DISASTROUS LOVE Complete Hausa Novel M Shakur

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<p>She stood in a computer café, right in front of the counter, dressed in a long, worn-out maroon hijab that dragged along the floor. She kept her eyes on the young man, tall and lean, seated at the computer in front of her, typing away. She felt he might be working on her project given how closely she was observing him, as if trying to see the screen from where she stood. Her large, shiny eyes stared anxiously, her heart pounding as she feared failing the WAEC exams. She knew her father had struggled to pay for it, and she didn’t want anything to prevent her from advancing, even if it was just to FCE.</p>
<p>Lost in thought, she suddenly noticed the young man get up from his seat to retrieve a paper that had come out of the printer. Her heart raced even faster, and her eyes widened in apprehension. He took the paper, returned to the table, picked up her WAEC card, and approached her with a smile. Handing her the paper, he said, "Congratulations, Fatima Zarah, you've passed WAEC with six credits. Congratulations! May this paper be blessed."</p>
<p>She took the paper eagerly, her eyes scanning her grades — a C in Mathematics, English, and all other important subjects a science student would need. A broad, charming smile that deepened her dimples spread across her face, showing her white teeth. Without a second thought, she dropped to the ground in sujood, giving thanks. The shop owner chuckled and returned to his seat, saying, “Look at Sister Faty here, like a true scholar.” She rose, still smiling, took off her bag — its leather peeling from wear — and carefully placed her papers and card inside. She looked back at the shop owner, saying, “Thank you, Yaya Habu.” He looked at her, holding her gaze as she wasn’t aware of his stare, and she turned and left the shop, a huge smile on her face, too overjoyed to contain it.</p>
<p>As she walked, the street filled with the sounds of children playing and shouting. She walked on until she reached her neighborhood and entered a house with a long corridor. The house was a rented place with five rooms, each a small living space with two attached rooms, two toilets, two baths, a communal washing area, and a shared kitchen where everyone cooked their meals. The floors were covered with smooth cement, almost slippery.</p>
<p>The courtyard was empty. Seeing a sewing machine outside their door, she realized her father was home. She hurried to their room, greeting the housewives who were returning from the kitchen. She greeted them, and they responded with polite indifference. She entered the living room with a soft greeting. The room, modest yet comfortable, was furnished with chairs, a small TV on the wall, nice curtains, and a wall clock, all in milk-colored paint. Four young children were inside, playing together: the oldest, a twelve-year-old boy named Habib, then Ishak, then Bashir, and the youngest, a little girl, Abida, still too young to be out of infancy. They looked very alike, fair-skinned and beautiful.</p>
<p>She turned to Habib, who wore a mechanic’s outfit, and asked, “Is Baba home?” He nodded, getting up from where he sat, saying, “Yes, he’s in the room with Mama.” Knowing that her parents were inside, she went to the other room opposite theirs and entered. A large mattress almost filled the space, with a small, worn one in the corner where their clothing was stored. She sat on the mattress, smiling to herself, as she pulled out her WAEC result. Finally, she would be able to attend university like Hafiza. When her father came out, she would tell him and ask him for his phone so she could call her mother to share the news.</p>
<p>As she sat on the mattress, she heard her mother’s voice calling out, “Where’s Zakiyya, Habib?” But before Habib could answer, their father spoke from inside, saying, “I’ve told you not to call her Zakiyya; call her Fatima instead. That’s her name, the name of the Prophet’s daughter. Why change it?”</p>
<p>Her mother, in frustration, responded, “Oh, Baban Habibu, you never stop complaining. Even from inside, you can hear what we’re saying.” She scoffed, rolling her eyes and resettling Abida in her lap.</p>
<p>Knowing she’d call her again, Fatima quickly got up and came to her mother respectfully, kneeling and saying, “Here I am, Mama.” Her mother gave her a hard look and said, “You heard me calling you, and you stayed silent. Your father had to speak before you’d come, huh? You sneaky thing. Now, always with that hijab as if you’re someone’s wife. Here, take Abida and go to the kitchen; there’s water boiling on the stove. Add it to the bath for your father, and start cooking lunch.”</p>
<p>She nodded, taking Abida from her mother’s lap. She was about to strap her onto her hijab when her mother snapped, “Are you really going to carry her with that hijab on? You’ll overheat her and make her cry.” Fatima took off her hijab, feeling embarrassed, and strapped Abida onto her back, leaving for the kitchen, while her mother looked on with a sharp glare.</p>
