Zaman Dadiro Hausa Book Compelet

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Translation in English

Chapter 1

"The world turns round and round; the frog has fallen into hot water." I often recall this proverb in my heart, because right now it is playing out its exact role in my married life. In the past, if someone had told me I could sleep without lying on my husband's chest while we shared the same bed, I would have doubted its truth. If someone had told me a day would come when my husband and I would live in the same house but separate into individual rooms, each sleeping alone in their own space, I swear I would have jumped up and denied it with arrogance. Yet, here we are; time has twisted our married life and dumped us into this bitter reality we are in today, one that resembles the life of enemies rather than lovers.

I tossed and turned on my huge bed, searching for a pillow to hug. I was well aware of the light from my phone flashing for the umpteenth time, a sign that the caller still hadn't given up. I rolled over to look at the phone—not to find out who was calling, because I already knew—and checked the time. The phone's clock read twelve minutes past midnight. If I swore an oath, I wouldn't be committing perjury: Sadam had just finished talking and chatting with the women he currently values more than me, women I strongly suspect egged him on and are looking for ways to extinguish the fire burning from my end. Therefore, I had resolved not to answer his call, even though I hadn't forgotten the religious ruling regarding a wife who refuses to answer her husband's call to his bed.

Knowing that the door to my room was open, his entrance didn't frighten me, but it did surprise me. Instantly, I remembered the oath he once swore the day I was crying and assuring him I would never sleep in his room again. He had said, "I swear by Allah, Sayyada, no woman is bold enough to make me go to her room and sleep with her, and since I am your husband, you must answer my call whenever I demand it."

Had I broken his oath before things even really began? I closed my eyes like someone pretending to sleep just as he reached out, turned on the room's bedside globe, and walked slowly over to sit at the edge of the bed. "Sayyada, Sayyada."

He started calling me in a soft voice like a hypocrite. I didn't even move, so he reached out and began touching my face. I yanked my hand away quickly as if he had touched me with a burning ember. He gripped my hand tightly, shook it, and said, "Get up! I've been calling your phone, and it turns out you were asleep."

I yanked my hand back and said, "I wasn't asleep, and I'm not coming! So you don't accept it when I tell you I'm never sleeping in your room again, huh?"

He let out a sigh, still using that gentle voice he used to deceive me with in the past, and said, "Come on, Sayyada, I thought that was behind us."

I said, "It will never be behind us."

He said, "When did you learn to argue? When did you learn to talk back to me?"

Almost crying, I said, "Ever since you showed me that my position and value have vanished in your eyes."

He hissed. This time, he changed his voice, deepened it, and said, "Get up right now and let's go."

I ignored him, my heart starting to burn as I remembered his cruel words about me.

"Get up and come give me my right, Madam!" he repeated, shouting.

I shouted back at him, crying, "I won't give it! It's by force?"

He stood up, saying, "Well, I have the strength."

That strength was what he used to yank me off the bed—picture a small person of slight build and short stature, while he was tall, heavy, and robust. Instantly, he scooped me up bodily. Despite all my kicking and hitting, he didn't relent until he dumped me on the bed in his room. Exactly what happened on the night I said I would never enter his room again happened today as well: Sadam raped me for the second time in our years of marriage. All the harsh words I hurled at him didn't make him stop until he reached where he wanted to go. I lay limp on the bed, crying loudly—that soul-crushing kind of cry, crying my fill with no one to comfort me. When I finally stopped crying to comfort myself, he was already fast asleep. I looked at him in the room's light; he is ugly, but I only realized it now, because years ago, before our life became chaotic, I swear I used to think if Sadam entered a beauty pageant, he could make it to the very front ranks. Turns out love was blinding me? Damn! I, Sayyada, curse the word love and those who worship it if this is how it ends for everyone.

I lay like that for a long time, tears streaming down the side of my face. I felt my heart so heavy that I felt no woman could possibly be in more distress than me. Slowly, I pushed myself up, took my flowing nightgown—half of which he had torn—and left the room. After taking a bath and lying down, I began to feel a mild headache. The deep dive into the river of thoughts only aggravated the high blood pressure of the headache, which had already become a routine part of me.

