A Bakin Aurenki 1 Complete Hausa Novel

She hurried as if something was chasing her. From the look of her alone, one could tell she was not being honest. When she reached the narrow path that led to her house, she stopped like a hypocrite and peeped. Quickly, she withdrew her head and clutched her chest, which felt like it was about to burst.

“I’ve run into them… Ja’afar?” she said as she peeped again. Instantly, their eyes met. Her already racing heart began to pound even harder—she had never seen him in that kind of state before.

“Why did you go out after I told you not to?”

She bit her lower lip, chewing on the gum she was already chewing. With determination, she stepped out from where she was hiding, even tightening her face as if she hadn’t seen him.

With her head turned to the side, she walked straight toward the door, intending to enter without looking at him. She suddenly froze when she saw that he had locked the gate with another padlock—the very one she herself had used to lock the house.

Summoning courage, her face still turned away, she said,

“What is this? Even the one who wasn’t around has gone out.”

She added again,

“Brother Ja’afar, what is this?”

He was boiling with rage, feeling like beating her out of frustration. So this was where all Salma’s recklessness had led—to standing stubbornly at the doorway?

He opened his car door, trying to get in quickly.

“Ja’afar, I’m talking to you!”

Suddenly, he turned sharply, intending to slap her. She quickly stepped back, her heart pounding.

Truly, she had crossed a man’s line today. In anger, he shot her a dismissive look and said,

“So you chose to go out despite my conditions, didn’t you? Then why come back to my house? Or have you forgotten the condition I gave you—that once you go out, you’ve gone out at the risk of your marriage?”

She widened her eyes, staring at him in shock. Then she laughed bitterly and said bravely,

“At the risk of my marriage, you say, Ja’afar? From a nameless house to this level of foul language?”

She finished, spitting words into his face.

He only shook his head and entered the car.

Seeing that he was truly leaving, she quickly dropped her chewing gum and started calling him, but he had already reversed the car angrily. She rushed closer, realizing he could easily run her over if he wanted.

When she realized he was serious, she became stiff. She placed her hand on her head in regret—for stepping out and calling a name she shouldn’t have.

“I’m finished, Salma… I’ve brought calamity upon myself.

Does this mean the rope of my second marriage has snapped?”

Sweat poured down her as she remembered her father’s words:

“Any day you repeat this, Salma, I will break your leg if you come near my house.”

Her heart sank even more—she knew her father would truly do it.

She looked around helplessly; evening was approaching, and she didn’t even know where to begin. She moved closer to the doorstep of the house and held her head with both hands. Ja’afar’s words echoed again in her mind:

“If you go out, you’ve gone out—at the risk of your marriage.”

Follow me after prayers to hear how it will end…

By Feenat Ja’afar

He shook his head at him.

“Marriage isn’t the solution, Ja’afar. Fix the one you already have first—I don’t think that’s good advice.”

Ja’afar smiled and nodded.

“I know. But understand that I’m not doing it for pleasure. There’s nothing Salma hates more than hearing I’ll marry another wife. I must let her taste the bitterness she made me taste.”

Garba smiled at him, staring in disbelief—Ja’afar talking about making Salma taste bitterness? He shook his head. Truly, Salma had played with her chance. Garba knew how deeply Ja’afar loved her, but now she was being taken to the slaughter.

“I won’t spit on my own advice,” Garba said. “Between you and Salma, only Allah knows best. I just ask you to think carefully, my friend—don’t make decisions in anger that you’ll regret later.”

Ja’afar tightened his lips, pulled a car key from his pocket, and handed it to him.

“Here—take your car key. I’m already done with marriage plans, and I’ll marry Bintu. Watch and see.”

Garba stared at him wide-eyed, then burst into laughter.

“You’ve really taken on a task. You’ll plant serious suspicion in Salma’s heart—you know everything.”

Ja’afar clicked his tongue and said,

“I want it that way. It will hurt her even more.”

Garba nodded, laughing.

“Let’s go—I’ll drop you off. This Salma-and-Bintu scene will be something else to watch!”

Ja’afar only smiled as they entered the car.

As for Salma, night fell while she lay on her mattress, tossing and turning. Even she didn’t understand why. Ja’afar’s insult still burned in her heart, but whenever she remembered the snapping of one rope, fear gripped her.

Today, she lay alone—without Ja’afar beside her. Today, she replaced the warmth of her husband’s shoulder with a pillow. She touched her cheek and, to her surprise, tears flowed. She couldn’t hold back anymore—she burst into tears.

