Kundin Kaddarata Book 1 Complete Hausa Novel

It was a medium-sized living room furnished with a set of leather chairs and a carpet, all in ash colors—clean, bright, and well-arranged. On one side stood a medium-sized plasma TV, with a receiver and DVD player neatly arranged beneath it.

From every corner of the living room, flowers stood in upright flower vases of moderate cost. The room was extremely attractive, even though no huge amount of money had been spent on it—everything was simply well-placed and orderly. Added to that was the high level of cleanliness, which gave off a cool, pleasant scent of incense.

The owner of the living room was seated on one of the chairs. She was a young woman, not more than eighteen years old. She was fair-skinned—not the extreme kind—and possessed a moderate beauty that was further enhanced by the orange shadda bubu she was wearing. The matching scarf was placed beside her, revealing her neatly plaited hair—tiny braids numbering no fewer than about one hundred and fifty. Just as the living room smelled nice, so did her body.

Slowly, she raised her head and blinked several times, then fixed her gaze on the wall clock mounted above the plasma TV directly in front of her.

She lowered her eyes again and focused on the small, neat center table before her. Stretching out her hand, she picked up her Tecno W3 phone and dialed once again the number she had been persistently calling. Despite repeatedly being told that the number she was calling was switched off, she still did not stop trying.

Even now, the response was the same. It was unusual for him not to be home by this time. He rarely stayed out beyond 8 p.m.; if he was late, it was never for long. Often, whenever that happened, she would assume he had gone to their elder sister’s house, Hajiya Yahanasu. But today, the house felt unusually quiet and uncomfortable, especially since all her playmates had gone home, leaving her alone.

She sighed deeply and closed her eyes, then shifted slightly and lay back on the chair, a wave of loneliness washing over her. She missed children terribly—she loved them passionately. Unfortunately, God had not blessed her with children of her own despite six years of marriage, having married at the tender age of just twelve.

She sank deeper into her thoughts when she heard the sound of someone trying to open the gate with a key. She opened her eyes and glanced at the clock—it was 9:45 p.m., fifteen minutes to ten. She sprang up, grabbed her scarf, covered her head, and gently walked into the spacious courtyard of their home.

Behind the inner room and the living room were two standard-sized rooms: one belonged to the head of the house, while the other was used to store various household items. To one side was the bathroom, next to a well, and there was also a large, spacious kitchen facing the two rooms—larger than their own rooms. The courtyard itself was spotlessly clean, just like the entire house, so clean you could eat food off the ground without worry.

She stood there until he finished opening the gate and pushed in his motorcycle—a Lifan Companion model—which he parked to one side of the courtyard. As she approached him, she greeted him with, “Welcome,” her face filled with a smile. At the same time, the gloom on his face began to fade slightly as he responded, “Thank you, welcome home. I left you alone and stopped by Sister Yahanasu’s place.”

“Yes, I guessed as much,” she said softly as she reached out to take the bag and nylon from his hand. Her gentle manner only deepened his surprise, because this was not how she usually behaved when he returned home.

She walked ahead while he followed behind, watching her closely. Everything about her innocence fascinated him. He still remembered the day he married her when she was so young—one could easily call her a child—but now, one would never believe she was the same girl he married six years ago.

She left him in the living room and returned to the courtyard to prepare his bath water, her heart telling her that something was troubling her Mukhtar today. Normally, she would help him bring in his motorcycle by opening and closing the gate, and once inside, he would embrace her, praising her appearance. Together they would head into the living room. Sometimes they even prepared the bath water together. He never let her mouth rest when he came back—he loved teasing her and making her laugh.

She returned to the living room, drying her hands. She found him sitting exactly as she had left him. Without saying a word, she walked up to him and helped remove his clothes. He did not speak either, only watching her until she finished and handed him a towel. He took it, draped it around his neck, and went out.

Before he returned, she had already arranged the food and hand-washing water. He went straight to his room, put on a jalabiya, then came back into the living room.

Both of them ate quietly, only the sound of their spoons touching the plates. The worry she noticed he was carrying prevented her from enjoying the meal, despite her hunger. She could not eat properly unless she ate with him. Even during the day, if not for the children who came around her—whom she treated like younger siblings—she would often skip lunch altogether. She wanted to ask him what was wrong but did not want to interrupt him. He usually shared his worries with her on his own, without her needing to ask, as he treated her like a trusted adviser. Her heart remained deeply unsettled.