GIRMA YA FADI 3 Complete Hausa Novel

I sat still, refusing to move, until he had finished unloading the bags he came with from the trunk of the car. He walked around, opened my door, and said, “You are welcome to Gwauru’s house…” I swallowed hard, and replied, “It would be better if you went in first and informed the household about me, rather than them just seeing me here with you. If they welcome me, then all praises are due to Allah; if they don’t, it’s no problem. We can go find a guest house, and that itself would be a great help to me, and I would really appreciate it.”
He laced his fingers together, cracking his knuckles as he smiled and replied, “You seem to lack trust in people. You’re right; indeed, God is a protector, and people can be frightening too. May God protect you from spending the night in a guest house, for your voice alone reveals your worth, and it’s clear you’re someone who values herself. Trust me, I have no intention to harm you. This is a path that has brought us together, and God has forged our bond.
“Just as every blood sibling wouldn’t betray their sister from the same womb, I won’t betray you either. Feel free around me; I’m not that kind of person. So come, follow me. I promise you won’t regret it.”
I reluctantly opened the car door and got out, following him inside, as the gatekeeper followed us with his bags.
Right from the living room, he raised his voice, saying, “Manma, I’m back!” From a room corner, she responded, “Mon fils tu es de retour (Welcome back, my son),” before she steadied herself with her walking stick, finding her way along the wall. Her eyes were wide open, clear and bright, but I realized she couldn’t see. He quickly reached her, and she felt for his head and embraced him, speaking to him in their language.
I stood rooted, watching the elderly woman who suddenly made me feel a pang in my chest, because she looked so much like my mother.
He said, “I’m not alone, Manma. I’m here with a guest. We were held up by bandits, and since she’s a guest here in Niger, I decided to bring her here to avoid leaving her at their mercy.” She asked, “I hope you caught them all? I’ve been praying since you left that God would grant you success in your work.” He didn’t seem too pleased that she said this within my hearing, and he changed the subject by gently guiding her toward the chair where I was seated. She reached out, feeling for me, and touched my veil. I removed my veil, and she touched my face, smiling as she said, “A young woman, right? She seems beautiful, with a long nose, I sense; and she’s not from our town, you say.”
I raised my eyes and saw him looking at me, his mouth open, but he couldn’t say anything. She said, “Bring her water, won’t you? Or do you want me to hit you with my stick?” He swallowed his expression of amazement and fear directed at me, went to what I assumed was the kitchen, and returned with a cold bottle of Ragolis water and Don Simon juice, placing them on a table while keeping his gaze fixed on me.
He asked, “Didn’t Laliya come by to cook for you, Manma?” She felt around for her chair and sat down, saying, “Leave Laliya and her love of money. She said she went to collect zakat from the Kangiwa house, even though I gave her money just yesterday.” His face tightened in anger as he said, “I think I’ll dismiss her. How can I bring a young woman and pay her to care for my mother, only for her to leave my mother hungry? No way, she’s gone too far, no matter who she thinks she is.” Both the elderly woman and I burst out laughing, and he began to roll up his sleeves, clearly intending to cook himself. She said, “That’s why I love you, Mon Amour (my love); no complaints. Someone who works for you every day, when he misses a day, just make excuses for him.”
He replied, “I have, Manma. So, what would you like me to cook for you in fifteen minutes?” She said, “Make me cabbage; ask your guest what she’d like to eat as well.” He turned to me and said, “And you, my guest, what would you like?”
The elderly woman interjected, “Oh, you don’t even know her name yet?” I felt embarrassed, realizing I hadn’t introduced myself, and said, “My name is Zaynab. He didn’t tell me his name, Mama, so I didn’t tell him mine either.”
He smiled but didn’t look up from what he was doing — pouring juice into glasses. She reached out to hit him playfully, aiming for his head, but he caught her before she could fall, gently laying her down on the long couch. He said, “Please don’t be mad at my teasing.” I said, “How could I be mad at someone who has taken me in as a guest without even knowing who I am, or fearing that I might harm his frail mother? He didn’t know if I was human or jinn. I don’t get angry at those who do me good, no matter how small. Rather, I give them the benefit of the doubt. Go on and prepare something for our Mama, mon amour, isn’t that the name I heard Mama call you?”
