Kauna Da Soyayya Book Compelet

Description

Summary

This excerpt from the complete Hausa novel Kauna Da So by Maman Shakur (widely known as M. Shakur) presents a striking juxtaposition between high-stakes urban crime and traditional Nigerian domestic life. Chapter 1 plunges the reader into Xperince, an ultra-luxurious, illicit Abuja nightclub ruled by Maheer—a cold, intensely charismatic drug lord nicknamed "Pablo Escobar of Africa." Despite his immense wealth and magnetic appeal, Maheer faces relentless emotional pressure from his older business partner and former guardian, known as "Boss" or Hajiya, who desperately wants to marry him and bear his child. Maheer flatly and cruelly rejects her advances, driven by a deep-seated hatred for marriage and children born from his own childhood trauma. Chapter 2 pivots sharply to a modest, traditional household, introducing a strict, disciplined police officer who balances a tough exterior with profound affection for his young, playful daughter, Nana, while household friction brews over the delayed return of his other daughter, Yasmeen.

Description

Written with rich, descriptive prose and vivid sensory details, the narrative explores the starkly contrasting environments of contemporary Nigerian society. The underground nightlife scenes are painted with neon-lit grit—detailing high-end narcotics, heavy security, and the psychological weight of unchecked power. In contrast, the family scenes evoke a grounded, relatable warmth, capturing the everyday banter of mothers, aunties, and children gathered around traditional meals. The characterization is deeply psychological: Maheer is portrayed as the ultimate anti-hero—physically flawless, emotionally numb, and fiercely independent—while Hajiya embodies desperate, obsessive attachment.

Analytics

• Thematic Dichotomy: The novel heavily contrasts the moral decay, synthetic hedonism, and transactional relationships of the criminal underworld with the traditional structure, discipline, and emotional grounding of the nuclear family.
• Archetypal Characterization: Maheer fits the classic dark romance archetype—feared, hyper-competent, and emotionally unavailable—while the domestic patriarch represents unyielding authority balanced by paternal softness.
• Narrative Tension: The friction is driven by control and autonomy. Maheer fights to maintain absolute control over his empire and his emotional isolation, whereas Hajiya attempts to bind him through legacy and marriage. Meanwhile, domestic tension builds on the looming threat of strict parental discipline.
• Cultural Context: The integration of modern Nigerian urban slang, elite Abuja lifestyle markers (custom gadgets, exclusive clubs, international shipments), and traditional Northern domestic routines (tuwo preparation, Islamic school runs, family gossip) gives the story a deeply authentic local flavor.

Comments

• Authorial Style: M. Shakur is celebrated in modern Hausa literature (Littafin Hausa) for blending romantic suspense, mafia/drug lord tropes, and intense emotional drama, making her stories compulsive page-turners.
• Character Impact: Maheer’s nickname ("Pablo Escobar of Africa") and his icy demeanor immediately establish him as a dominant force, creating an intriguing psychological puzzle regarding his aversion to family and affection.
• Linguistic Blend: The narrative naturally incorporates English-Hausa code-switching, reflecting how contemporary urban youth and elites communicate in Nigeria.

Conclusions

This complete segment effectively lays the groundwork for a complex, emotionally charged romance thriller. By establishing two completely different worlds—the dangerous, high-roller syndicate of Maheer and the disciplined, structured world of a police officer's home—the author sets up a multi-layered narrative. The excerpt successfully hooks the reader through unresolved psychological conflicts, power struggles, and the heavy shadow of past trauma influencing present choices.

Keywords

Kauna Da So, Maman Shakur, M. Shakur, Hausa Novels, Dark Romance, Nigerian Literature, Underworld, Drug Lord, Abuja Elite, Family Dynamics, Psychological Fiction

Chapter 2 (Continued)

Around 7:00 PM, a large black SUV was cruising along Ahmadu Bello Way in Abuja. An elderly gentleman of around 65 years old sat in the back seat, dressed in a white kaftan with a matching cap topped by a tall, striking white feather pinned to its side. On his feet were elegant black Prada sandals, and a long walking stick leaned against the seat beside him. He was very fair-complexioned—specifically that rich tone often referred to as "yellow-skinned"—with a neatly trimmed, heavily greying beard.

