Dabiar Zuciya Book Complele Safiyya Huguma

Description

The sun blazed fiercely, beating down from every corner of the vast expanse of the heavens onto the face of the earth, as far as the human eye could see. It radiated intense light and heat—the kind of heat that forces every living creature, human and animal alike, to seek refuge in shade that could offer relief and soothe the burning pain inflicted by the sun from the physical body straight down to the brain.
At this very time, Ummukulsum was walking along, consumed by bitter resentment and a deep-seated fury. She was a young girl, barely fifteen years old in this world.
She was dark-skinned—not in an ugly way, but rather possessing a deep chocolate complexion. She had abundant hair on her head and eyebrows, a well-proportioned mouth, and medium-sized eyes. She had the gift of bright, striking whites in her eyes, teeth of a glowing milk-white color, and a balanced chin that enhanced the shape of her face. In short, Ummukulsum belonged to the category of women with moderate, pleasant beauty.
The burning she felt in her heart far exceeded the heat beating down on the crown of her head from the sun. Her eyes kept welling up with tears, and she struggled hard to hold them back because she truly disliked crying. She was a person of immense endurance and a resilient spirit—traits that some people misinterpreted as stubbornness and a harsh character.
As she walked, she swallowed the lump stuck in her throat, observing how the paths of their neighborhood lanes were completely deserted. Apparently, everyone had headed off to the farms; those without farms to go to, or without anything to do in them, had gone off to tend to their own personal affairs.
She glanced at her left hand just as she was about to pass a narrow alleyway, and she decided to take that route instead. It would help her get home faster, even though she rarely liked using the alley; it was a matter of necessity. Even her mother sometimes told them to avoid taking that path. However, right now, she wanted to reach home quickly because she had left her mother waiting for her return.
She had not even reached the middle of the alley when she began to spot Asiya—her blood sister, with whom they shared the same father and mother, alongside their other paternal siblings.
She continued walking toward them, locking her eyes upon them and staring.
Asiya was standing with Ayuba, one of the notorious local youths who prided themselves on the peak of their youthfulness and, on the flip side, their brazenness, disrespect toward elders, promiscuity, and all sorts of misconduct. Despite these terrible traits of his, almost no one dared to stand tall and challenge him or any of his friends. This was because his father was a wealthy man across the entire village, and on top of that, his mother was the younger sister of their village head. This background allowed him to do whatever he pleased and trample upon whoever he wished, acting with pure arrogance and believing he was untouchable.
Asiya was wearing her Western school uniform—a school over which she had faced harsh words, mockery, and various forms of sarcasm. It was a school viewed in a special, critical light, upon which all hopes for progress, betterment, and the transformation of Asiya's life and the lives of anyone related to her had been placed.
On one side, Ayuba stood right beside her, so close it was as if they wanted to merge into each other. They were talking, though she could not hear what they were saying due to the short distance between them. Her heart boiled with anger even more than earlier when she had stopped Ayuba from grabbing and holding Asiya’s hand within his own. This was not the first time she had seen Asiya in a situation resembling this, yet she had never spoken to anyone about it except her mother. To this very day, her mother remained the sole person she had ever confided in about what her eyes had witnessed. Later on, when she realized her mother disliked any conversation touching on the subject, she stopped telling her. Yet every single day, whenever she saw Asiya in such a state, she felt a profound ache and sorrow in her heart. But she was powerless; she had no authority or strength to make decisions regarding Asiya’s life. Thus, she continued walking until she reached them, pushed past them, and walked right by without saying a single word to either of them. Asiya and Ayuba followed her with their gazes until she was nearly out of sight, whereupon they simultaneously looked away from her.
"Your household person saw us, Asy. Do you think she won't report this at home?" Asiya pouted, adjusted her stance, and looked at him.
"So what if she saw us? As for reporting things at home, she never does, because this isn't the first time."
He gave her a look that outwardly seemed charming and affectionate, but deep down in his mind, he was thinking to himself:
"She's a good-for-nothing fool anyway. I guess I'm not the only one she's been playing with. Let me just loosen up and take my share. If money is her problem, she can have it."
With these internal thoughts, he threw her a smile, which she readily returned.
Carrying these two heavy burdens in her mind, she approached their home—a house whose hatred grew deeper within her heart day by day. People say that a father is one's pride and decoration, but right here, she challenged that proverb. Right here, in her situation... she derived her pride and honor from her mother, not her father. The Hausa people say "a joyful home"... but as for their house, she could not spot a single atom of joy, peace, or tranquility within it. She did not know when they would ever look at their home and feel happiness, peace, or pride.
Although she could not be heard clearly, she still uttered the traditional Islamic greeting of peace (sallama) as she entered the compound. True to her expectation, she wasn't heard until she arrived at the very spacious central courtyard of their home—just like typical rural family housing. She headed toward the section on her right, which was fenced off with cornstalks to separate it from the main courtyard. She could hear the blaring sound of a radio from the opposite section on her left, which faced their own quarters. That other section was far better than theirs, as at least it was blessed with red-clay cement block walls, just like the rest of the main estate.
