Sara Da Sassaka Book 1 Compelet Ayshacool

Description

The Gathering Storm

On the 15th of August, a heavy storm gathered in the sky. Nothing could be seen except the relentless, blinding flashes of lightning. Similarly, nothing could be heard over the continuous, deafening roar of the thunder.
He held the young boy’s hand with one hand, while his other hand carried their belongings. They hurried through a dense field of tall stalks of grain; it was the middle of the rainy season, and the crops had grown beautifully.
The boy could barely lift his feet, despite the urgent pace of the man pulling him along. With a heavy weight in his chest that threatened to steal his breath, the boy followed the man, feeling completely detached from himself. Slowly, a light drizzle began to fall just as a flash of lightning illuminated a fractured, rugged path filled with gullies and potholes.
The man looked at the boy. His heart ached with a burning pain that rose to his throat, feeling as though it would tear him apart. He pulled to a stop.
Weakly, he looked at the boy and said, "Be patient. Now that I have brought you out to the road, hurry and leave this town. Don't let dawn catch you here, or they will overtake you. You heard what they said with your own ears. If Allah decrees our paths cross again, we shall meet."
He pressed the bundle of clothes into the boy's hands, then reached into his pocket, pulled out some money, and handed it over.
"Take this. Hurry and keep moving. If you find a place to shelter, hide so the rain doesn't beat you down."
From the moment the man started speaking, the boy's eyes traced his face by the flashes of lightning.
With a heavy heart, the boy said, "Go quickly, so they don't catch you." Without another word, the boy turned and began walking. He took no more than five steps before stopping to look back. He saw the man heading back toward the village. The boy stood and stared at him just as the sky opened up, and a torrential downpour began to drench him.
"I will return. I will surely return. Tomorrow, the day after, or the day after that? I do not know, but I know I will return," he muttered, swallowing a bitter, aching lump in his throat.
The town was dead silent. Nothing moved except the patrolling vehicles of the security forces. The streets were completely deserted due to the state of emergency declared to prevent riots just as the final presidential election results were about to be announced. Most people stayed indoors—some huddled around radios, others on their phones or televisions, and some with calculators, tallying up the votes of their preferred candidates, waiting for the official announcement from the independent electoral commission.
He was a 68-year-old elder, though a life of comfort and luxury had hidden his age, making him look barely fifty. He stood staring at three portraits hanging in the massive room: the President, the Governor, and the local Emir. Behind him sat several elderly men of his own age, silent, waiting for him to speak.
He turned slowly, sizing them up one by one. Clearing his throat slightly, he said, "He has truly crossed the boundaries we set for him, completely forgetting that we were the ones who placed him in power. We only gave him the vehicle, but the steering wheel remains in our hands. Therefore, we will steer both the vehicle and its passengers wherever we want. Even if it means total ruin, as long as our political calculations align, that is all that matters."
"That is the truth," they answered respectfully.
"We will create something that will deny him a peaceful reign. We will pick up right where we left off last time. We will mix chaos with confusion. We will place so much pressure on him that his entire focus will shift toward trying to restore stability, right when we tighten the screws on him."
One of the men asked, "But how exactly, Your Excellency?"
The man's face darkened further as he replied, "By using security to instill absolute terror!"

THE BEGINNING...

Proverbially, it is said that the root is the source of the forest, and whoever leaves their home has abandoned their sanctuary. Every creature takes pride in its origins, but our own roots were built on a dark ideology. We opened our eyes to find our parents and ancestors practicing it, without ever knowing how it truly began—only hearing vague rumors passed down in stories.
Until the end of time, the projection of what happened will never leave the canvas of my heart. Likewise, my heart will never cease to ache and cause my eyes to shed tears, all due to inheriting a legacy of animosity passed down from our ancestors to us—leaving us with nothing to do but count our losses.
Our village is located in a remote region within a northern state of our country, where three to four ethnic groups lived together. Each group possessed a specific trade they excelled in.
However, living together did not bring us peace. One of the three tribes outnumbered and overpowered us, treating us like their servants. The other tribes were forced out of the center of Yelwa town by brute force, leaving the town entirely to settle a short distance away to establish their own villages. This left only two ethnic groups inside the town.
Let me cut a long story short so as not to weary you; the story I want to tell you began at a specific time.
The rainy season is the mother of blessings, as the old saying goes, being a time when the community benefits from the abundance of blessings it carries. The atmosphere of the town changed with a cool, calming breeze. Green trees offered a beautiful sight for the eyes and food for both domestic and wild animals. The rivers swelled, providing plenty of water for people and livestock. Above all, it was time for the age-old trade that everyone meets in this world: farming, carried out to provide food. The hearts of both herders and farmers filled with joy as the rainy season fully set in.