He stood up, laughing, and replied, “If you knew what ‘Mon amour’ meant, you wouldn’t call me that.”
Lying down, she said, “Forget about him, my dear. If you lack a lover, why go for this giant?” He called back from the kitchen, “Haha, Manma, but you’ve really struck a nerve. I swear, in this whole town, you won’t find a boyfriend as robust as me!” She replied, “Only where there are no other giants!” They continued bantering, with her gently teasing and him defending himself, like a grandmother with her grandson. There was a clear, deep bond of love and affection between them. He cherished her, and she cherished him, understanding each other so well that she didn’t need to be overly strict with me, trusting he wouldn’t bring anyone harmful around her.
In the fifteen minutes he mentioned, the house was filled with a delicious aroma. He came with a wide silver platter of steamed cabbage cut in large pieces. I had never seen such food before, and though I was tempted to ask, I was hesitant due to the way he looked at me when I had previously shown interest in knowing his name. So, I held back and stayed silent.
He set out a dish of white couscous mixed with green beans and carrots, with liver stew on the side and fried meat for quick bites, accompanied by a bottle of 7-Up. He said, “Zaynabu, please eat with understanding — you know this is the cooking of a bachelor.” Mama teased him, “A bachelor, or rather a perpetual single?” He sat close to her, feeding her cabbage with a spoon, saying, “Either one you think fits.”
Mama pushed away the spoonful he was about to give her and said, “Please, my dear son, get married. I’m tired of this struggle; it doesn’t suit you. Who will you rely on? Who will take care of you and support you in this dangerous work of yours, while also caring for your old mother?” He looked down, saying nothing. Apparently, he didn’t want her to talk about it in my presence.
I got up from my chair, approached her, and took the silver platter from his hands, saying, “If I feed you, will you eat?” I continued, “Mama, marriage is all about timing.” I continued feeding her in silence, until she was full, after which I handed her water, which she drank. I noticed that he hadn’t eaten yet, still seated in his place. I looked up at him to see why he was so quiet, and his gaze was still fixed on me, his eyes holding an expression I had seen in men before.
I said casually, “Aren’t you eating?” He closed his eyes slowly. Instead of responding, he stood up, pointed to the room with his thumb, and said, “When you’re ready, you can use that room. Anything you need should be in there; it’s where my sister stays when she comes home from school. If anything is missing, you can tell Mama, and she’ll let you know where to find it.”
He left the living room without turning back. Mama said, “My dear, go perform the Zuhr prayer and rest until Asr. Look, my dear, I just can’t stand this line of work, but he’s stubborn. I wonder what kind of job is this that he’s so obsessed with?” I wanted to ask her what type of job he did that she didn’t approve of, but I realized it wasn’t my business. My concern was to find a place to stay, fulfill the purpose of my visit, and eventually find my mother’s relatives. This was my mission, and their lives were theirs. Nonetheless, I couldn’t deny that I admired his relationship with his mother and their lifestyle. Within the few hours I had spent with him, I observed many admirable qualities about him. Any woman fortunate enough to marry him would indeed be lucky because she would live peacefully.
Being a gentle soul and possessing all the qualities one looks for in a man, and above all, blessed with a mother’s love, made him someone who would bring peace into one’s life. 
When we arrived at the border between Nigeria and Niger, we stopped to combine the Zuhr and Asr prayers. After going through their checks, they waved us through, and we continued our journey without any further stops for about two hours. I finally saw the long-necked camels and the sandy landscape of the Sahara. A sense of calm and peace settled in my heart as we entered Maradi. I lifted my niqab to observe the people who looked like my mother: fair-skinned, with white eyes, tall and slender, with thick black hair. I lowered my niqab again as we entered the station where we were to disembark.
I got out of the car, stretched deeply, feeling my bones crack. I approached the driver who had brought us, greeted him, and said, "Please, my brother, I’m heading to Damagaram." He replied, "You still have a journey ahead. Do you prefer to take a bus, or should I connect you with other drivers?” I replied, “I prefer the bus because I’m not comfortable with the speed and recklessness of some drivers.” He laughed, “If we hadn’t sped, you wouldn’t have reached Niger by now. But, to be honest, you might arrive late and need somewhere to spend the night since it's about three hours to Damagaram by bus. And since it has only two passengers right now, it won’t depart until it’s full. I advise you to find a guesthouse and leave early tomorrow, as the road isn’t safe.”
