Halin Rayuwa Book 1 Hausa Novel Complete.

<h3 data-start="1102" data-end="1126">LIFE’S REALITY</h3>
Whenever I come across a word related to life, my heart sinks, and I find myself in a state of fear and anxiety. Sometimes, I even feel trapped in a cycle of thoughts, recalling past events and comparing them with my present, often experiencing a deep sense of uncertainty about what lies ahead.
Most of the time, whenever I have such thoughts, I end up feeling grateful to the Almighty Creator for not making anything in this world permanent. Everything we see will eventually pass.
Happiness and sorrow have their own time; whatever has a beginning will one day have an end. As a saying goes, what frightens you today might evoke your sympathy tomorrow. Some who have deeply understood life even describe it as a chameleon, constantly changing its colors.
The experiences I had in my youthful years have inspired me to share my story, not because it is particularly entertaining, but as a lesson for those coming after me. It should serve as a guiding hand for them, helping them avoid the mistakes of youth—mistakes that can lead to irreversible consequences.
The story I intend to share today is about the state of my life thirty years ago when I was only nine years old.
I, Maryam Abubakar, grew up in my parents’ house, surrounded by care, love, and discipline. During that time, my parents loved me dearly, especially my father, who named me after his mother. Because of this, he never called me by my actual name but instead referred to me as ‘Yacuwuna’, which means ‘my mother’ in the Barbarci language.
One of the reasons my father’s love for me deepened—along with my older sister, Khadija—was that my sister was already married at the age of eighteen to her childhood sweetheart, Ibrahim. He had no close family members, and though he had relatives, he had long lost contact with them.
I remember my mother often pleading with my father, saying: "Mallam, if not for us, take me to visit our extended family so that these children can know their people. Today we are here, but tomorrow we might not be. Family, especially on the father’s side, is essential—even if just to avoid being mocked for not knowing one’s roots."
She would say such things repeatedly, yet my father never responded to her or acknowledged her words.
However, despite this, my father remained a man of great patience, avoiding conflicts, respecting his neighbors, and staying out of matters that did not concern him. He was not a talkative person, and he mostly engaged in deep conversations only with his close friend, Mallam Hodijo. They were so close that they were like brothers. My father was a Babarbare (a Kanuri man), and his features clearly showed his heritage. On the other hand, Mallam Hodijo was a Fulani man, whose ethnic background was also obvious.
Their friendship was admired by many, as they constantly teased each other with jokes about their respective ethnicities. Similarly, my mother had a close bond with Mallam Hodijo’s wife, Sumaye.
Another reason my father cherished me and my sister so much was that out of the seven children my mother gave birth to, only the two of us survived.
Even though my father had no ties with his extended family, our home was never empty. My mother had a large extended family, and she was a woman who knew how to maintain good relationships with people, always ensuring she fulfilled her obligations as a neighbor.
She was also known for her kindness towards children who were not her own, which made her a mother figure to many young boys and girls.
She was highly skilled in hair braiding and applying henna. She never demanded payment for these services, but she did them willingly for anyone, especially the children we played with. As a result, she became well-known among many parents, who often showed their gratitude by sending her gifts.
This is just the beginning of my story—a tale of my childhood, the values I learned, and the experiences that shaped me into who I am today.