Abruptly, I stopped and lifted my head, watching the sky turn dark as the storm rumbled. If it rained, it would be the first downpour of this season.
Despite my love for the rainy season, the depths of my heart were filled with anxiety and dread. Because whenever the rainy season set in, it felt like the awakening of an old feud and the return of the horrific violence between the remaining two tribes living in Yelwa village. As the sky grew darker, terror and a deep apprehension increasingly consumed every corner of my heart.
I watched my father pacing back and forth in the courtyard, speaking to our mother, but I could read distress and restlessness in his voice.
"This is really strange. Where could Iro have gone at this late hour? Especially during the rainy season. For God's sake, even if he went out wandering, he should have left it until tomorrow. How long has it even been since he returned, for him to go this far? Mairo, give me my cap let me look around, perhaps Allah will guide me to him," he said worriedly.
Our mother replied with an assent, handed him his cap, and he stepped out.
For reasons I couldn't explain, a cold numbness washed over me, and I felt as though my legs could no longer support me. My heart pounded with an intense, nameless dread.
Step by step, I recalled what had happened.
It had been just two days since Iro returned from grazing the cattle, having spent four months away from the village with our livestock.
I was returning from the river, rehearsing a long-held thought in my mind, wondering how to achieve the dream I lived and breathed every day. Just then, I caught sight of a beautiful smile on his handsome face. Not wanting to be outdone, I returned the smile and said, "Look at you all dressed up! Where are you headed?"
He adjusted his posture and said, "Did you send me on an errand?"
I shook my head and said, "I just feel like we haven't even seen enough of you since you got back, and now you're going out. Or are you going courting?" I finished, lowering my voice.
He playfully chided me and said, "Go on inside the house. When I get back, I have plenty of stories to tell you. And please take care of that young heifer; signs show she's close to giving birth."
I nodded and said, "See you when you get back. I'll be waiting for those stories. You know wherever there's a story, I'm there, and I never tire of listening, no matter how small. There's a lesson in every story."
From the moment he left until now—it was nearly 11:30 PM—he had not returned.
Baffa’s greeting cut through my thoughts, but my heart skipped a beat when I saw him walk in alone, without Iro.
Before Baffa could even utter a word, my heart rate spiked, and what he actually said nearly choked the breath out of me.
"I've been everywhere I thought I could find him, but he's nowhere to be seen."
Inna placed her hands on her head and cried, "Innalillahi wa inna ilaihi raji'un! Where could that boy have gone? Iro has never done anything like this before."
As for me, I stood rooted to the spot like a plant. It felt as though even his own parents weren't as terrified and panicked as I was.
Gradually, my ears began to pick up a faint, distant commotion. I looked at Baffa and Inna to see if they heard it, but they showed no sign of noticing.
A moment later, Baffa paused, listening closely. "It sounds like a commotion out there."
I quickly replied, "I hear it too."
As the noise drew closer, Baffa hurried outside. Without waiting, both Inna and I rushed after him, flashlights in hand.
We saw a crowd of people carrying flashlights and sticks, making a massive uproar.
Before we could even process it, Baffa rushed forward and pushed his way into the crowd.
An overwhelming, desperate urge to know what was happening drove me forward. Running without a second thought, I also forced my way through to see what was going on.
But before my eyes could take in the scene, the sound of Baffa screaming prayers of distress pierced my ears over the shouting of the crowd. This coincided with the sight of our Iro lying on the ground, covered in blood and caked in mud, bleeding profusely.
I dropped to my knees, my body shaking violently.
Baffa held onto Iro, bursting into tears, asking, "What did he do to you? What could Iro have possibly done to you right after his return, Saleh?"
Without any regard for Baffa's grey hair, Saleh flashed his light on him and scoffed, "Oh, so you're even asking questions? This is the judgment we pass on anyone who thinks his status has risen high enough to touch our family. You boys, drag him along the ground and tie him to that tree so he serves as a warning to anyone who fails to restrain his lust around the daughters of the farmers!"
My heart dropped heavily. What did Saleh mean? What could my Iro have done to deserve such humiliation?
Summoning fierce desperation, I lunged forward and clung to Iro’s body—unsure if there was even a spark of life left in him—weeping bitterly, unable to utter a word.
Saleh shone his flashlight on me as well. Reaching down, he violently yanked me away from Iro's body, throwing me to one side. He shoved Baffa aside and dragged Iro along the ground. The rest of the youths followed him, some kicking Iro, others striking him with their sticks.
