Tsutsar Nama Complete Hausa Novel

Hmm… so, Bilyn Abdull—based on my understanding and everything my yesterday, the day before yesterday, and even today have taught me—I can say that BRAVERY is the true essence of LIFE. PATIENCE is what guides our breath and grants long life to every living being in peace. Whenever some of us are asked, “What is our adornment?” the first answer that comes to our hearts and lips is (UPBRINGING / GOOD MORALS).

But as for me, I say that is not entirely so. And I can say it calmly, loudly, or even openly declare it—do not be surprised by my understanding or think my view is extreme or foolish speculation. I am not saying good upbringing does not qualify as an adornment; rather, the honest truth is that RELIGION is the greatest and highest form of adornment in my view. It is the foundation of you, of me, of all of us.

I stand firmly by this belief because I honor my RELIGION above everything that defines my entire life. THE WORLD is the first SCHOOL for every breathing soul, because within it we struggle and strive for the REWARD of the HEREAFTER. For the way you deal with the world is how it grants you honor and value among people.

Every living soul fears DEATH, yet that does not stop us from desiring LIFE and hoping to enter PARADISE, because it is there that everything exists—things hearts cannot even imagine, no matter how far human vision can reach. Likewise, the fact that our days are gradually ending with each dawn does not prevent us from planning our DREAMS, even when we believe we may not live to see tomorrow.

Every human being you see—life only plays out what is written in the book of destiny for them. No matter how hard you strive for the world or try to flee from it, you can never escape your decree.

Let me not take you too far; instead, let me explain everything clearly so you may better understand what I want to say to Bilyn Abdull and to all of you.

My name is SAMRAAH ABDUL-WAHAB GWARZO. In real life, I am no one special—just the daughter of Malam Abdul-Wahab Gwarzo. My father was neither a ruler nor a wealthy man, nor even a renowned scholar. He was simply a driver who worked for a wealthy household. But Allah took his soul due to a car accident when I was only seven years old.

He and my mother had only three children: Yaya Musaddiq, the eldest; myself, Samraah; and our youngest, Hafizzullah. Our mother also passed away after giving birth to my younger brother, when I was not even three years old.

After our mother’s death, the responsibility for raising Hafizzullah and me fell to my maternal uncle, Uncle Imam. His wife completed Hafizzullah’s breastfeeding alongside her own child, whom she gave birth to around the same time as our mother. Whether she truly breastfed him or not, we are unsure—but they grew up like twins.

After our father’s death, responsibility for Yaya Musaddiq also returned to Uncle Imam.

Although our father was neither rich nor powerful, he left us inherited farmlands and a house, along with a small amount of money in an account. Our mother also left us farmland she inherited from her parents—since Uncle Imam was her only sibling.

Because both our parents were originally from Gwarzo, all those properties remained there. Only the house we lived in was in Kano city.

Due to our young age, none of what our parents left us was handed over to us. Uncle Imam took full control, saying we would receive everything when we grew older. He continued farming the land and rented out the house. He also took full responsibility for our education and all aspects of our lives until we grew up.

Life in Uncle Imam’s house was never easy for us, mainly because of his wife’s cruelty. We endured it deeply. We tasted bitterness at her hands in many ways. We faced countless hardships as orphans. Everything done for her children was different from how we were treated. Even food—she favored her children over us. Their schooling was in private schools, while we attended government schools. Their clothes were better than ours. Even their bedrooms were different from ours.

What may shock you is that this discrimination did not come only from her—it came from Uncle Imam as well.

Before we fully understood ourselves, we would cry and wipe our tears. But once I became aware, especially me, I began to retaliate. I absorbed the cruelty and injustice from Mom and Abba, but I could not ignore the actions of their children. Even those older than me—if they pointed a finger at me, I would break it just to find peace, even if revenge followed.

Yaya Musaddiq was not like that. He was quiet and reserved. Hafizzullah also wasn’t noisy. As for me, outwardly you wouldn’t say I talked much—I wasn’t talkative, and I carried the calm face of a righteous person. That was why sometimes Mom would complain, saying I was disobedient—yet even if a finger was put in my mouth, I wouldn’t bite it.

This trait of mine burned her heart deeply, so I suffered more punishment and hardship from her and even from Abba. Still, we lived in patience and endurance until Allah allowed us to complete secondary school.

After that, Abba said he had no money to sponsor us into university. My heart shattered when I saw him still struggling to pay for his son Abbas, who was in the same class as Yaya Musaddiq, and Baby, who was in the same class as me.

So I confronted him and said that if that was the case, he should pay us using our inheritance. I suggested selling one farm to sponsor us. I received harsh insults and painful words from him—until he finally threw me out of his sitting room with curses.

Yaya Musaddiq was hurt too, but he said nothing. Later, he scolded me, saying I shouldn’t have spoken like that—that no matter what, Abba was our mother’s younger brother and had suffered to raise us. I said nothing in response—only tears streamed down my face. He then left the house without another word.

Two days later, Yaya Musaddiq brought me news that he had found an apprenticeship in automobile mechanics. Though that wasn’t what I wanted—I wanted us to continue schooling—I congratulated him and wished him success.

From then on, he started going to the garage. When he informed Abba, Abba barely cared, only saying, “May Allah grant success.”

Baby returned to school, while I became a full-time house help. Every household chore now fell on me—even those I had never done before. Only when Hafizzullah returned would he help me with some tasks. I was extremely exhausted, yet that didn’t stop me from attending Islamic school—no matter how tired or even if I would be beaten.

Sometimes, when I sneaked out and returned, Mom would beat me until she got tired and then throw me aside. But I was not allowed to leave unless I completed all the chores she assigned me. That forced me to become determined—finishing everything on time so I could go.

In that state, one full year passed after finishing secondary school. I completed my Qur’an recitation (khatm), but no celebration was held for me—except what my brother managed to do on his own. I didn’t mind.

Baby continued school, while Yaya Musaddiq went back and forth to the garage, leaving early and returning late. At first, Abba didn’t care about Yaya Musaddiq’s work or earnings. But later, after Mom incited him—claiming he was earning money since he funded my small celebration—Abba demanded daily household contributions from him.

Though it hurt Yaya Musaddiq deeply, he didn’t show it. He simply began dividing his earnings into two—saving half and using the other half for household expenses.

One day, exactly one year and five months after we finished secondary school, one of our teachers came to see Abba. After they spoke for some minutes, I was called.