His phone began to ring, prompting him to slip his hand into his front pocket and pull out a Samsung Galaxy Fold. Opening it, he saw the caller ID saved as ACHALOUGO. He tapped the screen and brought the phone to his ear.

From the other end, the voice of an older woman spoke in her native tongue: "Mgbede ọma, nwa m nwoke," which translates from Igbo to mean, "Good evening, my husband/my son."

Nodding slightly, the man replied in the same language, "Kedu ka ị mere? How are you?"

The woman answered, "I'm fine. Nwoke (my husband), are you free? Can we talk?"

He asked quickly, "Yes, yes, Nwunye (my wife). What is it? I hear worry in your voice. What's wrong?"

With deep distress, she said, "This is past 7:00, and Ziora is still not back from school?"

The man fell silent for a moment as if calculating something. He glanced down at the Rolex watch strapped to his wrist, noting that it was nearly 7:30. He asked, "Have you sent Obinna out to look for her?"

She nodded, her voice cracking heavily. "They went to the school, but she wasn't there. She's not at her department, and her phone isn't going through."

The man let out a long sigh, trying to calm her down. "Don't worry, she'll be back."

With rising tension and frustration, she snapped, "That's always what you say! Don't worry this, don't worry that. Every single day, Ziora keeps getting worse. Why are you spoiling this girl so much? Why, why, wh—"

"Biko, Nwunye (Please, my wife)," he raised a hand into the empty air as if to silence her, and she immediately went quiet. The man continued, "Let me think, please. My only daughter hasn't returned home—do you think this is the time for arguing? Whatever the issue is, we will handle it when she gets back. Please, calm down and think: where could she possibly go at this time?"

He pulled the phone away from his ear and hung up, tapping his foot thoughtfully against the floor mat. Turning to his driver, who was an Igbo man speaking fluent Hausa, he said, "Baba Sani."

The elderly driver responded instantly, "Yes, Oga?"

The man asked, "Can you think of any place you've ever taken Amrah where she might be right now?"

The driver hesitated for a moment before answering, "Well... you know Amrah loves dancing. I once took her to a place where they hold dance classes, but I'm not sure if she'd be there at this hour, Oga."

Knowing his daughter all too well, the man ordered, "Take me there."

Baba Sani executed a U-turn and sped off.

The building was a luxurious establishment resembling a high-end gym. Mirrors lined the walls, and massive speakers—the kind usually seen at grand parties—blasted music. The air was ice-cold thanks to heavy-duty air conditioners. Various young women dressed in typical gym attire—long pants and half-vests—were scattered around. Most of them clearly weren't Muslim, as evidenced by their hair extensions and the small cross necklaces resting against their chests. Everyone was gathered in a circle, clapping enthusiastically, while two other women without head coverings, wearing shorts and half-vests, clapped wildly and hyped up the person dancing on a 360-degree rotating platform. Members took turns stepping onto the platform to dance while the girls cheered, "Go Ziora! Go, girl! Go Ziora! Ehhh, give 'em!"

Atop the 360 platform stood a tall girl wearing a black P-cap that completely concealed her face, though her long, dark hair cascaded down past her waist. She wore a tight, designer black Alo singlet-style gym top designed to hold firm during intense workouts. Her breasts were full but not excessively large, sitting moderately within the tight fabric. Her matching black Alo leggings hugged her waist tightly down to her ankles, and she wore Nike sneakers with white Nike socks.

Even though her face was hidden, her glowing, fair complexion—the classic yellow skin typical of Igbo girls—was unmistakable. Flawless and spotless, her skin caught the eye instantly. The music pounded relentlessly. The way she moved could rival international stars like J.Lo or Shakira; she was incredibly flexible, throwing her waist around with rhythmic precision while her peers hyped her up as one of the star dancers of the class.

Suddenly, the door swung open, and a strikingly fair woman walked in. She was dressed in an adire bubu gown, with no cap or headscarf, though a short, gorgeous hair extension rested neatly on her shoulders. Her fingernails were painted a polished, vibrant red. She pressed both hands against her ears to block out the deafening music, her face twisted in absolute fury. Yet, even in anger, her striking beauty—highlighted by a sharp, aristocratic nose—was undeniable.