The sound of the first call to prayer echoing through the neighborhood alerted me that I certainly hadn't closed my eyes to sleep all night. Apart from the brief sleep I managed between after Isha prayer and ten o'clock when Sadam's return woke me, I only fell asleep on the prayer mat after performing the Subhi (Fajr) prayer. I woke up around nine, took a bath, put on a long lace gown, and rushed into the kitchen, praying in my heart that he hadn't left yet. I just boiled tea water, took out bread and butter, and placed them on the dining table. I made my own tea, went back to the living room, and sat down to drink.

I hadn't gone far with my drinking when the scent of his perfume filled my nose, confirming that he had come out. I turned slowly and looked at him. His face was fresh and cheerful, a sign that he hadn't woken up with any worries. As I looked at him, our eyes met. He flashed a smile and said, "Morning."

No matter how much I wanted to return the smile, I couldn't, not even with the corner of my mouth, but I did answer him by saying, "Morning."

Then I stood up and walked over to the dining table. He sat down, and I stood up, made his tea, and pushed it in front of him. As I was about to leave the spot, he grabbed my hand and said, "Your eyes are swollen, sorry."

I nodded to let him know I heard, then pulled my hand away and went back to my room. I picked up my veil and handbag, put my phone inside, slipped on my shoes, came back to the living room, and sat down, waiting for him to finish so I could see how we would handle things. Throughout all the thinking I did last night, I came up with one solution for my life's goal: visiting the hospital today to start fixing my mistake, because right now, that is the mistake that bothers me the most, and the smallest of the wrongs I had committed.

When he finished, he walked over, heading for the exit of the living room. After giving me one look, I quickly stood up and followed behind him. Since I noticed he wanted to tag me as crazy, he certainly knew I wouldn't put on a veil, shoes, and a handbag just to enjoy sitting in the living room.

"But you know I didn't just put on a veil for nothing, right?" I said arrogantly.

He hissed and said, "God's curse on your stubbornness. I'm waiting for the day you can actually speak to your husband normally."

'If it comes down to calling you husband, then I must add 'husband of misfortune',' I said in my mind. Aloud, I turned my face away as tears welled up in my eyes and said, "Drop me off at the hospital."

"Are you sick?" he asked, his eyes fixed on his phone which he had pulled out of his pocket.

I said, "Yes, I'm sick."

He said, "What's wrong with you?"

I said, "It's between me and my doctor."

He said, "Ok, when I go out, I'll send a doctor over so you can explain it to him."

I said, "I want to go to the hospital."

Straightforwardly, he said, "You are not going."

Quickly, I blocked his path, furious, and said, "I'm tired! I'm tired of this dictatorship you exercise over me, I'm tired of how you suppress me, I won't stand by and let you ruin my life, you hear? I'm tired of living without children. I want to see my own flesh and blood, because I've realized now they are my true support and comfort, not you!" I burst into tears, remembering the magnitude of my mistake in following a man into the whirlwind of a romance that did nothing but turn me into a mess.

He hissed, sidestepped me, and tried to pass. But I jumped up, stood right in front of him, and said, "It is a must that I bear children, Saddam! It is a must that you go and disprove the notion that I am barren in the eyes of the world, even if you won't stop taking another wife."

Mockingly, he said, "So, have you prepared a loudspeaker for me to make the announcement?"

Annoyance made me feel like swearing at him thoroughly, but I couldn't. I knew he was my husband, and I knew I was saying things to him that weren't proper. I even began to wonder if the saying that women outnumber men in Hellfire is because men are the direct cause of women ending up there.

As I gave him this look of pure frustration, he walked out of the living room, saying, "Shall I send the doctor, or was your sickness just a pretext?"

I said, "I don't want him, don't send anyone, I will make my own decision."

He raised his voice and said, "Well, when you make that decision, go sharpen your knife."

I watched him until he got into his car, phone pressed to his ear, as the gateman opened the gate for him to leave the house.

I backed up, sat down on the sofa, and burst into tears—tears of loneliness, mourning my childlessness and my desire to see my children. This time, I was ready for a head-on clash with Saddam over the issue of children: either he lets me have children or I give up the marriage entirely. They always say a woman should be patient and endure hardship with a man for the sake of her children's future, but I didn't even have children, let alone talk about living for them! I sat for about twenty minutes before standing up, taking my bag, wiping my tears, and heading out into the courtyard. At the gate, I stopped to greet the elderly gateman. He responded and returned my greeting. Seeing that he had no intention of getting up to open the gate, I said, "Baba, I'm going out."

