FreeFreeDescription
English Translation
May Allah grant me the ability to write what is good and keep me away from evil.
Assalamu alaikum dearies ❤️
I hope we spent the Ramadan and Sallah periods in good health. May Allah accept our acts of worship and make us among His freed servants, Ameen.
So, just as I promised to write Safiyya after Sallah, here I am trying to fulfill it 😁. Please pray that Allah gives me the strength to see it through to the end. Lol.
Believe me, I originally intended to do this on an impulse, and later I started thinking, "Is this a good idea?" But then I had already told you about it, and whenever I speak, I try my very best to fulfill my word, except when it is beyond my control, as nobody is perfect. So, we will try insha Allah, but you will have to be patient with me if updates are sometimes delayed. I want you to bear in mind that I am doing my absolute best.
As I mentioned, the book Safiyya will hopefully be provided for free from the very beginning to the very end insha Allah, depending on whether we get at least twenty sponsors. To you readers, I am begging for your cooperation in showing support to the sponsors so they feel encouraged to keep buying the book for you to read. If there are no sponsors, Safiyya will switch to a paid book after the free pages.
I hope we will enjoy this journey with Safiyya and Gidado. It is going to be rough 😁, but I promise you a smooth landing.
Him 👳🏻
"Tell me you love me." He heard her voice hitting his eardrums as if she were right there speaking to him at that moment. He placed both hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut tightly, but it only seemed to make his vision and hearing clearer. What he forgot was that the voice was coming from inside his head, not from his surroundings. In his mind's eye, he saw her face, as clear as a full moon, sitting inside his car. Her face wore that smile which had always been the cure for all his worries, and her eyes were filled with love for him.
"Tell me you love me," she said, aiming her phone's camera at his face. He raised one hand to shield his face, smiling. "Stop it!" he said, his voice laced with laughter. She giggled, then changed the camera angle to the part of his face he hadn't covered. "Say it then, why are you shying away from a simple question? Do you love me?"
He uncovered his face, trying to frown, but he couldn't. He was incapable of wearing a scowl whenever he was with her. He leaned his head against the car seat's headrest, looking into her camera, and said, "Do you need to ask?"
She replied, "Of course. I want to hear you say it."
He closed his eyes, opened them, and asked, "What is with the camera then?"
She said, "As evidence. I want to record you saying it and keep it as evidence so that if you ever claim in the future that you don't love me, I have proof to take you to the Lovers' Court."
He laughed heartily, trying to push her camera away, but she moved it out of his reach. "Confess! Say you love me," she demanded.
Seeing she had no intention of handing over the phone, he dropped his hand and said, "C'mon! Why do I have to say it? Why won't you say it instead of me?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Because I say so... And whatever I say I want, I get. Now I want you to say you love me," she finished with a playful, pouty face.
He sighed. "You are impossible, Piya. What is there to say that you don't already know?"
She said, "That you love me?"
He answered, "You already know that. You just enjoy... enjoy... en..."
She finished it for him, mimicking his voice: "You enjoy teasing me." Then she laughed. "You're right, I knew you wouldn't just say it. I only wanted to see that," she said, pointing at his face.
He rubbed his face like someone searching for something and asked, "See what?"
She replied, "Your face is red, my dear. You are blushing," and burst into another fit of laughter.
He sighed. "Piya! You are..."
"Impossible," she finished for him, mimicking him again.
He glared at her. "Stop that."
She repeated, "Stop that."
Taking her by surprise, he snatched the phone from her hand and turned the camera toward her face. She quickly covered her face with both hands, laughing. He zoomed in on the screen, admiring her beautiful fingers. "Who did I catch?" he teased. "Now, tell me you love me."
She uncovered her face, glared at him, and pouted all at once. He smiled. "If you're truly bold enough, say it so I can hear. Say you love me," he finished, lowering his voice to a whisper.
She started groping for the door handle. "Open the door for me. I'm going into the hostel."