Her eyes swept across the room, locking onto every single young woman present. Even among a thousand people, she would recognize her daughter instantly without needing to see her face. Her gaze finally landed on the girl dancing on the platform, and her blood boiled anew. Completely forgetting the loud music, she dropped her hands from her ears, marched straight into the crowd, and shoved her way through the girls.

Her eyes fixed on the two young women who had been clapping and shouting "Go Ziora!" She shot them such a terrifying, venomous glare that they instantly froze and dropped their heads in fear.

Without hesitation, she marched up to the 360 platform where the dancer still had her back turned. With a sharp smack, she delivered a resounding blow directly to the girl's well-rounded backside.

The music cut off abruptly. Startled, the girl spun around just as the 360 platform stopped spinning. In the same motion, the woman reached out and knocked the P-cap clean off the girl's head.

"Is this the school I send you to?" the mother roared in fury. "Look at me well, Ziora!"

The girl's dark, voluminous hair tumbled down, glowing with a natural, almost foreign texture. She couldn't meet her mother's eyes; she kept her head lowered, overwhelmed by a wave of mortification she had never felt before. She was breathtakingly beautiful, possessing a sharp, aristocratic nose identical to her mother's, a small mouth lined with naturally pink, slightly plump baby-like lips, and rounded eyes framed by long eyelashes. Her defined brows and prominent forehead framed her face into a stunning visage that demanded a second look.

Frowning deeply, Ziora rubbed her backside where her mother's hand had landed, feeling a stinging heat—she hated physical pain.

Her mother glared at her as if she wanted to devour her alive out of sheer frustration. "Is this the school I sent you to, eh, Ziora? When was the last time you went to school and attended lectures? So all this time, you've been here?"

Ziora stayed completely silent, which only stoked her mother's rage further. Turning away from her daughter, Mommy looked toward the rest of the onlookers—who had fallen into a terrified silence—and pointed a finger at them while gesturing to Ziora. "My daughter is a responsible child from a well-reputed family!"

Some of the girls nervously scratched their heads, looking as if they wanted to say, As if this woman actually knows her daughter.

Just as Mommy opened her mouth to continue, Ziora—on the verge of tears—interrupted her in a soft, incredibly sweet, and childishly pleading tone, pitch-shifted with embarrassment. "Mommyyyy, let's just goooo..."

Her voice was the epitome of a soft, warm, girlish tone.

Livid, Mommy snapped, "Oh, now you know how to speak!" Turning back to the gym members, she warned, "If I ever see my daughter here again, I will shut this place down!"

Chapter 3

Without wasting another word, Mommy grabbed Ziora's hand and dragged her toward the exit.

Stubbornly digging her heels in, Ziora protested, "Mommy, my baggg!" She yanked her hand away, ran back to the storage area, grabbed a massive oversized backpack, slung it over her shoulder, and rushed back.

Mommy gave her a scathing look. "Let's go!"

Ziora muttered quickly, "I want to put on my clothes first."

Mommy barked a sharp command, "My friend, I said let's go!"

As they burst out of the building, they ran straight into her father, who had just stepped out of his SUV. He looked at his wife in shock and asked, "Why is she dressed like this, Nwunye (My wife)? Where is her dignity (kimar)"?

Before her mother could answer, Ziora piped up defiantly, "Daddy, I told Mommy I wanted to wear it, but she wouldn't let me! So I just followed her like this, how is it my fault?"

Both her mother and father stared at her in utter disbelief.

Her older brother, Obinna—who had driven their mother to the location—rushed over and snapped, "Are you stupid, Ziora? You commit a crime and then run your mouth with disrespect?"

Ziora immediately scrambled behind Mommy, hiding as her heart hammered wildly in her chest.

Intervening calmly, Daddy said, "Don't touch her, Obinna. Let's just go home. Amrah!"

Slowly, the girl stepped out from behind her mother, still unable to meet her brother's gaze. Pointing to his car, Daddy instructed, "Get in." Knowing that facing her mother's or brother's wrath in their car would be torture, Ziora opted for her father's vehicle instead, hurrying over.

Daddy reached out and took her heavy backpack, unzipping it. From inside, he pulled out an abaya and handed it to her. "Put this on. And let this be the last time I catch you dressed like this. What did your Ustaz teach you about exposing your body?"