He looked slightly flustered before saying, "Ah! But... Hajiya, respectfully, I am letting you know that Alhaji said I should never let you go out again. Please be patient, forgive me, it's an order from above."

I said, "Please open for me, I'm not well, I'm going to the hospital, and I swear I won't let him blame you."

Worriedly, he said, "Please bear with it, Hajiya, I'm just doing my job."

I huffed and ran back inside the house. I headed straight for the kitchen, having finalized the decision I felt was my only way out right now. I pulled out a brand-new, sharp knife from its sheath, my heart egging me on and pushing me to just do it, fueled by the memory of how I was suppressed and hurt, making me feel I had to reclaim my freedom.

Chapter 2

Opening my palm, I put down the knife and began massaging my hand to feel how the implant sat inside. I swore an oath today that it wouldn't stay the night in my arm, even if I were to die from the agony of removing it. I placed the knife right at the spot where I would slice my arm. Fear and self-pity gripped me, and my heart told me, "No, Sayyada, this is a suicidal gamble. If you cut yourself and blood gushes out, anything could happen. Maybe the agony will prevent you from even leaving the room to seek help from Baba the gateman, and then you'll just die in vain, fulfilling Saddam's wish and letting him enjoy his marriage."

Another voice inside me urged me on, saying, "Nothing will happen, just endure it, cut it, and pull out the rod. When he comes and finds you in a pool of blood, his anxiety will spike, and he'll realize things have been pushed to the wall. Maybe because of that, he'll start treating you fairly."

I went back to the living room and sat down with the knife in my hand, staring blankly, wondering whether to do it or not. I knew it would hurt, and it was still morning—how many hours would I spend in this agony? He wouldn't return until close to Maghrib. I spent a long time turning it over in my mind before deciding to go ahead with the cutting. But then I felt his return to the house approaching, so I wouldn't have to suffer for too long. With that thought, I put the knife away, started cleaning the house, and when I finished, I lay down somewhere, deep in thought. My heart was full of loneliness—the loneliness of childlessness and the lack of a confidant or friend.

I picked up my phone and called my mother. We chatted for a long time, but I couldn't bring myself to tell her my troubles. I knew that if I told her about the planning I had done throughout the three years of our marriage—which was why I hadn't gotten pregnant—she would blame me severely and scold me, especially given how she, more than anyone else, had expressed deep concern over my lack of pregnancy. After we finished, I called my father, and we exchanged greetings. Then I called my younger sister Salma, and we chatted for a long time too. Salma seemed to have her life all mapped out; she had no problems in her marital home, constantly praising her husband, and she had a lovely one-year-old child. Next, I called Anisa, my friend and sister. Today, I felt like revealing my troubles to her and what I was about to do, just to see if she could give me advice. But then I didn't want her to blame me either, because even I was beginning to look down on my own judgment, regretting following a man's sweet talk—or rather, his commands, since back then I couldn't disobey him and thus agreed to his arrangement.

I spent the rest of the day normally. I cooked in the evening and ate, but just enough to fill my stomach. Close to his return, I fetched the knife and sat in the living room, even wearing a sleeveless top so I could easily carry out my task. Whenever I remembered the agony I was about to inflict on myself, tears would force their way out. Close to Maghrib, I heard the sound of the gate opening. I quickly picked up the knife, closed my eyes as my heart egged me on further, stabbed it right above where the rod was embedded, and sliced hard. Instantly, I dropped the knife, let out a shriek of agony, and burst into tears. Without waiting, blood washed over my hand. No matter how much I wanted to pull the rod out, I had to give up because the pain was too intense for me to touch the wound. I lay down on the floor, crying while clutching my bleeding hand.

As for him, as if sensing she needed his attention, he had stopped to chat with Safna while on his way. Safna had called him while he was driving, and he told her he would call her when he arrived. Safna was his girlfriend who had replaced Sayyada in his life regarding seeking advice and discussing important matters, most importantly being the woman he intended to marry. They were very close, having met at the hospital where she worked when he went to see a doctor. Right now, they were just chatting, and she was re-emphasizing that he would eat dinner at her house tonight. He assured her he would attend, and from there they continued chatting.

