Sanadin Boko Part 2 Complete Hausa Novel

Every house I entered, I heard the same words: “He hasn’t come back.”

In panic, I rushed to Rahma’s mother’s house. She wasn’t there either; only another woman was around, and she told me Shadad hadn’t come. I returned home and checked everywhere again—the well was covered and frogs were inside, so I didn’t suspect he had fallen in. I looked at his sandals and his school papers where he usually did his homework, and suddenly tears burst out of me.

I tried to hold myself together, then stood up and went out again. One of my neighbors met me standing at the doorway, peering around anxiously. She asked, “Have you seen him?”

I replied, “No.”

Crying, she said, “Allah’s will… so where did you go and leave him?”

I said, “I went to the market, and I usually leave him.”

She said, “If you had known, you should have sent him to our house whenever you go out. Maybe they mistook him for someone else—while you were out, they came and took him.”

I stared at her. “Who would take him?”

She said, “I don’t know. Evil shows itself sometimes. Even adults are kidnapped, let alone a child. This life of ours—there’s nothing we can rely on except prayers.”

I said, “So who would dare take my child?”

Without waiting for an answer, I turned back into the house, like someone about to take a drastic step. She said, “Go to the police station and report it.” I didn’t respond.

I sat down heavily in the middle of the room, my eyes darting around to the spots where he usually jumped and played. I broke down in tears.

Truly, whoever took my child did me great injustice, because I have no one more precious than him in all of Kano. I cried until I was exhausted. There was no one to console me. I wiped my tears.

As if it were a joke, the call to the Zuhr prayer was announced. Weak and shaken, I prayed. I sat making supplication, tears rolling down my cheeks. Then I heard Rahma’s mother greeting me. I answered without wiping my tears.

She entered and said, “Hafsa, have you seen my husband?”

A fresh wave of tears escaped me. Crying, I said, “Wallahi, Mama, not yet.”

She said, “I just came back and they told me you came looking for Shadad.” Her concern was obvious.

I told her everything that had happened. She sat down, holding her mouth, repeatedly saying Astaghfirullah. Then she said, “It’s your fault. If our house is far, you should hold your child’s hand and go with him. Haven’t you heard that nowadays chickens aren’t what get stolen—people are? Even goats and rams get stolen, let alone human beings.”

I burst into tears again. I said, “Mama, it’s not like this before—I used to leave him at home.”

She said, “So now what will you tell his father’s relatives and your own parents?”

I repeated silently in my heart, his father’s relatives?

Suddenly, his cheerful greeting startled me.

“Aunty, today we went out a lot with my uncle.”

He threw himself into my arms. “We went to the playground, I rode a horse and the big wheel, we ate ice cream, and we even took pictures!”

Before he could say another word, I lifted him and slapped him hard—like someone possessed. He screamed loudly, and suddenly we saw his uncle rushing into the compound from the corner. I didn’t stop; I kept beating him while crying.

Rahma’s mother was shouting, “No, no!” but I didn’t stop. His uncle just stood there.

Angrily, Mama slapped me and said, “Are you mad? You’ll kill this child with beating?”

I looked at her, crying. “Mama, this child throws me into fear and distress. Who is his father that he should go out without my permission and disrespect me?”

His uncle picked him up, placed him on his shoulder, and began soothing him. The child was crying uncontrollably. With a stern face, the uncle said, “I knew this would happen. That’s why I took him—to let you know you’re taking a risk. I wanted you to feel what you’d go through if someone else took him instead of me.”

He turned to Rahma’s mother and said, “Mama, please, isn’t it a risk for her to leave a child alone? Why wouldn’t she take him along?”

Mama said, “Enough, I’ve already scolded her. It’s good you taught her this lesson.”

In frustration and anger, I said, “What’s your business with him? What’s your relationship that you’d take him away? He’s my child.”

He didn’t respond—maybe he didn’t even understand my Hausa.

Mama said, “Enough.” I went into the room, unsure whether I was angry about him taking my child or happy that he was back.

I heard Mama telling him to be quiet, saying, “Leave her. You did the right thing by warning her.”

He replied in his Fulani-accented Hausa, “But Mama, I didn’t like the beating she gave him. I would have preferred she beat me instead. I’m the one who took him to teach her a lesson—to make her understand that this can happen. If I had only talked to her, she wouldn’t have listened.”

Mama agreed, saying, “That’s true. Hafsat is stubborn.”

After a while, he handed the child back to Mama. “Here he is, Mama. Please tell her I’m sorry. I know I hurt her feelings, but she shouldn’t beat him again.”

Mama said, “Don’t worry. It was fear that made her beat him. Didn’t you see how she panicked, crying and searching for him?”

He said, “Allah have mercy.” I didn’t hear exactly how much money he brought out, but I heard him say, “Mama, take this for kola nuts.” Then I heard him smile and say, “Hafsat, till Friday, okay?”

I didn’t respond. Mama came in and said, “Look, he even gave me money. Please thank him.” She placed Shadad on my lap. I pouted and said I didn’t even know the man—ever since Rahma’s wedding, he’s been sticking to me. Honestly, I didn’t know how to push him away.

She said, “You with this child, it’s as if your husband died and left you widowed. I asked Rahma and the other women in your compound—since the death of this child’s father, you’ve lived decently. Apart from your stubbornness, Hafsa, life is like this, and Allah knows best what is good for us. Be careful. Who knows—maybe he’ll take the place of your husband.”

I said okay not because I agreed, but so Mama wouldn’t think I rejected her advice. I wanted the matter to end.

While arranging the plastic bags of gifts he bought for Shadad, I saw the three photos they took. They were beautiful, and part of my heart wanted to look at them—but another part warned me that this man didn’t deserve such feelings behind his back. If I was to do anything, it should be in front of him, with respect.