Submissively, she answered, "It's haram—meaning, it's forbidden in Islam for a lady to expose her body."

Daddy asked, "And when you do things that are haram, how do you ask Allah for forgiveness?"

Quickly, she replied, "Astaghfirullah."

Mommy let out a loud hiss, climbed into her own jeep, and told Obinna, "Let's go." They sped off into the night.

Daddy got into the back seat of his car with Ziora, closing the door behind him. Without saying a word, he began rummaging through her backpack. He pulled out her abaya, set it aside, and began inspecting her school books one by one. Not a single page contained any lecture notes.

Then, his fingers brushed against a lighter.

He pulled it out, stared at it intensely, and raised his eyes to look at her.

Ziora instantly dropped her head, her voice trembling as she stammered, "What are you doing with a lighter, Baby?"—for Daddy always called her Baby, or her tribal name Ziora, or her Islamic name Amrah.

Her lips began to quiver as she scrambled for words. "Daddy, no! I swear I don't smoke. It belongs to my friend Mirabel! Daddy, I swear by Allah I don't smoke—smell my breath!"

She leaned in close to her father, opening her adorable little mouth to display her small, pearly white teeth right in front of his face. Daddy paused, examining her mouth closely. He genuinely detected no trace of a smoking odor—and as a former consumer of cigarettes, palm wine, and alcohol in his pre-conversion days, he knew what the signs looked like.

He softened. "I believe you."

She flashed him a dazzling, heart-melting smile that made her look impossibly adorable. "You see? Daddy, you always speak the truth. If it were Mom, she would have insisted she smelled it even when she didn't. Daddy... my Mommy can lie!"

Daddy nearly burst out laughing and had to bite his tongue to suppress it. That was classic Amrah—so carefree, so innocently blunt.

Calmly, Daddy chided, "Stop calling your mom a liar."

Quickly, she argued, "Daddy, wallahi, Mommy lies a lot! She always tells lies on my head."

Daddy corrected her gently, "That's called sheri in Hausa—well, Gwari slang, actually."

She giggled. Gazing at her with profound affection, Daddy asked, "Why is someone who smokes your friend, eh, Ziora? An associate of a thief is a thief."

Using her broken Hausa—she didn't speak the language well despite being born in Abuja, since she had no one to practice with and attended a British school—she defended herself: "The friend of a barwo is not a barwo, Daddy!"

Daddy let out a small chuckle; Amrah's broken Hausa never failed to amuse him. "Alright, little Hausa girl. Why have you not been attending your classes, eh, Baby?"

She fell silent for a moment, then slouched against her father's shoulder like a four-year-old toddler. "Daddy, I want to become a dancer! I don't like school. And Daddy, you don't like me—all my brothers study in the UK, why would you want me to study here in Nigeria?"

Directly and firmly, her father answered, "Because you are extremely stubborn. You're a total troublemaker! I could never bring myself to send you to the UK alone to study; I'd never have peace of mind. The UK isn't Nigeria—you break a law there, and you go straight to prison. Besides, if I sent you to the UK, whose face would I look at to find joy?"

Pouting, she mumbled, "Your other wives, Daddy."

He smiled. He loved Ziora so much that even when she messed up, instead of scolding her properly, her charm and attitude would completely bewitch him, making him forget everything and coddle her. That was why he was constantly fighting with her mother over her. And Ziora knew it, taking full advantage of her father's weakness for her.

On the verge of tears, she whined, "Ouch, Daddy! Look, Mommy hit my backside and it hurts!" She sat up, reaching back to rub the spot while pulling a face like she was about to cry.

Laughing at her dramatic display, her father said, "Well, that's because you didn't behave. You brought it upon yourself! But let me tell you—if you keep skipping classes, I'm going to discipline you myself, I swear."

She pouted further without speaking. Daddy shifted closer, draped an arm around her shoulder, and said softly, "I always want you to be happy, Baby. If you can just calm down, stop being mischievous, and make me trust your judgment, I won't just send you to the UK—I'll send you to any school on the face of this earth that you want. But you won't listen! You never listen at all, Amrah. Tell me, what is the point of keeping a smoker as a friend? You need to start surrounding yourself with good people. You are a Muslim girl—what are you doing dancing? What kind of career will dancing give you? What is the advantage of this useless dancing that makes you skip school? Why are you always making your mom and brothers mock us? What are you lacking? You just started university studying accounting, and you refuse to settle down and study—even though I told you I want you to take over the financial management of my company! Do you want me to assign bodyguards to trail you 24/7?"