<p>The courtyard was quiet, and her father was already setting up the machine outside. She called out softly to him from the kitchen, saying, “Baba, I have the result.” He looked up, and his face lit up as she handed him the paper, and he began reading it with pride.<br><br></p>
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<p>When she returned to her room, she didn’t find her mother there, so she went to her mother’s room, put away the money her father had given her, and then went to tidy up the living room. After cleaning up the area where they had eaten, she washed the dishes, then lit incense to refresh the living room. Hearing the call for the Asr prayer, she performed ablution, prayed, and then dressed in her ash-colored hijab—the one she usually wore to Islamiyya classes. She picked up her Islamiyya bag, went to her mother’s room, and greeted her politely.</p>
<p>Her mother responded from inside, "Why are you bombarding me with greetings, you little girl? Acting like you were raised by witches!" Unbothered by her mother’s words, as she was used to them, she softly replied, "I'm going to Islamiyya, Mama; can I go?" Her mother shouted from inside, "Oh, so you want your father to come and say I stopped you from going to Islamiyya? Get out of my sight, witch! Trying to come between me and my husband, right?" She turned and left, walking quickly as if she had somewhere important to be. When she got a bit farther, she saw her friend, a girl around her age, also dressed in an ash-colored hijab and waiting under a tree. Before Fatima even reached her, the girl said, "If you're late again, Fatima, I'll get back at you for making me wait!"</p>
<p>Fatima laughed, brushed her friend’s shoulder aside, and replied, "We're not even late; it’s not four o'clock yet." Her friend, Maryam, quickly followed and asked, "Oh, really?" Fatima stuck her tongue out teasingly, "Yes!" Maryam laughed and said, "Alright, wait for me! You’re always in such a hurry, Fatima!" Fatima paused, put her hands on her hips, and replied, "Oh, so you want to make me late so you can get me in trouble, huh?" Maryam giggled, caught up with her, and handed her a small bag. Inside was a new Islamiyya hijab, also ash-colored, but designed with a neat cap-style. Fatima looked at her friend, smiling. Maryam pushed her shoulder playfully and said, "Come on! Our dad said our old hijabs are worn out, so he took us to the store to measure us for new ones. I knew you wouldn’t wear yours today, so I waited. We'll wear them together tomorrow, okay?" Maryam nodded happily, and then hugged Fatima, who laughed, shoved her, and said, "You’re only hugging me because of the hijab, huh?" They laughed and continued on their way, playfully teasing each other. By God’s grace, they arrived at Islamiyya just as the lessons began.</p>
<p>At six o'clock, their class was dismissed. Fatima gathered her younger brother Sadiq and another boy, Habib, and they started walking home together. When they reached a tree, Maryam teased her again, "Did you see how Malam Sani kept looking at you during the lesson?" Fatima rolled her eyes and replied, "Looking? He can look all he wants; I didn't even notice." Maryam just smiled and said, "Alright, whatever you say, but you know you're beautiful." Fatima laughed, lifted her hand to hit Maryam, who ran off laughing. Eventually, they each made their way home.</p>
<p>Upon entering her house at Maghrib, Fatima greeted her family and then went into her mother’s room, where she was sitting with her baby sister, Abida. Her mother, not looking up, said, "Go and stir the soup on the stove." Fatima went to change from her Islamiyya hijab into a maroon one and was about to go to the kitchen when her mother suddenly yelled, "Do you want to burn yourself in the kitchen? Go and take off that hijab; who are you trying to cover yourself from?" Before Fatima could reply, Habib, her younger brother, spoke up angrily, "Mama, stop scolding Ya Faty every time! She didn’t do anything wrong!" Fatima looked at him with concern and quickly said, "Go to your room, Habib." She pulled him aside, but he protested, "Mama, you're always mean to Ya Faty, and I don’t like it." His mother gave him a stern look, raised her hand, and struck him. Habib was in tears, furious, while Fatima gently covered his mouth to keep him from saying something that would make things worse. Their mother, unimpressed, scolded her more and muttered curses under her breath.</p>
<p>After cleaning the kitchen, Fatima prepared the tray with food and quietly placed it in front of her mother, who ignored her. Feeling a deep ache in her body from her mother’s constant reprimands, she took the tray and moved to her room. She lay down, her body aching all over from the beatings and stress. Habib, though trying to stay strong, couldn’t hold back his tears as he listened to her muffled sobs. He wanted to tell her, "One day, I’ll be older, and I'll take you out of this house. No one will be able to hurt you, Ya Faty."<br><br></p>
