Diyam Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

It was a beautiful neighborhood filled with very wealthy people—most of them occultists and a few businesspeople. It was the kind of area where you didn’t see crowds of pedestrians wandering about; everyone arrived in their cars and drove straight through. The roads were smoothly tarred, with neatly paved walkways on both sides, and tall, elegant trees lined the street, forming a kind of canopy over the row of houses. This made the street extremely beautiful and eye-catching; the only sound you could hear was the breeze rustling through the leaves.

I stood there admiring the magnificent houses in the neighborhood, shaking my head in awe and continuing to stare, thinking that with the kind of mansions people build, one might think they would never die.

I suddenly braked hard in front of a massive house that outshone all the others on the street in beauty and structure—from its grand gate to the color of the paint and the flowers surrounding it.

Hearing the loud creak of the big gate opening made me stop and watch.

An elderly man, about fifty-five years old, slowly pushed the gate open.

Just then, a bright red FERRARI shot out at high speed, almost running over the old man’s toes. He quickly jumped aside and stood there catching his breath.

Seeing that the car sped off without stopping, he shook his head and muttered,

“May Allah guide you, Amnah. May you begin to respect your elders. Your behavior is no different from your mother’s—you haven’t left out any of your father’s traits either.”

He gently closed the gate and sat on a small bench nearby, adjusting the radio in his hand.

A young girl, no more than seventeen, hurried out of the grand house toward him, saying,

“Baba Madu, has Amnah gone out?”

He quickly put down the radio and stood up.

“Yes, Hajiya Amal, she has gone out. Good morning.”

She shook her head, widening her bright eyes.

“Baba, please stop greeting me like that—I’m your granddaughter. Honestly, I just forgot to greet you earlier. I’m confused. Mummy said we should go shopping, but she says she doesn’t want to bump into poor people; she prefers the supermarket. But how can we buy the items she gives out during Ramadan from a supermarket?”

Baba Madu smiled.

“Then go wherever she wants, Hajiya Amal.”

She lifted her head and looked at him.

“But Baba, the items are many—maize, millet, sorghum, acha, wheat. You know we can only get those at the market.”

He fell silent, a faint smile on his face, saying nothing. He felt their problem was one issue that did not really concern him.

She turned and went back into the house, clearly upset.

He watched her go, shook his head, and said,

“Subhanallah. Children from the same womb, yet your characters are so different. You took after your mother, while she took after your father.”

She went straight to the glass door leading into the living room and entered. It was a very large sitting room decorated in blue and gold—sofas, curtains, and carpet. The only sounds were the hum of the air conditioner and a captivating, luxurious fragrance in the air.

She sat down, holding her head, feeling angry about the way her sister treated poor people.

Hearing footsteps from upstairs made her quickly raise her head. She fixed her gaze on her beautiful mother descending the staircase, her face filled with signs of surprise.

She was a beautiful woman, very fair-skinned—she looked foreign, perhaps Lebanese or Arab. She wore an expensive maroon lace outfit whose fragrance revealed its luxury. Gold earrings adorned her ears, and her hands were covered in large, beautiful, costly gold rings.

With graceful steps, she came downstairs and sat beside Amal, placing a hand on her chin and turning her face gently.

“What’s wrong? Didn’t you go out? I heard Amnah’s car leave.”

With tears in her eyes, Amal said,

“Mummy, she left me behind. She wanted to go show off on her own. She never intended to go to the market anyway. How can she say we should use a supermarket? If we went to the market, we could buy from the grain sellers—good, fresh items. In supermarkets you sometimes find things that have been there for years because that’s not where they’re sourced.”

Mummy stayed silent, clearly annoyed. After a while, she picked up her phone, scrolling and putting it to her ear, breathing heavily and tapping her henna-decorated foot. When the call was answered, she spoke angrily:

“You’ve done exactly what you wanted. But know this—if you buy old items for the charity I plan to give, I will be extremely upset. I prefer to give what I myself can eat. Foolish girl! You’re a woman yet you despise the poor, and you don’t know where marriage might take you.”

She ended the call abruptly.

They had been sitting for about thirty minutes when they heard the house gate open.

Mummy frowned and focused on her phone again.

After about ten minutes, the door opened and a soft greeting of peace was heard.

Out of respect for the greeting, Mummy replied without lifting her head.

“Masha Allah,” I whispered when my eyes met a beautiful young woman who could not have been more than twenty-two. She was very fair like Mummy, with sleepy-looking eyes that seemed to flutter as if she might doze off, yet there was a spark shining within them. She had a long nose, soft pink lips, and overall was strikingly beautiful—first-class beauty. She was tall with a well-proportioned, attractive figure and an attention-grabbing shape, with full breasts and wide hips. She wore a brown abaya decorated with stones that draped over her body, revealing only her feet in coffee-colored Toms shoes and a matching coffee-colored handbag.