Our neighbors came out, pleading with Saleh to have patience, to talk things through and find out exactly what Iro had done. But Saleh threatened that anyone who spoke to him again would face the same treatment.
I got up and ran toward them again, sobbing uncontrollably, but none of the youths paid attention to our screams and pleas. I was held back to prevent Saleh from hurting me. We watched helplessly as they tied Iro to the trunk of a neem tree.
With an air of supreme authority, Saleh commanded, "Go to their house and untie all the cattle in their stable. It will serve as compensation for what he did to us. And wallahi, anyone who unties him from this tree will answer to me. Furthermore, I am declaring and emphasizing to you all: this punishment will befall anyone who commits the kind of crime Iro committed. We caught him attempting to violate one of our girls on the outskirts of town, so let this be a lesson to anyone intending to commit such an atrocity."
I felt completely faint hearing the words that came out of Saleh's mouth. Even if I swore an oath, I knew I wouldn't need to perform penance for it—he was lying against our Iro.
Our mother had already fainted by then. We watched helplessly as they drove our cattle away, walked into our house, turned everything upside down, and left, leaving Iro tied to that tree.
I cried, I wailed, I tried to go to where my brother was, but I was blocked and restrained for fear of what might happen if I went to him.
Then, a heavy downpour unleashed from the sky. We spent a night of profound grief and misery, our hearts and those of our loved ones filled with a sorrow so deep that words could never express its heavy burden.
At the very first break of dawn, we went out. There was no sign of life left in Iro's body.
Even as the sun rose and hit the sky, no one dared to go near where Iro was, out of fear of what might happen. Just as we had seen since we were young, we found our parents living in this constant terror, shackled by it, mistreated whenever their oppressors pleased—and they gave birth to us only for us to grow up facing the same fate.
It wasn't until the sun was high in the sky that Saleh arrived with his crew, carrying wicked-looking clubs.
They untied Iro, and the way his body hit the ground with a heavy thud confirmed our worst fears—there was no life left in him.
"Follow us to the outskirts of town and bury this filthy corpse of your son. A rapist will not receive funeral prayers in our town. Go dig a hole and bury him out there in the bush by yourself. This is an unclean corpse; it doesn't deserve a proper shroud."
Despite the silent resolve and plans I had harbored in my heart since growing up and gaining my independence, today I set my pride aside. I stepped out in front of everyone and dropped to my knees, weeping and pleading before Saleh. My voice trembled as I said, "Look at the majesty of Allah and have mercy. Let him be shrouded and buried according to the tenets of the religion. Whatever crime he committed, he is still a Muslim, for God's sake!"
He stared down at me for a long moment, then burst into a wild, maniacal laugh completely devoid of an ounce of humanity. "Granddaughter of herders, have you finally broken? Have you already forgotten the vow you made against me? Today, you are on your knees before me begging for a favor? I wish I could grant you this favor, if only because you bowed to me, but alas, your brother was a sinner. And when he chose to act out his wicked nature, he didn't try it on just anyone—he targeted our family. Therefore, this is exactly what your family deserves."
While I wept, they marched Baffa off entirely alone, dragging Iro's corpse along the ground as they headed deep into the forest.
Out of the entire crowd of people gathered there, there wasn't a single person with enough authority or courage to stand up and reprimand Saleh.
My father's brothers went together to Saleh's house—his father being the leader of our entire town—but they returned utterly dejected because the father fully backed what his son had done, reiterating that Iro was caught red-handed attempting to commit a terrible crime, and that it wasn't a false accusation.
Though oppression and tyranny were nothing new in our village, this time they left a horrific wound that would remain in our hearts forever. From what I knew of my brother, he was an incredibly cautious man who avoided trouble. His mind was always focused on how to protect us and guard our dignity—especially mine, since my goat had caused trouble in the town before, putting me at odds with Saleh. Iro was always advising me, warning me to be patient with whatever Allah decreed for us, so we could live in peace and safety.
Father had intended to arrange a marriage between Iro and our uncle's daughter, Mariya, but Iro had indicated he wasn't looking to marry at the time. Because our father was a loving man who cared for his children, he dropped the matter and didn't bring it up to Iro again.
Still, I was desperately consumed by the desire to know: who was this girl they claimed he tried to violate? A man who had spent four months out of town—when did he even return to have the time to assault someone?
"Who is that girl in this town? I must find out who she is, and she will taste exactly what Iro tasted. Come life or death, my brother Iro's blood will not be spilled in vain. But who is this girl?" I asked myself again.
Ghost writer 12/7/....
She quietly let out a short hiss of frustration upon seeing where the story broke off. She scrolled up and down through the group chat, but there was no continuation.