He said, "You wish! Today you must say it. And I'm going to record you and keep it. When we get married and have children, I'll show them how their mother was dying of love for me."
She rolled her eyes. "Who told you that?"
He said, "I know... I just know. From the day you first set eyes on me, you just couldn't stay away from me. You saw a handsome Fulani man and lost your mind, deciding it was either him or nothing."
She laughed. "The day I first saw you, loving you was the last thing on my mind. I don't even think I knew what love was."
He said, "Huh? That's why you left your seat and came over to mine? Admit it, Piya, you were attracted to me."
She rolled her eyes again. "That's why I noticed that from that day on, wherever I went, you followed me like a shadow."
He said, "Exactly, and this is just the beginning. Wherever you go, I will follow you. I accept that I am the shadow. And in the future, I'll become 'the husband before she even speaks'."
She lowered her head, saying nothing, feeling the weight of his gaze upon her. He lowered the phone, sighed, and said, "Please Piya, I think it is about time you take me to Daddy. Haven't you played hard to get long enough?"
She raised her head, and their eyes met. "Then you have to sweet-talk me and bribe me."
He adjusted his posture, patting his pocket, and said, "Whatever you want, just say it. You know I can give the world to you if it were mine. I can go to the... to the..."
"End of the earth," she finished for him.
He said, "Yeah, right, I can go to the end of the earth for you if you want me to."
She smiled faintly, looking at her hand. Her mind seemed to drift away somewhere else, just like she always did whenever he talked about marriage. Absentmindedly, she said, "But earth doesn't have an end, it is spherical."
He said, "I don't care. You get what I mean, right? I can do anything for you."
She didn't reply, but turned her head to look outside. Meanwhile, he narrowed his eyes, staring at her thoughtfully, and asked, "But how do you do it?"
She turned back to look at him. "Do what?"
He said, "Finish my sentences. You always seem to know what is on my mind even before I speak."
She gave a beautiful smile, her eyes reflecting the ocean of love she held in her heart, and said, "Because I am your soulmate."
"I am your soulmate." He heard her voice echoing inside his brain. His head felt like it was about to split in two. He placed a hand over his forehead, but the pain felt like it was right in the center of his brain—or rather, not like pain, but like a fire being stoked inside his head, its heat causing sweat to pour from his hair down to his face and the rest of his body.
It wasn't the headache bothering him the most; it was the pain in his heart that tortured him. It was a strange burning sensation, like an itch, but since it was locked deep inside his chest, there was no way to scratch it. He placed his other hand over his heart, taking a deep breath to ease the agony, but it only felt like the itching intensified. So this was the heartbreak people talked about? This agony was what social media users joked about, calling it breakfast? Truly, anyone who joked about this had never experienced such a state. He had never felt this way; no one had ever done to him what had just been done.
She was his life. For years, he had never pictured his future without her. He never even imagined she could leave him because she led him on, showing him a love he never suspected had any deceit in it. He had finished preparations for their marriage. Everything was planned. In his mind, he had even pictured their future children and the love and care he would shower on them. The house they would live in had long been completed. He was just waiting for her, waiting for the green light from her, and then suddenly, after she traveled and returned, she came to his office with a huge baby bump and said:
"I am married. I have been married for years. I am sorry."
And then she said, "It was all a misunderstanding. I never thought you loved me. You never said you loved me when I told you that I am married."
"Damn it!" he shouted aloud, jumping up like someone who had just been injected. Then he steadied himself against the wall, sat back down, and before he knew it, he found himself smiling. "You've lost your mind, Muhammad," he told himself. "She drove you crazy. That's the end of you. Now you're even talking to yourself." Then he struck his forehead with his palm. "Damn you," and broke into another smile. Maybe madness would be a blessing. At least if he went mad, he would be taken to a psychiatric hospital and given sleeping injections for the rest of his life. Then he wouldn't have to think about her. Then he wouldn't have to miss her—miss her smile and laughter, miss the feeling of blood rushing through his body whenever he got close to her, miss the excitement of seeing her name "Piya❤️" light up his phone.