She greeted sallama a second time. Almost simultaneously, two women sitting beneath the thatched shed (rumfar buni) in the middle of their courtyard responded: a young girl of barely fourteen years old and their mother, whose age was around forty. However, if you did not look closely at her, you would assume she was much older due to the strands of gray hair sprouting from her dark head—a reflection of her hardships and the bitter realities of life.
As she approached them, her gaze drifted toward the small thatched kitchen structure they had set up to cook in. It was dead silent; the cornstalk fire they usually used was unlit, and in fact, all the cooking pots were turned upside down and washed clean, exactly as she had left them earlier that day. This was a clear sign that their father had gone out and hadn't bothered to check on them at all. She turned her gaze away, walked over to the mat where they sat, and sat down, her heart churning further with grief.
"You're back already?" her mother threw the question at her. Her mother's eyes then drifted down to the wound on Kaltum's foot—a sore that grew deeper by the day, with her foot swelling up more and more. Every single night through dawn, she went to bed and woke up with that pain living inside her heart, feeling as though it were on her own flesh.
"How could you expect me to stay long in this house, Umma?" she replied, her voice tinged with anger.
Instantly, her mother raised her eyes to look at her, studying her facial expression for a few seconds. Then, she let out a hidden sigh and called her name softly:
"Kaltume..... this house you are talking about is my birthplace, my child. Have you forgotten?"
Her mother pulled her eyes away from the wound for the first time since earlier, staring at it as though that would somehow help draw the pain away from her mother's foot.
"I know, Umma, I know. But please bear with me, Umma, because my mouth will never stop speaking such words. It is the truth and the exact feeling in my heart—unless she changes too... unless she changes, I don't think I will change either, Umma."
Her mother stared intently at her, then parted her lips softly and said:
"Kaltum......"
"Please forgive me, Umma," Kaltum interrupted quickly, not letting her mother say another word. Her mother let out a sigh and pulled her gaze away from her daughter's face. She knew Kaltum was a girl with a fiery temper when provoked—she had heat and anger in her—yet she was also compassionate and gentle at times.
Silence settled for a few moments, and then her mother spoke softly:
"How did it go with her?"
"Just like always, and as usual, she did to me what she always does today. I found Uncle Labaran... he heard the discussion between us and pulled out money to give me, but she reached out and snatched it, saying he wouldn't give it. She said even if he gave it, it would end up with our father... Umma, why doesn't she love you? Could she really be your mother...?"
She threw a look at Kaltum that stopped her from completing what she intended to say. Even so, recounting what had happened didn't stop the visible pain on Kaltum's face. Although this wasn't her first time experiencing this—she was long accustomed to her mother's behavior—she had never truly gotten used to it. Every time something like this happened, she felt the sting deep in her heart.
"K'nnnnn!" Habiba, her younger sister who had been sitting next to their mother all along, made a sound. Habiba was a person endowed with far more patience than Kaltum; she was quiet and possessed a gentle disposition just like their mother. Yet, deep down, this matter bothered her immensely as well—it ate away at her like a thorn in the throat. Though she rarely spoke out, whenever she and her sister had a private chat, she would voice her thoughts.
Kaltum glanced at her. From the expression on her face, she knew Habiba's heart was hurting too. But continuing the talk served no purpose and would bear no good fruit, so she redirected the conversation toward finding a solution.
"Now, Umma, what are we going to do?"
Her mother remained silent for a few seconds before answering:
"Nothing. I will just keep searching until God provides. If I don't get it... I'll keep using this medication and see what God wills."
Kaltum fell silent, swallowing hard. She looked toward the dry, inactive kitchen, devoid of any signs of cooking, and turned her gaze back to her mother.
"Has Baba still not returned? I noticed you haven't put anything on the fire."
As if it weren't an important question, her mother replied:
"He hasn't returned yet, but I know he's on his way, in sha Allah."
Kaltum stood up, her heart boiling over with anger. She knew her mother was only saying that to protect him in their eyes—even though no protection was left for him to claim in their sight. He had completely ruined everything and disgraced himself publicly. She couldn't even remember how many times she had gone out to braid hair, returned, and used the earnings to buy food for them. What else was left?
She picked up her small ablution kettle (buta), and just as she was about to head toward the back of the house, she turned and looked at their mother:
"Umma, where did Bilal go?"
"He just went out a moment before you came in. He told me he was going to Dan Bala's place, saying there seemed to be some labor work for them to do today."
Kaltum simply nodded, her frustration multiplying. Bilal was barely fifteen years old, yet he knew every hardship in the world. He was a boy who seemed almost immune to physical pain or comfort; God had simply filled his heart with compassion for his mother and love for his siblings. Any grueling job called upon him, Bilal could do it: molding mud bricks, construction work, digging earth, digging latrines or wells, and even herding livestock if someone needed it. His only goal was to be paid money so they could find food to eat. Ever since he started doing hard labor, he would come home injured, recover, and get right back to it.