I became anxious and thought to myself, What a situation! Where will I stay as a woman alone? I decided that, come what may, I would not trust anyone. People can be frightening, and evil doesn't have a face. I sighed and said, “If the bus is available, please help me find it, as I don’t know anyone here. And as a woman, do you think it’s appropriate for me to go stay in a hotel alone?” He shook his head, “No, it’s not a good idea. You’re thinking wisely, young lady. Let’s go, that J5 van over there is going to Damagaram. May Allah protect you and grant you a safe journey.”
I found myself in the back seat of a J5 van heading to Damagaram from Maradi. The exhaustion of the journey, along with the evening dusk setting in, made me drowsy, and I soon fell into a deep sleep, one I hadn’t had in two days. I didn’t wake up until I heard the sound of the van’s engine, meaning the passengers were now full. I checked my watch—it was midnight. My heart pounded, regretting not heeding the driver's advice.
We traveled deeper into the night, passing through Fulani settlements, often engulfed in desert dust that made it hard for the driver to see despite the powerful headlights. I leaned back, resting my head on the seat in front of me. My sleep was filled with varied dreams, both good and bad, all about the journey I was on. The one that held my attention the most was about my mother. Dressed in green clothing in a vast green garden, she sat on a silver chair, smiling with a face full of warmth. When I approached her, she said, “Thank you, Kyauta, for fulfilling my lifelong wish to find Nuratu. However, I am unhappy with your decision regarding your mother, as no matter how they are, parents are never to be avenged.”
Then she walked into the green garden without looking back, leaving me there, wishing I could explain my reasons for seeking revenge on her sister. She didn’t give me the chance, and as she walked away, she placed her hand over her black lips and said, “Shhhhh! Nuratu is kind.”
Then she disappeared.
Kuuuuuuuuu! The sound of a blown tire and the van veering towards the bushes jolted me awake from my deep sleep in sheer panic. The passengers chanted prayers, preparing for the worst. The driver and some passengers got out to check and discovered a sharp metal object deliberately placed in the middle of the road, meant to cause either a flat tire or a deadly accident.
Seeing the metal made everyone anxious, as it signaled the presence of bandits on the road. The passengers who had gotten out hurried back inside, except for the driver and his assistant, who scrambled to change the tire.
Then, out of nowhere, men appeared, dressed in black, their faces covered with black cloths. They were intimidating figures, the sight of whom I wouldn’t wish to remember even in the afterlife. My bladder released involuntarily, and my insides twisted in terror. Somehow, I found the presence of mind to tuck the chain around my neck into my bra. My body shook uncontrollably as I kept repeating, Innalillahi wa Inna Ilaihi Raji’un (Indeed, to Allah, we belong, and to Him, we shall return).
One of them ordered in a voice like thunder for everyone to get out of the van and lie face down on the ground. Before they could finish the command, we had already obeyed. But I clung to my bag, refusing to leave it in the van as the others did.
For ten minutes, they raided the van, quickly stealing everything and disappearing into the bush with an intense haste. They came over to us next, demanding we hand over any valuables on us. They moved from person to person, searching, until they reached me. They barked at me to hand over my rings and earrings. I trembled, barely able to keep my eyes closed, terrified not by the loss of my belongings but by the sight of their terrifying faces.
One of them shone his flashlight on my black bag, barely visible against my clothes. He tugged at it, and I held on. He pulled; I pulled back, determined not to part with it, as it was my only hope in this unfamiliar land where I knew no one and had nowhere to go.
Their leader noticed our tug-of-war over the bag and seemed impressed by my courage. He shouted, “Fetso, leave the bag and bring her here. We can spend some time with her since it’s nighttime. Hopefully, she isn’t an old woman.”
They hauled me over to their leader. He reached out, tearing off my niqab and tossing it aside. He skillfully slipped off my abaya, throwing it to the side, and then he tore my atamfa dress down the middle, from top to bottom. I screamed, clutching at the shredded dress, holding it with all my strength. He said,