He already missed her teasing. She enjoyed teasing him so much because they shared his grandfather's name. She used to say, "Malam Muhammadu dan Fulani, you saw a pretty young lady, ran away from home, and got stuck to her."
Or was that teasing too?
A spark of hope pierced his heart. He hurriedly searched for his phone, knocking some papers off his desk in the process, picked it up, dialed her number, and put it on speaker while silently reciting prayers without even knowing what prayers they were. The phone rang, but it went unanswered until it stopped. He tried her other line; it rang through and cut off without an answer. So he redialed the first number.
"The number you are trying to call is not available at the moment..." He hung up. "Damn it!" He called again; still the same response. A part of his heart began telling him she had blocked him. "She just blocked you, guy," he said aloud. "She blocked me," he repeated with a broken heart.
So it wasn't a game. It wasn't a dream. It was real. Everything she came and told him just now was real. Everything he saw on her body was real.
But how could that be? How evil could she be? How could she have been married all through their relationship? How did he fail to notice?
"Innalillahi wa inna ilaihir rajiun," he said aloud.
He told her he hated her, but a few minutes later, there was nothing he wanted to see in this world more than her. There was nothing he loved more than her, and nothing he hated more.
Is that even possible?
Her 🧕🏻
I tried to place my thumb on the ignition, but I couldn't because my hands were shaking. I held one hand with the other to give it support, but both kept trembling. So I brought them together and clutched them to my chest, taking three deep breaths through my nose and exhaling through my mouth to calm my nerves enough to drive home. I knew that driving in the state I was in would spell trouble—and not small trouble either. But part of me didn't care about the trouble; a percentage of that part even hoped for an accident. Yet, I knew that if an accident happened due to my own negligence or self-pity, I would answer to my Lord, because He gave me life and He alone has the right to take it back.
I attempted to start the car again. It came to life, I put it in drive, and headed out of the school. In my mind, I convinced myself that this would be the last time I'd ever see the school, just as I had taken my last look at Muhammad today. Absentmindedly, I drove slowly like someone entering a room, not caring about the motorists honking furiously behind me. Many of them, tired of honking, maneuvered around and sped past me, shooting ugly glares at my direction—glares that didn't bother me in the least. Right now, salvation was all that mattered to me.
Along the way, I saw the restaurant where I took Muhammad for his last birthday—the day that tore us apart forever. I remembered what he had told me back then:
"Next year won't come around, Piya in sha Allah, without you being in my house."
I smiled, believing it. "Insha Allah."
He opened his eyes wide. "Really? Do you really mean you're done playing hard to get?"
I closed and opened my eyes, tilting my head as I looked at him. "My thread looked like it was about to snap. Besides, I realized you can't live without me."
He said, "Exactly. I can't live without you."
I pulled my gaze away from the restaurant, trying to banish the memory of that day from my mind. If I kept thinking about it, I wouldn't make it home alive; someone else might have to drive my corpse back.
As I arrived at the front gate, even before I could honk, the gateman opened it. I knew he greeted me, but I didn't hear what he said; I just nodded and drove inside. My only prayer at that moment was that I wouldn't run into anyone until I reached my room. I didn't want to see anyone right then, and I didn't want anyone to see me in the state I was in because I hated answering questions.
But my prayer went unanswered. As I parked, I saw Yaya Mustapha parking close by too. I closed my eyes. "Ya Salam, not him, not now please God." But that prayer failed too, because as he stepped out of his car, he walked straight toward my window. Standing outside through the tinted glass, he adjusted his cap and shirt collar, then knocked on the glass. I closed my eyes and rested my head against the car seat. "Ya Rabbi," I whispered, "Ya Rabbi, give me strength," before turning off the car, opening the door, and stepping out quickly.
"Fiyya," he called out, trying to catch my eye. "Where did you go? Daddy turned the house upside down looking for you." Then he fell silent, staring closely at my face. "Are you okay? Are you crying?"
