Sandar Girma Hausa Book Compelet

Description

ECOMOG Camp, 2:34 AM.

It was a night of war, not a night of rest. The rising fires cast a merciless, flickering glow across the darkness. The sky was heavy with dust and the stench of blood; the groans of the living and the cries of the helpless mingled with the crack of gunfire and the roar of exploding bombs. It was as if the horn of the end of the world was blowing. Clouds covered the moon, as though it too regretted witnessing such torment.

The noble and the helpless fell alike to the same ground. All that remained of the night was the cold, the fear, and the stench of destruction—a sign that the world shows no mercy to the weak. General Khal B. Musa raised his eyes to look at the blackened sky, then lowered them as he heard gunfire erupting from his right. He pressed a hand over his heart as it recalled something, something more important to him than anything else—a vulnerability. His friend, Colonel Bashir, standing beside him, patted his shoulder softly and said, "She is safe, In sha Allah."

Khal raised his eyes, burning red like embers, and stared at him. Before he could utter a word, they heard a terrifying blast—the explosion of a landmine, rising alongside the screams of hundreds of people losing their lives once more.

"Don't go! We don't have enough ammo, wait!"

Khal B. Musa didn't even turn back to listen to his friend. Walking a short distance toward the direction of the blast, he turned entirely to face him and said in a booming voice: "I didn't become a soldier to save myself. I became a soldier to protect the defenseless."

With that, he turned and continued walking, stepping over the debris scattered across the camp. No matter how intense the gunfire grew, it didn't stop Khal B. from pushing into the building, even knowing he might not come out alive, especially with inadequate equipment. He shot an NLEP insurgent, who dropped dead instantly, and rushed to where a female nurse lay bleeding next to a small boy she had seemingly tried to save. Angered, Khal B. raised his weapon to fire again, but before he could make a move, a bullet pierced his chest directly over his heart.

He dropped to his knees, clutching the wound. Even then, he didn't give up; he pushed himself up a second time, but the terrorist didn't hesitate to fire again. The bullet struck him dead center in the abdomen. He fell backward in a cinematic motion, pain washing over him from every direction. He closed his eyes, a tear rolling down his cheek. Her image appeared in his mind. He thought of her condition.

"Come back early, I prefer to give birth in your presence. Come back, My Lord!"

He heard the sound of her voice in his ears as if she were speaking to him right now. With trembling lips and faltering breath, he whispered: "Jidderh!... Jidderh!"

Snap! His breath stopped, his eyes closed—a sign that life had taken its course. He died!

Nigeria, Asokoro District Hospital, 3:45 AM.

Her heart gave a violent jolt. She quickly pressed a hand to her chest as something lodged heavily in her throat. Slowly, she rose from her bed, reached out, and pulled a small bedside table toward herself, staring at it. Hot tears began patrolling her face. At that moment, the door pushed open. She didn't raise her head because she didn't even notice someone had entered; her mind was fixed entirely on the person she loved most in the world.

She felt a hand touch her shoulder, causing her to lift her tear-swollen eyes. "Be patient, Jidda, for the sake of what is in your womb."

She collapsed into the woman's arms, weeping softly. "Khalid is alive, Hajiya! Khalid has come back, Hajiya! I don't want to give birth while he's not here. He promised me he would stay with me until I give birth! I feel like something is wrong, Hajiya. Truly, something is happening. I want to see him."

The older woman sighed, still holding Jidda, and said, "Khalid is perfectly fine, and he will return to you, In sha Allah."

Jidda couldn't speak because of a severe contraction in her lower abdomen. She gripped the woman's hand so tightly it felt as though she might break it. Seeing this, the woman lifted Jidda's face in a panic and asked, "Hauwa'u, are you alright? Is it labor?"

Jidda only shook her head, quickly slipping out of the woman's embrace to stand up and rush out. Not long after, she returned with doctors. They immediately swarmed around her. She endured immense labor until around 4:50 AM, when Jidda gave birth. The doctor lifted the baby with a smile and asked, "What did you give birth to?"

Jidda only smiled, tears streaming down her cheeks. She looked at her newborn, smiling and weeping simultaneously—tears that seemed to signal the phrase, "I have finished my work"—before closing her eyes forever.

Life emerged from her womb, and she slipped into peaceful darkness.

LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS

35 Years Later

Play Imperial Lounge, Adetokunbo Ademola Cres, Wuse 2, Abuja. 2:35 AM.

The place was bright as day. Music thundered across the room, and affluent men and women went about their nightlife. Standing off to one side near a chair with his eyes half-closed, a young man held a glass cup filled with White House wine, sipping it slowly. He wore light blue Versace, and the air around him was fragrant with Clive Christian No. 1 perfume. He checked his Rolex, clicked his tongue lightly, set down the glass, picked up his car keys, and headed toward the club's exit.

