Kutkale Book 1 Complete Hausa Novel

In a state of panic—both in his condition and in the tone of his voice—he shouted,

“Untie me! I’m not mad! Untie me!”

The doctor who rushed in had a heart-rate monitor hanging around his neck and some papers in his hand. Behind him, a nurse pushed a small trolley loaded with medications. They hurried toward the bed where Abdul was struggling and causing a scene. The doctor quickly reached the bedside, adjusting the sedative injection that remained in the syringe, intending to add it into the intravenous fluid already running.

In a broken, pleading voice, he said,

“Please, doctor, don’t give me another sedative. How long will you keep me from going to see my mother? Please leave me like this, doctor—please?”

He kept begging.

Slowly, his mother’s younger sister moved closer to him. With trembling hands, she placed her hand on his arm and looked at him as she said,

“Abdul, if you keep acting like this, they won’t be able to leave you alone. Don’t hurt yourself by struggling like this or trigger high blood pressure. Abdul, isn’t every living person destined to die? Please, for our sake, pull yourself together and regain your senses. Calm yourself like this, Abdul. You are a Muslim—yes, there is pain, there is fear, there is confusion—but the faith you carry as a Muslim should restrain you from certain things. Be calm, Abdul. She has passed away. She has passed away—she will not return. Wake up, Abdul. You are the one who should be standing strong on your feet, gathering courage, encouraging yourself. Stop this, Abdul. I have no one left now—only you and me. I have no one, Abdul…”

As she spoke, she broke down in tears, collapsing to the floor.

He closed his eyes. He stopped struggling. He caused no more disturbance. Instead, images of her face and the life he shared with her before she answered Allah’s call flooded his mind. He realized that her words were not spoken lightly—he had always thought he was the one being protected, the one whose life alone was being guarded. But now he understood. Had the matter really gone this far? Had he been struck at a moment he never imagined, never prepared his heart for?

So there is no Ummih anymore? She is gone? Did you even pray for her enough, Abdul?

Suddenly, he opened his eyes and fixed them on Muhammad’s face. He gestured to him with his hand, signaling him to come closer. That made Muhammad step nearer and offer him his hand.

He took it, looked at him, and said,

“Muhammad, untie me, please.”

Muhammad nodded and began loosening the belts restraining him. The doctor tried to intervene, but Abdul signaled that it was fine.

As they untied him, he asked that someone hold him. The orderly went in, did what was needed, helped him perform ablution, and came back out.

He sat down on the prayer mat and began to perform the prayers he owed. He couldn’t pray standing—he was too dizzy—so he prayed sitting, which took him much longer.

When he finished, he bent forward, crying intensely for his mother, for his parents, and for all Muslim parents. He cried without restraint or awareness, until he lifted his head and stared fixedly at one spot, imagining how a person is shrouded for burial: the fingers joined and tied, the nose and ears plugged with cotton, the body wrapped in the shroud, the legs tied.

(Such is the human being—when death comes, he is bound.)

He imagined the tightness of the grave, the deceased being placed on their right side, wooden planks arranged, the earth covering the body. And then—left alone. You can still hear the footsteps of your relatives as they walk away from the graveyard.

Was his mother taken to the grave without him? Was she buried without his presence? Was she accompanied with prayers and supplications, or was it done hurriedly? How did she answer the questions of the grave? Now that it had been ten days since her death, was she resting in the mercy of the Almighty, or in a prison-like confinement that could either become vast for her—or the opposite?

“O Allah, have mercy on our parents.

O Allah, have mercy on our forefathers.

O Allah, have mercy on all Muslims.

O Allah, grant us provisions of goodness to meet them.”

He continued shedding tears—deep, aching tears of the soul.

The next morning, when she woke up, around ten o’clock she got ready to go to school.

She simply watched her. She had told her to wear a loose pair of trousers with a simple top and place a cap on her head. But to her surprise, she didn’t object at all. Instead, she handed her the bag she had prepared with her school necessities, and they both stepped out and got into the car.

The driver drove on. Hafsat stared out the window. Meanwhile, she fixed her gaze on Hafsat.

She smiled and said,

“Are you angry?”

Hafsat knew she was talking to her, but she pretended otherwise.

She stretched out her hand, intending to touch Hafsat’s thigh so she could speak to her—but Hafsat jerked her leg away and shot her a sharp glare, saying,

“Don’t you dare touch my leg.”

She smiled, withdrawing her hand in an apologetic way, showing she meant no harm. Looking at her, she said gently,

“You know I’m older than you, right?”