On the verge of tears, she shook her head rapidly. "No!"

Daddy concluded, "Then settle down and focus on school, or I will deal with you myself. Am miserably clear?"

Unhily, she whispered, "Yes, Daddy."

Daddy let out a heavy sigh and blessed her: "Ka isi na-aka (Bless you), may Allah bless you."

Still disgruntled, she kept quiet as they finally arrived at a massive, ultra-luxurious estate. Daddy was immensely wealthy—a tycoon involved in virtually every major global business. After years of traveling across Northern Nigeria, he had finally settled down in Abuja, running massive enterprises dealing in electrical systems, inverters, solar panels, transformers, electric cars, and heavy-duty trucks. Even Ziora didn't know the exact extent of her father's business empire. Their compound felt more like a mini-city.

As they parked and stepped out, Ziora scanned the courtyard with a sinking heart. She knew that once Mommy started on her today, only God could save her.

Daddy stepped out, looked at her knowing she was stalling, and motioned ahead. "Come with me."

She followed him inside their expansive private flat. Money practically breathed within these walls. In the living room, her mother sat on a sofa while a maid massaged her feet, her eyes fixed on the front door like a predator waiting for its prey. Obinna had already gone upstairs to his quarters, while another young man—older than Obinna, tall and sharply built—was walking down the stairs holding a mug of coffee. Without a word, he took a seat next to Mommy.

Summary

This segment of Kauna Da So by Maman Shakur follows the frantic search for Ziora (Amrah), an affluent, rebellious university student who skipped her lectures to participate in an underground dance class. Her strict, wealthy father tracks her down using his driver after a tense phone call with his second wife (Ziora's mother). Upon confronting Ziora at the dance studio, her mother drags her home in utter disgrace, sparking a family confrontation. While her mother and brother are furious, Ziora manages to wrap her indulgent father around her finger through her childish charm and manipulative sweetness. Although Daddy reprimands her gently, uncovers a lighter in her bag, and warns her about her dangerous habits and truancy, his ultimate leniency underscores how deeply he spoils her—creating a sharp fracture between his parenting style and her mother's strict disciplinary approach.

Description

The narrative paints a vivid portrait of elite Abuja life juxtaposed with strict parental expectations and cultural identity clashes. The scene transitions seamlessly from the high-tension atmosphere of an urban dance studio to the opulent, high-tech interior of a billionaire's estate. The character dynamics are brilliantly drawn: Ziora is depicted as a classic spoiled, rebellious rich girl who uses humor, dramatic whining, and overwhelming charm to evade consequences; her mother represents rigid traditional discipline and maternal frustration; and her father embodies the archetype of the indulgent, soft-hearted patriarch caught between a fierce wife and a favorite daughter.

Comments

• Character Chemistry: The interaction between Ziora and her father highlights a classic psychological dynamic where parental affection undermines disciplinary boundaries, making the character feel simultaneously frustrating and endearingly witty.
• Cultural Nuances: The author brilliantly weaves cross-cultural elements—Igbo backgrounds/language among the parents, Hausa domestic setting, and British-style elite upbringing—reflecting the diverse fabric of contemporary high-society Nigeria.
• Pacing & Conflict: The transition from the search party to the dramatic studio showdown and subsequent car-ride interrogation keeps the reader deeply engaged, setting up future family implosions regarding Ziora's unpunished defiance.

Conclusions

This chapter successfully deepens the characterization of Ziora, exposing her secret rebelliousness, her rejection of traditional expectations, and her manipulative mastery over her father's affections. It establishes a ticking time-bomb dynamic within the household: while Daddy continues to shield her, her mother's warning that Ziora's recklessness will eventually invite a disaster beyond their control foreshadows intense emotional and social conflict in later chapters.

Keywords

Kauna Da So, Maman Shakur, M. Shakur, Hausa Novels, Nigerian Literature, Abuja Elite, Family Drama, Spoiled Heiress, Rebellious Youth, Parental Dynamics