Halin Rayuwa Book 1 Hausa Novel Complete

Whenever I come across a word related to life, my heart skips a beat, and I find myself in a state of fear and anxiety. At times, I feel overwhelmed by thoughts of my past and present, leaving my heart restless as I contemplate my uncertain future. Often, this fear grips me because I lack certainty about what lies ahead.

In most instances, however, when I have such thoughts, I end up being thankful to the Creator for not making anything in this life certain. Everything we see will eventually pass. Happiness or sorrow, everything has its time. Whatever begins will surely come to an end someday. There's even a saying that goes, "What scares you today might evoke pity tomorrow." Some who have tried to understand life deeply describe it as being like a chameleon—it can change its colors at any time.

The experiences I’ve had in my youthful years compel me to share my story with those younger than me—not because my story is particularly sweet or enjoyable to tell, but to serve as guidance for them. Let it be a lesson that helps them avoid making the mistakes I made in my youth, mistakes that can be like a single leap that lands one in a deep well.

This story I’m about to tell today is about how my life was 30 years ago, back when I was just nine years old. My name is Maryam Abubakar, and I grew up in the care of both my loving parents, surrounded by attention, affection, and good upbringing. During the time I’m speaking about, my parents, especially my father, loved me deeply. My name was taken from my paternal grandmother, which is why my father often called me "Yacuwuna", a term in Barbarci that means “my mother.”

One of the reasons my father’s love for me grew stronger was the contrast between me and my older sister, Khadija, who was much older than me. At the time I was nine years old, Khadija had just gotten married to her childhood sweetheart, Ibrahim, who had no relatives but us. Ibrahim had been estranged from his family for so long that he neither talked about them nor associated with them.

I often overheard my mother back then telling my father, “Mallam, if not for us, take me to those relatives of yours so I can meet them, so the children can see and know their relatives. Life is unpredictable; we are here today but might not be tomorrow. Relatives, especially paternal ones, can be sought out even if just to avoid being ridiculed.”

Most of the time, she would make these comments without receiving a response from my father. Despite this, my father remained a very kind-hearted man. He was extremely patient, avoided causing harm to others, respected neighbors, and stayed out of matters that did not concern him. He wasn’t talkative, and most of his conversations were with his neighbor and close friend, Mallam Hodijo. Their bond was so strong that they seemed more like family. It also helped that my father was a Babarbare (a Kanuri man), and even his facial features clearly reflected his heritage.

Mallam Hodijo, on the other hand, was Fulani, and his appearance required no further explanation. This made their friendship even more fascinating, as they constantly joked and teased each other about their Fulani and Kanuri backgrounds. Similarly, the bond between my mother and Mallam Hodijo’s wife, Sumaye, was equally strong.

Another reason my father loved me and my sister dearly was that, out of my mother’s seven pregnancies, only the two of us survived. Despite my father’s lack of connection with his relatives, our house remained lively. My mother, being a social person with many relatives, always interacted kindly with everyone. She was known for her good relationship with our neighbors and for her efforts to uphold their rights.

My mother also cared for children who weren’t hers, which earned her the reputation of being a mother figure to many children—both boys and girls, young and old. She was skilled at braiding hair and applying henna, which she did happily without expecting payment. Whenever she braided my hair or applied henna on me, she would also do the same for the children I played with at the time.