Tantiriya A Gidan Yari Book 3 Complete Hausa Novel

The next day, Khadija—also known as Mero—returned and went back into the room she had been determined to break into. As soon as she arrived, she heard sobbing coming from his room. Today, she noticed someone was with him, and she was surprised to hear someone consoling him. He was saying,

“She is the one I was going to marry. That’s it—she died and left me.”

Mero’s eyes widened as she clutched her chest with both hands and said,

“So he actually had someone he was going to marry after all. She died… well, may Allah have mercy on her. When our own time comes, may Allah grant us faith.”

“So that’s what this crying is about—like a woman madly in love. That’s why, unless it’s unavoidable, what does someone with money really endure? A small thing and there are tears—no endurance for hardship. As for the poor, they’re used to all kinds of destiny.”

Unable to hold back, she shouted angrily,

“So did she burn to death in the fire?”

Those inside his room thought it was a jinn speaking; fear seized them, because in all their lives they had never heard someone speaking from behind another person’s room—let alone a woman.

A young man answered,

“Yes, the fire burned her too.”

Mero said,

“Speak up, I can’t hear yooou!”

With a tired click of his tongue, he said loudly,

“She burned in the fire—with it.”

Mero said,

“May Allah have mercy on her soul; she died a martyr.”

The men stood up and left—they couldn’t believe a human was the one speaking.

Khadija continued,

“Are you done crying? Useless fellow.”

She left him and continued breaking the wall. Today, at least, she succeeded in making a hole—wide enough for two fingers to pass through. She pressed one eye to it and peeped inside. The room was right there, and yet they called it VIP. She said,

“This place is nothing but a prison.”

Mama Wahida was now in prison, and she had gotten used to it—she had become like a local resident, minding her own business. Her family visited her often; she had no problem. She stayed in VIP. People with means don’t fall into trouble. She didn’t concern herself with anyone—if you weren’t in VIP, she knew you had no privilege, and she wouldn’t even bother to look at you.

Mero didn’t know that Mama Wahida was Mima’s younger sister; she only saw her as one of those like Mummy, and she kept wondering. Today, she finally lost patience and went to where Mama Wahida was sitting, resting.

When Mero arrived, she greeted her. She was dressed in a blouse and skirt made from an old lace fabric that Azima—who didn’t even own trousers—had given her. Seeing her covered in lice, Mero said,

“Good afternoon.”

Mama Wahida reluctantly lifted her head and looked at Mero Khadija with a mocking expression and said,

“What is it? Just because you found me to greet, you decided to stop greeting me?”

Khadija said,

“I returned the greeting—I said ‘good afternoon.’ Besides, you look like a certain Mummy Spark.”

Quickly, she looked at Mero and said,

“Where did you know them from? She is my younger sister—we have the same mother and the same father.”

Khadija said,

“With Mima, and Rafeeq, and Misam—there’s none of them I don’t know.”

Only then did she say,

“Sit down.”

Khadija said,

“Hmm, since you know they’re your relatives—me, I’m not rich. I sweep and wash in Mummy Spark’s house. And the other day, Spark came to see me.”