Zuciyar Mace Book 1 Complete Hausa Novel

The noise and shouting of the people in their house woke her from a slightly pleasant morning sleep. She let out a long sigh and pulled the blanket tightly over her face, hoping to lessen the effect of the commotion. Their house was large and always chaotic; they were used to unnecessary clamor—but now she began to suspect the reason, seeing how both children and adults were screaming without restraint.

“Hey everyone! Salamatu has fallen into the well, bring us help!”

Mama Karime’s words froze every part of her body, halting all temporary activity. Slowly, she turned her head, settling her eyes on the edge of her mother’s bed, praying it wasn’t Salamatu they meant—even though she knew there was no one in the house with a name like hers. But now she saw that no one else was around, and she jumped up in panic just as Nusaiba burst into the room, panting and yelling,

“Nuratu, wake up! Your dear one has fallen into the well!”

With a sudden burst of speed, she dashed out until she caught sight of Nusaiba, who was giving a report. The neighbors had already begun arriving and praying. She jumped toward the well to save Mama, seeing the crowd pause, seemingly oblivious to her mother’s life hanging in the balance. Baba, aside from joining in prayer, tried to intervene physically, but people restrained him and told him to be patient. She broke into loud cries, calling her mother’s name in desperation:

“Momma!”

Minutes passed before Malam Haruna arrived—a well-known expert in well rescue. The two of them managed to pull her out, laid her on a mat, and began administering first aid. But she refused to breathe. Baba’s heart sank; he lifted his hand and said,

“Kalau, indeed to Allah we belong and to Him we shall return. Salamatu is gone—she has left us. She has killed me and Nuratu!”

Nuratu collapsed in grief, shaking and sobbing, but made no movement beyond that.

The entire house began praying for her. Some suggested she might still be alive and should be taken to the hospital. But Baba argued bitterly:

“What hospital? I am a small child who does not know death? I buried my mother, I buried my father, I buried my wife, I buried my four children, and now you say I do not know death? No, Salame—whether she is dead or not, I am sure she will not rise unless it is her time.”

He was persuaded to consider the hospital, but sadly, Baba took out both pockets of his robe, tapping them as he said,

“So, with my age, I am supposed to take her to the hospital? Look, I have no strength left in my pockets.”