I was lying there crying in agony. Quietly, he entered the room—he hadn't walked in right away, and I didn't want him to realize I regretted cutting my hand, let alone ask for his help. He finished his call leisurely and stepped into the room. My crying reached his ears before he saw me holding my hand while my body was covered in blood. His heart skipped a beat, he dropped his phone hastily, and rushed over to where I was, saying, "Sayyada! What happened to you?"

I said nothing, my crying only intensifying. Seeing the knife, fear gripped him even more, and he asked loudly, "What happened to you!? Don't tell me you cut your own hand!"

Crying, I said, "I'm tired! I swear I won't sleep with this harmful rod in my body today. I'm going to remove it, even if I die! If your plan is never to have children with me, then divorce me today. I am done planning forever!"

I reached out to grab the knife, but he beat me to it. Terrified, he asked, "Have you started taking drugs, Sayyada? Or have you gone mental?"

Even though I knew in my heart I was lying and wouldn't actually cut myself again, I forced myself to sit up and tried to grab it back, saying, "Give it to me! Give me the knife so I can finish what I started, Saddam, and divorce me, I'm tired of living with you!"

Weakly, he pleaded, "Please calm down, let me take you to the hospital, your blood is gushing out!"

With forced toughness, I said, "I'm going nowhere, I'd rather die."

He didn't know where to start. Remembering that taking her to a hospital would raise suspicions, he called their private doctor, informed him of what was happening, and told him he was bringing her over and would meet him there. He dropped the phone and said, "Sayyada, get up let's go to the hospital, please. They'll remove it and that'll be it."

With great difficulty, he coaxed me into agreeing to go to the hospital, especially when I saw his temper starting to flare and I feared he might get stubborn and abandon me. In the car on the way, he muttered, "Honestly Sayyada, you didn't do well at all. You've disgraced us. Why couldn't you just tell me you were tired of the planning?"

I felt like hitting his mouth out of sheer frustration. What language did he expect me to use to show him my exhaustion if not the extreme action I just took? I said nothing until we reached the hospital. Being a private hospital where he had connections, I was immediately taken in for treatment without them digging too deeply into what happened.

The doctor gave me a long lecture after stitching me up. I cried through it all while hooked to an IV drip. The doctor looked at Saddam and said, "I'm going to give her an injection so she can sleep."

Sadam said, "Please let's go home and you can do it there."

The doctor replied, "No, I am not discharging her today. She needs to spend at least three days here before returning home so I can continue monitoring her. Right now, I won't allow you to take her home, and it's best she sleeps."

Sadam grew anxious and said, "Hold on, let me speak with her before the injection. Please leave us for a moment."

"Ok," the doctor said and left the room.

Sadam sat at the edge of the bed and looked at me—a look I couldn't quite decipher, but it didn't look like pity, though his face wasn't overly angry either. He said, "You really are a fool, you know. Aside from sheer madness, how could you pull off such a stunt? Now, if family members find out, what on earth are we supposed to tell them? Now that you've been admitted, who is going to be called to nurse you?"

I said, "Well, I don't care if anyone finds out what happened. Since I'm rid of that rod, that's it. If the matter comes to light, you'll be the one to bear the shame, you'll be the one people curse for harming me."

"That's enough!" he barked, shouting at me, before continuing, "All this foolishness of yours won't stop me from obeying my mother's instruction to marry. Whether you live or die, I am getting married. So you have a choice: either calm down, continue obeying my instructions, and we live in peace, or upset yourself and live in distress and misery while watching me find peace and happiness with my wife."

Crying, I said, "I will not obey you, I will never follow your instructions again, and I will not sleep in your house once you marry someone else. You must divorce me, I swear! You aren't the only man in the world."

This time, he gave a mocking laugh and said, "I may not be the only man, but I am the only man you will ever live with for the rest of your life. You sharing a marital life with someone else will only happen in the afterlife, if that's even a thing. And as for my marrying another, put it in your head that it's a done deal; only death will part us. So next time you want to torture yourself, put the knife to your neck instead of your hand, you idiot!"

He stood up, glared at me, and said, "Don't you dare call anyone claiming you made a mistake by letting them know. I'll find someone to look after you because I can't stay overnight at a hospital."

I said, "I don't need anyone's help, and bring me my phone!"

He walked out without saying another word to me.

He went back home, took a bath, dressed, and sat down holding his head. He had never imagined Sayyada had the mental toughness to pull off such a stunt. While in this state, Safna's call came through on his phone again. He answered weakly, saying, "Baby."

