a little kunu on her!”
“Isyaku, why did you do that?”
“Baba, it was an accident, and I swear I must hit her back!”
“Maryam, apologize to him,” Malam Mamuda instructed.
With no choice, Maryam swallowed her pride and murmured, “I’m sorry.” Isyaku threw a fit until his mother managed to calm him down.
With tears streaming down her cheeks, Maryam retreated into their room. Her mother was still seated on the prayer mat, silent. Maryam pulled out a prayer mat, stood up, and performed her prayers, pouring out her heart to God. After finishing her prayers and folding the mat, her mother spoke softly:
“Maryam, I have told you time and again: you must continue to be patient as long as you live in this house.”
Fresh tears spilled over Maryam’s cheeks as she sat beside a chair: “Mama, you are my witness. No matter how patient one is, the people in this house will force you to break. Mama, Isyaku is young enough to be my younger brother…”
“That’s enough. Do not harbor it in your heart. Allah is with you; He has not forgotten you.”
Wiping her tears with quiet resignation, Maryam replied softly, “Alright, Mama.”