A large crowd of Islamic school students was pouring out of the school building. Some had stopped by the roadside, trying to cross the street where vehicles were constantly passing back and forth.
She was a young girl, roughly fourteen or fifteen years old, holding her school bag. She walked alongside some other children, chatting noisily as they crossed the street, passing a young man who stood by the side. They were laughing merrily, thoroughly enjoying their conversation. She glanced back and saw him walking behind them. She didn't think much of it, continuing her chat with her friends. As they walked along, whenever they reached the corner turning into someone's house, they would say their goodbyes, until only two of them were left. Reaching a junction, she looked at her remaining friend and said, "Alright, may Allah bring us to tomorrow. Keep track of exactly where you stopped; you have to finish telling me that story. If big brother catches me reading a novel, I think he'll kill me! But whatever you do, read it, then come and tell me the rest."
The other girl laughed and said, "I read it in secret too. Only after everyone falls asleep do I dim my flashlight low to read. Greet everyone at home, and give my regards to your brother's wife."
"She will hear it, In sha Allah. Greet the babies for me." As she was about to turn into her street, she looked back and locked eyes with that young man again. He was tall, with a complexion you couldn't quite call dark, yet couldn't directly call fair either. His face bore youthful features and was covered in a thick beard. He wore a massive traditional robe (babban riga) that was completely wrinkled and unironed. He had large eyes, but they weren't white; they were bloodshot and red. For no reason at all, a sudden wave of fear gripped her. She hurried down her street, but after walking a distance, she looked back and saw him again. Terrified, she accelerated, walking so fast she felt as though she were flying. She looked back once more in fear, but this time, he was gone. She breathed a sigh of relief. Seeing the alley completely empty, she burst into a run and dashed straight into her house.
"Assalamu alaikum," she called out the greeting just as she stumbled into the courtyard.
A young woman standing there, gathering laundry from the clothesline, looked up. "Alina? You and who?"
Alina widened her eyes slightly. "I saw a man. He's been following me ever since we left the gate of our Islamic school." She spoke with visible fear on her face.
The woman paused, processing her words. "Why was he following you?"
Alina replied, "How should I know? Eventually, when I turned into this street, he stopped following me, because when I looked back, I didn't see him."
The woman smiled. "Oh Alina, maybe he just happened to be taking the same path. Or who knows, maybe you've gotten yourself a suitor who wanted to see where you live? But here you are running away like you aren't a young lady."
Alina's eyes widened further, blinking rapidly. "Oh, please spare me! Don't let big brother hear any of this. If he hears that I brought a suitor home, he'll nearly kill me. Please keep this quiet. By the way, is there any food left?"
The woman feigned a stern face. "You glutton! Shouldn't you go change out of your clothes and settle down first?"
Alina headed toward the room, smiling. "You know I have a worm in my belly; whenever I eat, it consumes it all."
"You are the worm," the woman laughed, walking into the room.
She was squatting inside the goat pen located in the middle of the large courtyard. Having swept the pen completely clean, she began catching the animals and tying them up one by one. Once finished, she poured out their feed and water.
"Well done with the chores, Ramatu," a fair-skinned elderly man said. He was sitting on a woven palm-leaf mat, a radio playing by his side.
"Baffa, for God's sake, please call me by a modern name. Ever since you came to visit me at school and called me Ramatu, everyone has been teasing me!"
He laughed and said, "Alright, Ramata."
"Oh, you're just being stubborn, Baffa! Say Rahma."
"I refuse," he said, chuckling. She walked over and sat down next to him on the mat.
"Once you've rested, I have some medicine for you to take to Talatu. They say her child has a high fever."
Ramata tilted her head. "Alright, Baffa," she said, looking down slightly.
"Ramata, I know what you're thinking. Don't worry about them. Once you deliver it, just come right back. Don't even stand around to hear what they have to say."
She nodded. "In sha Allah, Baffa. But I was wondering..."
"Wondering what?"
She composed herself and asked, "Baffa, will I be able to continue with my higher education?"
He fell silent for a moment, then looked at her. "Ramata, I would be so proud to see you attain a high level of education. Perhaps through your blessings, we might find progress and a way out of the predicament in this town. But you see how things are—they are already trying to brand us as infidels just because of the school you attended. Be patient with your suitors; find someone suitable to agree with, even if it's not right now. If it's meant to be, you might still continue your studies in the future. But I don't want too many wagging tongues criticizing me over you. Even though I know that as of right now, we have set a record in this whole area—no other girl has attained the education you have. I've entered the history books... what is it they call it on the radio, Ginis Rikol?"
Ramata burst into laughter and said, "Baffa, it's called the Guinness World Record. Don't..."