She asked, "Beb, are you okay? Why haven't you arrived?"

He said, "Sorry, I won't be able to make it. Honestly, I'm not in my right mind right now."

She said, "Subhanallah! What happened?"

He let out a short hiss and said, "That crazy girl cut herself."

Her heart skipped a beat and she said, "I don't understand, she cut herself by accident?"

He said, "Didn't I tell you she was pressuring me to have a child?"

She said, "Yes, you mentioned it often."

He said, "Well, when I stopped her from going out today, she took a knife and sliced her hand to remove it."

Safna thought to herself: 'Good riddance, I hope she dies so I can be free.'

Outwardly, however, she feigned concern and said, "Innalillahi wa inna ilaihi raji'un! But the cut wasn't too deep, was it? Where is she now, should I come and check on her?"

He said, "Relax, she's not someone to pity. Who starts jealousy over this?"

She said, "No, you shouldn't say that. You know every woman has her own way of thinking when it comes to jealousy. Excuse her; honestly, I even feel sorry for her. Are you guys at the hospital now?"

He said, "I'm back home. She has no right to make me sleep at a hospital because of her madness. I'm just thinking of someone to find to spend the night with her."

Quickly, she said, "I can! You don't need to find anyone else, I will come and spend the night with her."

He said, "No Safna, don't stress yourself, and you know if she realizes it's you, she won't be happy."

Pleadingly, she said, "I promise you she won't figure it out. I swear I won't show her anything. Or do you not trust me, Beb?"

He sighed and said, "I swear I trust you, I'm just surprised. I thought jealousy would stop you from going."

She said, "I swear I will treat Anti Sayyada the exact same way I would treat my own biological sister."

He said, "Thank you so much, my wife-to-be. But will they let you leave home?"

She said, "Even though I'm not on night duty today, I'll say I'm covering for a colleague because her child is sick. They'll let me go."

He said, "Wow! So let me come and pick you up, right?"

She said, "No, don't come or people will suspect something. Let me just come over to the house and you can take me."

He said, "Will you be able to..."

Summary

The story revolves around Sayyada, a woman trapped in an increasingly toxic and loveless marriage to her husband, Saddam. Initially deeply in love and submissive to him, Sayyada's life has turned sour due to years of enforced childlessness ("planning") imposed by Saddam, who refuses to have children while maintaining control over her. The emotional distance widens as Saddam emotionally neglects her, disrespects her, and carries on with other women, notably an aspiring second wife named Safna.

Driven to deep depression and frustration by Saddam's dominance and her desperate maternal longing, Sayyada reaches a breaking point. When Saddam bars her from leaving the house to visit a hospital to resolve her predicament, Sayyada resorts to extreme measures: she uses a knife to cut her arm in an attempt to remove her contraceptive implant herself.

Alarmed by the blood and fearing scandal, Saddam rushes her to a private hospital where she receives stitches. Despite the trauma, Saddam remains unsympathetic, prioritizing his intention to marry Safna and blaming Sayyada for her own suffering. The story concludes with Saddam returning home, where Safna manipulates him into letting her come to the hospital under the guise of nursing Sayyada, plotting behind the scenes while Sayyada remains devastated and defiant in her hospital bed.

Character Description

• Sayyada: The protagonist and narrator of the story. She is portrayed as a petite, fragile, but deeply emotional and strong-willed woman. Once blinded by romance and utterly submissive to her husband's demands, she undergoes a painful awakening. Her longing for children and her refusal to be continuously oppressed push her to the brink of self-harm, marking her transition from a docile wife to a desperate woman willing to fight for her autonomy.
• Saddam: Sayyada's husband. He is tall, robust, and domineering. He represents emotional manipulation and marital tyranny, exerting complete control over Sayyada while disregarding her emotional and physical well-being. He is unfaithful, unsympathetic, and unapologetically planning to take a second wife, viewing Sayyada's anguish as mere foolishness.
• Safna: Saddam's girlfriend and intended second wife. She is a healthcare worker who has replaced Sayyada as Saddam's confidante. Behind a facade of sweetness and faux empathy toward Sayyada, Safna is manipulative, self-serving, and secretly malicious, wishing ill upon Sayyada so she can have Saddam to herself.