"Where are you going when it's not even closing time?" asked a young man holding a glass of liquor in one hand and a thin young woman in a tight mini-dress with the other. Seeing that Zayyad didn't answer, he reached out to touch him. Zayyad pulled his body away, giving him a strange look. His friend clicked his tongue and said, "Calm down, let's go get you another cup."

"I'm going home," Zayyad replied, turning away. Faisal watched him with a blank stare, then curled his lip.

It was late into the night. Nothing could be heard except the barking of dogs and the faint music drifting from the nightclub. Zayyad unlocked a black Lamborghini Aventador and got inside. After two minutes, he whispered Bismillah and thrust the vehicle onto the main road. A light drizzle fell as it was the rainy season. From time to time, he exhaled puffs of air until he reached Kwame Nkrumah Street in Asokoro.

He parked in front of a mansion, waited briefly, and honked. The gate slowly began to slide open on its own. Once fully open, he drove straight inside. Ya Salam! The estate stood in serene luxury and power, surrounded by a tall wall combining aesthetics and security. A grand entrance awaited, manned by armed security guards prepared 24/7.

Inside the compound, a lush and serene garden added beauty and peace. Modern lights illuminated the path, while trees and flowers gave off a pleasant breeze like a presidential retreat. The main building rose elegantly with reflective glass windows, a wide balcony, and smooth wall plastering. Parking at the entrance, he stepped out of the car, ignoring the security guards greeting him, and walked straight into the house.

He entered the main parlor—a spacious, tastefully furnished room featuring Italian leather sofas, large glass windows letting in natural light, a sparkling crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, modern wallpaper, and a massive flat-screen TV paired with powerful sound systems like a cinema. Everything screamed luxury, class, and quiet power.

Standing and pacing inside the parlor was an older woman—you could tell immediately something troubled her. Hearing him enter, she spun around quickly to face his direction. She was a fair, beautiful woman who looked no older than 47. He merely glanced at her with his eyes, then turned to leave.

"Zayyad!"

He stopped dead in his tracks without turning back. She slowly walked up to him, fixing him with a piercing gaze. "Where are you coming from?"

He didn't answer. In fact, he turned his head away to look aside. Realizing he truly wouldn't answer, she spoke again: "Is this the life you chose for yourself? Is this how you want to live? You chose to do wrong instead of right. Oh, Zayyad! Why? Why?"

This time her voice was fragile, her eyes filled with tears. He let out a sigh, his eyelids drooping heavily from the alcohol he had consumed.

"Zayyad!" she called his name again.

He turned around and locked eyes with her before slowly opening his mouth. "Mommah, did I do something wrong again? Why do you always want to pry into my life? Just leave me alone, please," he said, pressing his hands together. Without waiting for her reply, he turned and hurried up the stairs. She watched him disappear from sight, wiped the tears from her cheeks with her hand, and then headed up the stairs herself.

She woke up for the first call of the Fajr prayer, went to the restroom to perform ablution, and sat down to pray, pleading with Allah to relieve Zayyad of whatever was bothering him. Hearing the call to prayer complete, she rose, left her room, and walked straight to his apartment. She knocked, though she knew he might not hear her, and pushed the door open with a greeting. Everywhere was spotless, smelling wonderful. A laptop sat open on a table alongside a can of coke nearby—evidence he hadn't left long ago.

She pushed open the bedroom door, greeting him softly. She found him applying Clive Christian No. 1 perfume, dressed in a brown jallabiya with a cap that didn't hide his hair. She suppressed a sigh before speaking. "You're already awake?"

He nodded without turning around. She stood quietly until he finished what he was doing and turned to face her. She smiled; he pulled a crying face like a child and said, "Mommah." With a bright expression, she said, "Zayyad." He picked up his phone from the bedside drawer and said, "Mosque." She nodded. "Okay, go safely."

They stepped out of the room together. He stopped in the parlor to grab a car key and slip it into his pocket. She watched him silently without speaking. As they stepped into the corridor, no one else was around; she headed toward her room while he went downstairs.

He entered the compound mosque, performed the Fajr prayer, and came out. His phone began ringing; he glanced at the screen, made a small click with his tongue, and walked to the parking lot. Arriving at a black Lexus jeep, he got in, warmed up the engine, and drove down the paved driveway.

Inside her room, she pulled down the curtains and sat at the edge of the bed. "Where is he going at dawn?" she asked herself, but no one could give her an answer—not even Zayyad.

Transcorp Hilton, Maitama, Abuja.

