Sakon So 1 Complete Hausa Novel

It was written on the walls of the main mosque, which was packed to capacity with people. Everyone was dressed in fine clothing—grand robes and richly embroidered traditional outfits—making it obvious that a wedding ceremony was being prepared. A young man, smartly dressed in elegant attire with a well-tailored shadda robe, stood outside the mosque premises. He kept glancing at his wristwatch, clearly checking the time, then lifted his head to look down the road leading to the mosque.

Suddenly, someone tapped him from behind, making him turn quickly. It was another young man, also dressed in fine clothes and wearing a neatly fitted cap. With visible worry, he said, “He’s 20 minutes late. Arif, let’s go in—even if it’s the deputy imam of this mosque who conducts the marriage for you. Everyone is already gathered, and they’re all waiting for just one person. Come on, this is not cool.”

The one called Arif shook his head and replied, “I know he will come. Let’s just give him some time. Uncle Hamma is just—”

His friend quickly interrupted, “A sociopath.”

Arif shot him a sharp look and was about to respond when a large jeep pulled up near the mosque, managing to find a parking space. A look of relief instantly appeared on Arif’s face. He didn’t even realize when he left his friend behind and hurried out of the mosque premises. Despite people shouting from all sides, calling out “the groom, the groom,” he paid no attention. He walked straight to the vehicle. No one could be seen inside because the glass was fully tinted.

Without hesitation, he slowly reached out, opened the front door on the driver’s side, and squatted respectfully, lowering himself almost to the ground. Without looking at the face of the person inside, he said, “Welcome, Uncle Imran.”

Inside the vehicle sat a dignified man who looked to be around 48 or 49 years old. He was dressed in a soft milk-colored outfit that made his dark, glossy skin stand out beautifully—a look of pure elegance.

He had a full, thick beard, neatly black with slightly long sideburns that lay smoothly flat. His eyebrows were thick, and although he wore a minister-style cap on his head, you could still tell his hair was full beneath it. His eyes were somewhat small yet striking; if you didn’t look carefully, you might think they were half-closed, but they were wide open, revealing clear whites. His nose was long and slender, and his lips were firm.

He glanced once at Arif, who was still squatting with his head bowed. There was no smile or cheerfulness on his face, yet no anger either—just a calm expression wrapped in a kind of warm, restrained mercy. As if he didn’t want to speak much, he simply said, “Arif.”

Arif smiled faintly, filled with deep respect. “Yes, Uncle Imran,” he replied, lifting his head briefly to look at him before quickly lowering it again. He had never encountered someone with such intense authority and presence as Uncle Imran. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t stare directly into Uncle Imran’s eyes.

Softly, still with that calm composure, Uncle Imran said, “Get up. Your clothes will get dirty.”

Arif stood up immediately without argument, still keeping his head lowered. Uncle Imran stepped out of the vehicle and stood close to him. Despite Arif’s height, Uncle Imran towered over him—he was truly a giant. Though older, his body was well-built and upright, clearly that of someone who took care of himself through healthy living and exercise.

He wore a shimmering robe and trousers that fit him perfectly, right down to his ankles. On his feet were ankle socks and shiny Givenchy cover shoes. He turned, picked up a pair of dark glasses—his eyes didn’t tolerate bright light—and put them on. Then he looked at Arif, whose head was still bowed, and said, “Shall we?”

Arif nodded quickly. “Yes, bismillah, Uncle.”

As they walked together, Arif noticed—once again—that he had never smelled a perfume like Uncle Imran’s. It was incredibly pleasant and soothing.

Before they even reached the mosque, praise singers and beggars began chanting for Uncle Imran. He disliked that kind of attention, but he neither spoke to them nor gave them money. He simply walked past them into the mosque.

Immediately, Arif’s friend announced, “Arif’s guardian has arrived.”

They proceeded inside, sat down, and the marriage between Arif and Salma was conducted without delay, with a dowry of ₦500,000, which Uncle Imran paid on Arif’s behalf. Prayers were offered, and the moment it ended—not even a second later—Uncle Imran stood up, turned to Arif, and Arif quickly followed him outside.

One of Arif’s friends nudged another as they watched Arif and Uncle Imran leave and said, “Please, tomorrow you’d think Arif has seen God.”

Another friend, Muhammad, replied, “Well, that’s basically it. That uncle of his is everything to him in this world. Since primary school, he’s been the one taking care of everything for Arif. What more can you expect? I swear, Aliyu, ever since Arif’s father ran away and abandoned them, that man has been their pillar.”

Aliyu smacked his lips and said, “You don’t know who that man really is. If you knew the kind of fear and authority he carries, you’d be shocked. Didn’t you notice how no one greeted him in the mosque—except that one man with sagging trousers and an overgrown beard?”

Muhammad gave Aliyu a strange look and said, “What did that man ever do to you? Honestly, I don’t see a single fault in him.”

Aliyu shot Muhammad an angry look and said, “You won’t understand. That man blocked my employment just because he claimed I smoke and rejected my application at his company. Who knows the kind of things he did when he was younger, back when he was a soldier before retiring?”

Muhammad looked at him and replied, “So what? To be honest, I’m even glad he didn’t employ me. They say he’s mentally unstable. Maybe his military injections didn’t wear off properly. Haven’t you noticed that up till now, no woman has agreed to marry him? He’s just growing old alone in his late wife’s house.”

Aliyu glared at him fiercely and said, “You call that old? I swear he doesn’t even look older than Arif’s father, who is older than him. You’re just bitter because he denied you that job. And as for marriage, he didn’t remarry because he chose not to—especially after his wife and two children were brutally killed right in his house.”

As if he had been waiting for that, Aliyu quickly said, “Do you know how many years it’s been since their death? This is the 13th year, yet he still hasn’t remarried. I swear, it’s not because of his wife’s death—his madness is the reason no woman agrees to marry him.”

He was about to continue when he noticed Arif walking toward them. He immediately fell silent, stood up straight, and began brushing down his clothes.