2. Summary

This narrative excerpt centers on Ummukulsum (Kaltume), a resilient and fiercely protective 15-year-old girl living in a struggling rural family. Life at home is a daily trial defined by poverty, neglect by an irresponsible father, and the open hostility and cruelty of an older maternal figure/relative (referred to as their mother's tormentor/mother figure, Baba Lami).
While walking home through a scorching afternoon, Kaltum witnesses her sister, Asiya, engaging in questionable behavior with a notorious, arrogant local youth named Ayuba, whose family wealth and ties to the village head make him untouchable. Kaltum resents Asiya's choices and the constant favoritism and blockades set up against their mother, particularly when an uncle attempts to give Kaltum money, only for it to be snatched away.
At home, Kaltum finds her mother and younger sister, Habiba, sitting in a dry, empty courtyard with no food or fire, waiting endlessly for an absent, deadbeat father. Kaltum's mother suffers from a worsening, painful foot wound that Kaltum deeply internalizes. Meanwhile, their young brother, Bilal, is out breaking his back doing exhausting manual labor just to scrape together money for food. Determined to change their fate, Kaltum resolves to collect a long-overdue debt from a hair-braiding customer named Ladingo to buy some food, highlighting the stark contrast between their family's dignity, cleanliness, and the grinding poverty they endure.

3. Description

• Setting: A harsh, sun-baked rural village characterized by scorching heat, deserted afternoon lanes during farming season, traditional compounds separated by cornstalk fences, and mud-brick structures.
• Mood & Tone: Heavy, melancholic, tense, and indignant. The atmosphere is thick with hunger, frustration, systemic oppression, and quiet rebellion against domestic misery.
• Key Characters:
  • Ummukulsum (Kaltume): A sharp, resilient 15-year-old girl with a deep chocolate complexion, striking white eyes, and a fiercely protective, unyielding spirit. She bears the emotional weight of her family's suffering.
  • The Mother: A patient, battered woman bearing physical pain (a worsening foot wound) and emotional degradation, trying desperately to shield her children while maintaining their dignity and morals.
  • Habiba: Kaltum's quiet, patient younger sister who shares her silent grief.
  • Bilal: A hardworking young adolescent brother who sacrifices his body to grueling labor to feed the family.
  • Asiya: Kaltum's older sister who drifts into dangerous liaisons with arrogant local bad boys like Ayuba, ignoring the family's struggles.

  • Ayuba: A wealthy, arrogant, and untouchable village youth who embodies lawlessness and disrespect.

    4. Analytics

• Core Themes:
  • Poverty and Domestic Hardship: The devastating toll of economic destitution and an absentee, exploitative father on rural families.
  • Resilience vs. Despair: The stark contrast between Kaltum and Bilal's relentless drive to survive and Asiya's drift toward social ruin.
  • Gender Dynamics and Vulnerability: The heavy burdens placed on young women and boys in neglected households, where protection is absent and survival requires sheer grit.
  • Family Loyalty and Friction: The deep bonds of love between Kaltum, her mother, Habiba, and Bilal contrasted with the betrayal and emotional distance represented by Asiya and their environment.
• Literary Devices Used:
  • Vivid Imagery: Used extensively to describe the oppressive heat ("sun blazing fiercely... beating down from every corner") and physical toll.
  • Character Foil: Kaltum’s fiery, action-oriented resistance versus Habiba’s passive endurance; Bilal’s selfless labor versus Ayuba’s entitled arrogance.
  • Internal Monologue: Deep exploration of Kaltum's internal bitterness, showing how external environmental harshness mirrors her internal psychological pain.