He parked in the luxury hotel's compound and hurried inside. He spotted someone sitting at one of the restaurant's chairs, walked over, sat down, and stared at him without speaking.

"So what's going on? Yesterday you said you'd be back, but we heard nothing. That girl comes from a prominent family too, yet you keep treating her with contempt."

Zayyad curled his lip. "What business is it of mine whose daughter she is? I just felt I wasn't ready, that's why I left. Besides, is it by force? I asked for her to be brought to me, and now I've changed my mind. What's the big deal?" With that, he stood up, ready to leave.

Faisal stood up too, staring at him. "So what do you mean now?" "I'm done," Zayyad said briefly. He turned and walked away with an air of arrogance and pride. Faisal clicked his tongue softly. "You've done yourself in," he muttered before leaving as well.

Zayyad walked straight back to his car and headed toward Asokoro, as that was all he had come out for.

Around 6:00 AM, he returned home and went straight to his room, collapsing onto the bed as sleep weighed heavily on his eyes.

At 10:34 AM, someone knocked on his door. Because he was a light sleeper, he sat up, scrunching his face in annoyance. Without even looking at the door despite hearing the persistent knocking, he got up and walked sluggishly to the bathroom.

Tired of standing outside, Nayla pouted as she stopped knocking, knowing how stubborn he was and why she hated when Mommah sent her to wake him up. While she stood by the wall, the door opened and he stepped out. He wore a polo t-shirt and 3-quarter cargo shorts that hit right at his knees. The parlor filled with the intoxicating scent of Clive Christian No. 1.

Nayla blinked her eyes half-mast. She was a young lady around 18–19 years old, fairly fair-complexioned, dressed in a simple stonework gown. Calmly, she said, "Big bro, Mommah is calling you."

As if ignoring her, he gestured for her to come closer with his hand. Gently, he pinched her ear and said in a controlled tone: "The next time you dare come banging on my door like a mad person, I will break your hand."

She whimpered, making a face like she was going to cry. "Well, if people talk to you, you don't listen, and I knew you were awake!"

Zayyad curled his lip—his signature habit—pinched her ear one more time, and headed outside. She quickly chased after him, darting forward to grab his arm. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye but said nothing.

He spotted his father sitting on the sofa, glasses perched on his nose as he read a newspaper. Nayla let go of his arm, and Zayyad walked over, sitting next to him and resting his head on his father's lap.

His father laid down the newspaper, stroked his hair with a smile, and asked, "What is it, my favorite?" With a pout, Zayyad replied, "Nothing, Dad. I just don't feel well."

Lifting Zayyad's face and touching his body with slight panic, his father asked, "Tell me, is something bothering you? Is there something you want? If there is, just tell me. Or do you not like the hospital job? If you don't like it, you can leave it; it's no problem. I hate seeing you unhappy or stressed, you know that."

Mommah was just arriving in the parlor, witnessed this exchange, and shook her head. She sat on the opposing sofa and said in a calm voice: "Now, Your Excellency, is this the right way? You are asking Zayyad if he doesn't want something that will help his life? If he doesn't work with the education he acquired, what will he do? Do you want him to continue acting foolishly?"

Instantly, the warmth drained from Dad's face. He pulled off his glasses, glared at her, and snapped, "Khadijah, what do you mean? Did I let him suffer? Or didn't you hear him say he isn't feeling well? Must he work just because he studied? Is there anything he ever asked for that he lacked?"

"Tell her, Your Excellency! I don't know what she means by picking on this boy. How old is Zayyad that people must constantly pressure his life? For what reason?"

A large, wealthy-looking woman spoke as she descended the stairs wearing a massive maroon boubou lace outfit. Money clearly radiated from her presence.

Mommah looked at her and replied, "Even so, Ummi, Zayyad is grown. He should have outgrown these behaviors. You can see he doesn't even sleep in this house most nights. When he does intend to sleep here, he doesn't return until the dead of night—and drunk at that! He is a human being!" Mommah spoke with her face reflecting pure anguish.

Ummi sat on the sofa with a smile. "Youth of today! Besides, Zayyad is no child. Wherever he goes to sleep, I am certain he won't come to harm. Please, just take your eyes off some of these things."

Mommah offered a bitter smile and said nothing more. Zayyad stood up, grabbed his father's car key from the side table, and headed for the exit.

"Look at that! He's leaving without anyone knowing where he's going!" "Khadijah!" Dad shouted angrily.

Mommah looked at him silently and stood up. She nearly collided with Khalil, who was trying to step outside while she walked in. Without a second glance at Zayyad, Khalil walked into the parlor with a greeting. He knelt to greet their father before heading upstairs.

Ummi shot Khalil a vicious look. "And you, where are you coming from?" Khalil scratched the back of his neck and smiled. "Ummi, I just went over to Mahmood's place."