His question made me touch my face and look at my hand. Even I hadn't realized I was crying until that moment, only to understand I had been weeping all the way from school. I didn't say anything to him; I walked past him, feeling his eyes burning into my back all the way inside.
"God please... Allah dan Allah... please Allah, let it not be him. I cannot take it if it is."
I paused briefly by the doorway, scanning the parlor and figuring out which route to take to avoid running into anyone—though there weren't many people in the house since we had just arrived home yesterday and were scheduled to travel again tomorrow. There were hardly any domestic staff around since we didn't live here permanently.
I saw no one, so I started walking slowly, making sure not to make a sound as I approached the stairs. That was when I heard Esther's voice: "Madam? Are you okay?"
I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to wipe away the tears streaming down my face, but as I wiped them, new ones took their place. Without turning to look at her, I spoke in a voice that didn't sound like mine: "I am fine. Don't let anyone enter my room." With that, I continued climbing upstairs, hearing her trail off with something I didn't catch.
Reaching my room, I pushed the door open, threw the lock, and leaned against the door. Slowly, I slid down to the floor, resting my forehead on my knees. That was all I had wanted since earlier—seclusion where I could cry my heart out without anyone speaking to me.
Just then, my phone rang. It was the special ringtone I assigned to Gidado, a tune that always filled my heart with joy because of the excitement of hearing his voice. I picked up the phone and stared at the name blinking on the screen: "Pyar❤️"
A fresh wave of tears hit me. "Oh God, Muhammad," I said aloud. "May Allah look upon your servant and grant you relief." I remembered the harsh words he hurled at me earlier in his office, yet just minutes later, he was trying to call me. It wouldn't be easy for him. It wouldn't be easy for me either.
When the call ended, I searched for the block button and tapped it for his number—something I never thought I could do in my life. But I knew his persistence; he wouldn't stop calling, which meant I might eventually answer, and if I did, everything would fall apart.
Yet, the moment I pulled my hand back, his call came through again on my other line. I let it ring out too, then blocked him there as well.
All I could picture in my mind was Gidado's face as I left him in his office earlier. I had never in my life seen someone look so broken. And why wouldn't he? I betrayed him beyond measure, hurt him beyond description, and I knew he would never forgive me.
Yet in my view, this was the right thing. It would be best for him in the end; he would heal with time because I had never heard of anyone failing to recover from heartbreak. He would find someone, marry, and have children just as he dreamed, and life would go on while I faced my demons alone.
I touched my belly, the root cause of everything. In my heart, I wished I could tell Gidado the truth, wishing he could know the truth about the pregnancy. Maybe it would ease his suffering for a tiny moment, but it would torment him for the rest of his life. And I was seeking the simplest way out for him.
A knock sounded at the door. I didn't speak because I knew my voice wouldn't come out. Another knock followed immediately alongside a voice—Safina's: "Fiyya, I know you're in there. Daddy has been looking for you forever."
I shook my head. "Daddy, my Daddy," I whispered, then quickly stood up and unlocked the door. The suddenness of my movement, combined with my exhausted state, made dizziness overwhelm me. Safina, standing at the doorway, quickly caught me. "Fiyya? Are you alright? What happened again?"
I said nothing, pushed her hand off my body, and started walking quickly toward Daddy's wing. Safina followed right behind me, chattering away. "I'm talking to you, Safiyya. At least stop and listen to what I'm saying. What is wrong with you? I know you're going through something, and I sympathize with you, but that doesn't give you the right to be rude to us. Earlier, Yaya Mustapha even told Mommy that he spoke to you and you ignored him. Least of all..."
She kept talking while I stared at the framed photo collages lining Daddy's stairwell—pictures representing segments of his companies, his businesses.
Just as we reached the door to Daddy's wing, I spun around quickly and snapped, "What exactly do you want, Safina?"
She stopped, looking at me in shock, then retorted, "I tried to help you. We, your family, are always trying to help you because we love you. At least a thank you would be..."