Anyone could see it was intense longing for Ja’afar mixed with deep regret, but her heart refused to accept it. Mosquitoes buzzed noisily around her ears despite the net, heat from the generator filled the air, and there was no fuel. Her mother had said there was no one to start the generator since her father was away, and there was no money for fuel.

Ja’afar wasn’t any better either. He lay staring at the ceiling fan turning above. Truly, Salma still had no equal in his heart. He loved her deeply—beyond measure. Thinking of how they built their love before marriage, if anyone had told him Salma would change completely toward him, he would never have believed it.

He turned, pulled his pillow closer—everything around him reminded him of Salma. With a soft click of his tongue, he stood up and went out to switch off the generator.

Salma Umar is the second daughter of Mama (Hajiya Rabi’a) and Baba (Malam Umar). They are originally from Yobe State. Trade brought their grandfather to Kano, where Salma was born. They were only two in their grandfather Malam Bukar Mai Buhu’s household. Salma’s father was the younger one; his elder brother, Baba Aji, had about sixteen children, while Salma’s father had only three—Aisha (Aunty A’i), who is much older than Salma, Salma herself, and Ummi.

Trade is their family heritage. Even after their grandfather’s death, they continued managing what was left. They supported one another strongly, which kept them united, all by Allah’s grace. They educated their children with discipline, especially Salma’s father.

Their mother believed their grandmother favored A’i, since Allah granted her three daughters and she invested heavily in her. That was why everything revolved around A’i. It wasn’t a bad thing—there was a unique beauty in them, Kanuri-style, combined with their mother’s Shuwa roots. They weren’t fair-skinned, but could be called black beauties. Their charm lay in their tall stature, thick hair, and dimples—traits they all shared.

Aunty A’i’s business flourished quickly, while Salma remained the tallest among them, unaware of much. Their father’s shop became two, increasing his workload, so he often couldn’t return home for meals—Ummi or Salma would bring food to him.

One day, Salma, dressed for Islamiyya school, went to her father’s shop with food. After dropping it off, she stood awkwardly, clearly troubled. Her father smiled and asked,

“What happened, my daughter?”

Tears welled in her eyes.

“Mama refused to give me contribution money.”

He smiled, reached into his pocket, pulled out a hundred-naira note, and told her to go to a nearby shop to change it.

When she entered, she greeted them. It was a women’s clothing shop—wrappers, lace, and fabrics of all kinds. It was her first time there.

“Greetings, ladies. Where’s Ummi?”

The old man smiled kindly. The shop assistant barely looked at her.

“They’re at home. Baba said I should collect change.”

He nodded and glanced at someone seated inside holding a book.

“Umm… Ja’afar.”

Ja’afar looked up for the first time.

“Yes, Abba?”

That was when he noticed Salma.

“Give Salma twenty naira so she won’t be late.”

Ja’afar nodded and looked at Salma, who was eagerly scanning the area, hoping to spot another Islamiyya pupil.

“Here.”

She turned, saw him handing her the money without a smile, took it quickly, and said,

“Thank you, Abba.”

Ja’afar watched her leave, realizing Ummi wasn’t the only one who shook like that.

The next day, Salma returned—this time directly to Ja’afar’s shop. It was full of women shopping. Seeing her, Ja’afar frowned; he disliked giving children money. Salma smiled and stretched her hand as if holding something.

He clicked his tongue and ignored her. After the customers left, he saw her greeting his father, who pointed toward him.

She hurried in and greeted him enthusiastically.

“Abba said I should—”

He interrupted harshly,

“I don’t have change today. Yesterday you were given and you enjoyed it, didn’t you?”

He stopped when he saw her eyes fill with tears. His body softened. Slowly, she placed the twenty-naira note on the bench and turned away, wiping her tears.

He immediately picked it up to call her back and return it—but she was already far away. Guilt washed over him.

When his father returned and said,

“Salamatu brought back your money from yesterday,”

Ja’afar looked at him in shock.

“Money?”

His father nodded.

“I told her to keep it, but she said she had something else. Salma is sensible—she didn’t even say a word.”

Ja’afar fell silent, listening, his heart feeling heavier than before.

The next day, he kept looking out for Salma, but she didn’t come. Even the following day—only Ummi came with food. When he asked about Salma, Ummi said it wasn’t her turn. In truth, Ja’afar himself had stopped Ummi from coming often because of the small money he used to give.

The following day, when it was time for food delivery, he watched Salma’s father’s shop. Eventually, she appeared, dressed in her Islamiyya clothes, her face dull and without cheer. He watched her greet his father calmly, unlike Ummi.

He stood up as if to go somewhere and waited along her path home…