<p>Taking the paper, Baba appeared weakened, his steps slow as he left the room and headed for the reception. He stopped by the counter to check the bills—one folder at a thousand naira, and a smaller card costing three hundred. He counted his money and found he had only seven hundred left. Uncertain, he held onto the papers, moving to the pharmacy counter where he presented the doctor's prescription. He watched as they brought out IV fluids, syringes, and various medicines, then did some work on the computer before printing out a slip. The attendant handed it over, saying, "Baba, here’s the payment slip. Go to accounts and pay, then bring back the receipt to collect the medications." Baba looked at the slip, and his heart sank—8,130 naira. Slowly, he turned back to the young man, cleared his throat to steady his voice, and said, “Excuse me, sir.” The pharmacist walked back over and Baba said with concern, “My daughter is critically ill, with her life in God’s hands. I barely have 600 in my pocket. Could you give me the essentials for now so the doctor can begin her treatment? I promise I’ll pay the rest before we leave here.” The pharmacist smiled slightly and replied, “Baba, I’m sorry, but that’s not how things work here.” He then turned to attend to others who were purchasing medications.</p>
<p>Worn out, Baba finally moved away from the counter, his legs heavy. He walked towards the parking area, seeking privacy, and sat down by the curb, looking at the folder with his daughter’s name boldly printed on it—Fatima Zara'u Muhammad. The thought of his little girl, suffering since her childhood, pained him deeply. The previous day, he had gone out to ask for money, yet not a soul he knew could spare even a little. And as for Rukayya, even if Zara’u were dying, he knew she wouldn’t consider sparing any money, though she might have a few thousand. Should he go out begging? But then again, in this world where things had changed so much, who would look at him and believe he needed help, dressed as he was? Suddenly, hot tears welled up in his eyes. He tried to wipe them away, but they wouldn’t stop.</p>
<p>Looking at his wristwatch, an iWatch, he realized 25 minutes had passed since he left his daughter’s bedside. He glanced back at her, observing her still stable condition, still asleep. With a sigh, he lifted his stethoscope, letting it rest on his neck. Turning to the nurse, he said, “Stay with her. If her dad returns with the meds, call me. If she wakes up, call me.” He left the room, ignoring the crowd in the emergency area. Since arriving at 4 am, he hadn’t eaten anything and was feeling exhausted. Making his way to the parking area, he reached his sleek black SUV, opened the door, and grabbed a well-designed thermos flask on the passenger seat. He quickly unscrewed the top, his hunger prompting him to gulp down the coffee he’d made earlier in the morning. After drinking nearly half of it, he put it down and took a deep breath of relief.</p>
<p>Just as he was about to resume drinking, he happened to look over and spotted a middle-aged man sitting by the side of a car, holding a folder and wiping tears from his face. A pang of compassion struck him. Unable to ignore the sight, he placed his flask back in the car, locked the door, and approached Baba, who seemed lost in thought. “Is everything alright, Sir? Why are you sitting here in tears?” Baba quickly raised his head to find the doctor who had prescribed Zara's medication standing over him. The doctor instantly recognized him. “What’s wrong, Sir? Where are the medications I asked you to buy?” the doctor asked with concern, noticing Baba’s red, tear-filled eyes. Struggling to speak, Baba finally managed to pull out a few small notes from his pocket and, in a broken voice, said, “This is all I have. There’s nowhere else I can get more money. My daughter, Zara'u, is lying there between life and death, and I cannot afford her medications. I feel so helpless. I’ve failed as a father…”</p>
<p>Before he could continue, the doctor quickly crouched down and gently placed his hand over Baba’s mouth to stop him. Baba fell silent, looking into the compassionate eyes of the doctor, who calmly reassured him, “Sir, please don’t speak like that. God blessed you with a daughter because He knew you deserved her as your child. And from what I see, you should be grateful for a daughter like her, who cares deeply for you. Just because we can’t provide certain luxuries doesn’t mean we are not good parents. I’m sure she’s proud of you. Stop worrying and crying. How much do the meds cost?” Baba murmured, “8,150.” Nodding, the doctor stood up, pulled out his wallet, took a few notes without counting, crouched back down, and put the money into Baba’s hand, saying, “Go get the meds now so we can start her treatment.”</p>
<p>A wave of calm washed over Baba as he held onto the money and looked at the doctor’s gentle face. He was about to thank him when the doctor’s phone suddenly rang. He answered the call and quickly turned to Baba, saying, “Please hurry. She’s having convulsions again.” With that, he ran back inside, while Baba, holding the money tightly, picked up his daughter’s folder and rushed to the pharmacy.</p>
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