"Thank you," I cut her off, opened the door, stepped inside, and shut it behind me.
The moment I entered the parlor, my eyes locked onto his. Only God knows how long he had been sitting there staring at the door, waiting for me to walk in. Deep distress was written all over his face. He looked at me, then down at my stomach. That look alone was enough to make a broken soul burst into tears.
Mommy was sitting next to him, her face equally etched with worry.
"I'm sorry, Daddy," I said, lowering my gaze to stare at my toes.
"You're sorry?" he repeated in a voice that laid bare his frail health.
The dizziness that hadn't completely left me struck again. I saw him attempt to stand up hurriedly toward me, but Mommy quickly held him back down and hurried over to me instead. She pulled me into a hug and started scolding me: "Look at what you're doing? You're going to bring trouble upon yourself and your father too. Safina, what do you want to become, Sa'adatu?"
Then she paused, examining my face closely. "What happened to you, Safiyya? What kind of crying is this?"
I saw Daddy trying to get up once more. I quickly pulled away from Mommy and rushed over to kneel before him. He sat back down, gazing at my face which, even without a mirror, I knew was swollen and heavy.
He let out a heavy sigh. "What am I going to do with you, Safiyya?"
I lowered my head. "What on earth am I going to do with you?" he asked no one in particular.
I didn't answer because he wasn't asking me directly. Even if he were, I had no answers to give him. Mommy came back and sat down beside him. Then I saw him turn to look toward his side, and I turned too to see what he was gazing at.
It was her picture. She looked extremely beautiful, smiling as if she were about to answer to the name Safiyya.
Summary
This Hausa literary excerpt follows Safiyya (Piya), a young woman grappling with the devastating aftermath of a shattered romance. In the opening scenes, the narrative alternates between poignant memories of her deep, playful love with Gidado—where she effortlessly finished his sentences and playfully teased him—and the agonizing present where she must break his heart.
The emotional turning point reveals a crushing twist: Safiyya, despite planning a future, building a life, and professing deep love with Gidado, arrives at his office carrying another man's child, confessing that she has been married for years. Gidado is left utterly shattered, grappling with intense psychological pain and betrayal. Meanwhile, Safiyya returns home in a state of emotional turmoil, ignoring her family (including her brother Mustapha and sister Safina) as she retreats into isolation. The excerpt closes with Safiyya facing her anxious parents, Daddy and Mommy, where the weight of her deceit and the stark reminder of her namesake—another picture in the room—hang heavily in the air.
Analytics and Description
- Narrative Structure: Dual-timeline framing juxtaposing warm, intimate flashback dialogue against the cold, stark reality of betrayal and immediate fallout.
- Character Dynamics:
- Safiyya (Piya): Complex and conflicted; she acts out of a forced, hidden obligation (implied arranged/secret marriage) while harboring deep love for Gidado, making her both the perpetrator of pain and a tragic figure burdened by her choices.
- Gidado: Portrayed as deeply devoted, intellectually and emotionally synchronized with Piya, whose sudden destruction breaks his psyche entirely.
- Thematic Elements: Heartbreak (breakfast in modern social media slang), familial duty versus personal choice, guilt, and the devastating permanence of secrets.
- Tone: Melancholic, intense, reflective, and deeply emotional.
Comments on Keywords
- Safiyya / Piya: The central protagonist whose dual names reflect her dual worlds—the formal/family identity and the intimate moniker used by her true love.
- Gidado / Pyar: The tragic romantic lead whose nickname ("Pyar," meaning love) emphasizes the deep emotional bond shared with Piya before the devastating revelation.
- Soulmate: A recurring thematic keyword highlighting how deeply integrated their minds were (finishing each other's sentences), making the eventual fracture feel unnatural and catastrophic.
- Breakfast: A slang term referenced in the text used on social media to describe heartbreak, which the narrative subverts by showing its literal, soul-crushing agony rather than treating it casually.