"Is Mahmood's house somewhere you go without letting people know?" Dad asked, his eyes locked onto him. Khalil lowered his head and said softly, "I'm sorry, Dad. I won't do it again."

Dad curled his lip. "You know what you're doing. Go on, get dressed, I'm waiting for you." Khalil simply said "Okay" and left the area.

Watching the path Khalil took until he disappeared, Ummi turned back to Dad and said, "This is how you should treat Zayyad! Stop showing him this blind favoritism. Stop treating him differently from your other children."

Dad stood up angrily. "You're saying I've stopped loving Zayyad? So now I hate him? Do you want the world to insult me? Do you want my story plastered across newspapers? That I shouldn't show care for Zayyad? Well, let me tell you something: as long as I draw breath, whatever Zayyad wants, I will do for him. And no one dares pressure his life while I am alive. You better know what you're doing!"

(In this darkness, a light tries to emerge... But will it have the chance to illuminate a heart already burned?)

Summary and Description

Plot Summary

The narrative opens in a gritty, chaotic war zone at the ECOMOG camp. General Khal B. Musa receives news of a heavy landmine explosion and refuses to hang back, declaring his duty is to protect the helpless rather than preserve himself. He charges into battle and is fatally shot. Simultaneously, miles away at an Asokoro hospital, his pregnant wife, Jidda, experiences a sudden physical pang of dread at the exact moment of his death. She successfully gives birth to a baby boy before passing away.

Thirty-five years later, the story shifts to Abuja, focusing on their son, Zayyad. He has grown into an affluent, emotionally detached young man who spends his nights in nightclubs, drinks, and ignores familial responsibilities—much to the deep distress of his mother, Mommah. While Zayyad's father (referred to as Dad / "Yallaɓai") fiercely shields and spoils him against all criticism, conflicts brew within the household involving Ummi and other family members over Zayyad's rebellious lifestyle, medical career avoidance, and erratic habits. The chapter closes with domestic tensions boiling over regarding Zayyad's lack of accountability and marital drama involving a young woman named Nimra.

Narrative Description

The text is a dramatic Hausa fiction chapter blending themes of sacrifice, generational trauma, parental favoritism, and the stark contrast between patriotic heroism and modern youthful apathy. It contrasts the tragic, selfless martyrdom of a military father with the reckless, privileged existence of his orphaned son, set against the luxurious backdrop of high-society Abuja.

Analytics

• Thematic Contrast: The story heavily relies on juxtaposition. The opening depicts selfless sacrifice (General Khal) in a bloody war zone, contrasted sharply with selfish luxury and nightlife (Zayyad) in modern Abuja. This highlights a generational shift and explores how a child raised without a father reacts to inherited trauma.
• Character Dynamics:
  • Mommah (Khadijah): The grounded, concerned mother who wants discipline, accountability, and ethical growth for her son.
  • Dad (Yallaɓai): Overprotective, defensive, and heavily biased toward Zayyad due to guilt or deep affection, creating friction with the rest of the household (Ummi, Mommah).
  • Zayyad: Numb, defiant, and emotionally detached, coping with unseen internal pain through isolation, alcohol, and rebellion.
• Pacing & Setting: The story moves seamlessly between historical trauma (1991/military conflicts) and contemporary high-class urban settings (Wuse 2, Asokoro, Maitama), using sensory descriptions (perfumes like Clive Christian No. 1, luxury cars like Lamborghini and Lexus) to establish character status.

Comments and Critical Reception

• Emotional Resonance: The opening sequence involving General Khal and Jidderh is deeply visceral and heartbreaking, establishing an immediate emotional hook. The sudden parallel death/birth sequence successfully establishes high stakes.
• Character Psychology: Zayyad’s character feels complex rather than purely villainous; hints of internal restlessness and the psychological weight of his mother's anxieties suggest deeper motivations rooted in his father's martyrdom and subsequent overindulgence.
• Pacing Critique: The transition from a gritty military camp to a high-society luxury lifestyle 35 years later is jarring by design, effectively symbolizing how peace bought with blood can breed a generation detached from struggle.

Conclusions

• Generational Legacy: The title Hasken Cikin Duhu (Light in the Darkness) heavily implies that Zayyad's reckless exterior hides a dormant potential for redemption. Despite his current descent into hedonism, the narrative trajectory points toward an eventual awakening where he uncovers his father's true legacy.
• Family Conflict Prediction: The extreme bias shown by Dad toward Zayyad, contrasted with Mommah's strict approach, is setting up a major domestic fracture that will likely explode as Zayyad's personal life (including his marriage to Nimra) continues to unravel.