Waya San Gobe Book Complete Safiyya Huguma

Description

Vast and lush, the forest stretched as far as the eye could see, abundantly rich in green vegetation and plants of all shapes and sizes—tall and short, wild leafy greens, and various flora that the Creator brought into existence. Some of these plants were unknown to humankind, while others served as powerful medicine and healing armor for the human body.
The vibrant emerald hue of the landscape and the density of the vegetation made it immediately obvious that it was the peak of the rainy season—the damina. Despite being a place overflowing with natural grace and blessings—blessings that made it nearly impossible to find any dry or arid patch—this very fertility attracted the Fulani people. They erected their thatched huts and established a massive nomadic settlement (ruga) because the environment perfectly suited their desires and the needs of their livestock. In fact, the needs of their animals came far above their own.
It was late afternoon, just moments away from the call to Maghrib prayer. It was the hour when every herdsman attempted to guide their livestock back home into enclosures before the fall of night. Emerging from the depths of the forest came diverse groups of cattle, occasionally mixed with sheep and goats, making their way toward the settlement they called home. Each group was tended by handlers—ranging from two to five individuals at most—mostly males, with only a scattering of women among them.
Slowly, the animals filed past toward their respective quarters. Just as it seemed the procession had ended, another distinct herd slowly emerged.
They were breathtakingly beautiful cattle, sheep, and countless goats that instantly caught the eye. This radiance was purely the result of how well-fed and clean the herd was, their coats gleaming against the sand. Almost every animal among them was pure white, save for a few marked with earthy brown stripes. Yet, the real sight to behold was not the cattle, but the stunning young maiden walking on the left-central side, gently steering them. At first glance, you would assume multiple people were managing the herd, but upon closer inspection, you realized she was entirely alone, armed with just a single wooden staff.
Possessing a unique and striking beauty—the kind native to the Fulani, reminiscent of someone of mixed heritage—Maimunatu possessed a rare allure that forced any stranger who caught sight of her to waste time just staring. Yet... despite this beauty, not a single person walked back home with her. Nearly everyone else had driven their livestock ahead and left her behind. Not one soul in the groups ahead looked back to check on her well-being or intended to help her reach home sooner.
She didn't let this bother her, though. Even though she suffered through it, it had become second nature; she was completely used to the routine. Instead of the traditional white woven cloth (saqi) worn by most Fulani women, she was dressed in a dark black woven wrapper. The garments clung to her tightly—far more tightly than customary for Fulani attire. Even with the dark inner yard material she wore underneath, nothing could hide the contours of her blossoming bosom, partially covered by a yellowish-black headscarf draped across her chest. Though thin and flimsy—resembling a tea strainer in texture—and short enough to barely reach her hips, she had used it since it was large and thick, and to this day, she couldn't part with it because of the profound history it held for her and her entire life.
Her waist-wrap was equally taut, and her head was crowned with the traditional woven palm-frond hat (malafare) favored by the Fulani to shield against the scorching sun or sudden rain. This hat exposed the long braids of her old hairstyle—known to the Hausa as DOKA and to her people as BIƊEJI (having a central crest). The long strands cascaded down both sides of her face and back, enhancing her gorgeous features and displaying her authentic heritage.
Her ears bore no earrings because she owned none and didn't wear them. However, her wrists were heavily stacked with bright green and red stones—the classic bead bracelets known to her culture. They ran up both arms in great numbers; some were even older than she was, yet they were things she could not part with, feeling them to be as essential as her own breath.
At her waist hung a tightly sealed calabash water gourd—the single item she was permitted to take with her to the grazing grounds. On her feet were closed rubber shoes, a staple for any Fulani traversing thorny forests. Though old, they were meticulously cared for and gleamed a stark white against her attire.
With immense grit and resilience, she flicked her staff, guiding the animals back onto the path. Despite the fact that her stomach was hollow with a gnawing hunger that felt as though it might tear her entrails apart, she handled the staff with supreme care. Not once did she wish to strike any of the animals; it was practically her code. She never beat them. Instead, every command she uttered was met with obedience, creating an astonishing bond between them. When she spoke to them sometimes, you would think she was talking to human siblings.
She often forgot they weren't human like her, frequently feeling that they were far better than the people surrounding her in her daily life. When she was with them, her worries melted away, and she viewed them as her true kin.
Slowly and resiliently, she drove them onward toward the path leading home.
After a moderately long walk, Ummaru’s ruga came into view—a sprawling settlement dotted with numerous thatched huts, alongside newly constructed mud-brick and reed walls serving as fences.
She bypassed the dwellings belonging to others, and within moments, they arrived at the haggo (the livestock enclosure). She glanced around the open compound. No particular woman was waiting to be notified of her return, which was a strict rule. Violating or ignoring this protocol meant inviting days of distress and anxiety, and if luck wasn’t on her side, enduring days of being addressed by the single name she despised above all else in the world.
"Miwarti Inna!" she shouted at the top of her natural voice, calling out to Inna to announce her return. Yet, despite the sweet melody of her voice, there was no echo or answering call to carry her message where it needed to go.
"Inna Miwarti!" she called out again, but it seemed they were nowhere close enough to hear her.
She cast her gaze aside. A young boy of about eight was playing nearby, looking utterly disheveled—like someone dragged straight from a refugee camp. She shook her head, wanting to say something to him, but fearing it would only make matters worse. She had no choice but to send him to call Inna.
"Laulo, call Inna," she said.
The boy raised his head, wrinkling his dust-streaked face.
"Owalad'o (She's not here)," he snapped back defiantly, instantly returning to his play.
She lifted her eyes to the heavy, gathering storm clouds that threatened to pour down rain at any second. She loathed this kind of weather—arriving home exhausted, thirsty, and starving, only to face the ordeal of securing the animals, reporting to Inna, and retreating inside with no guarantee of rest for a body that had spent all day trudging across the wilderness. Inna undoubtedly did this to her on purpose. She stepped back, leaned against a wooden post, and kept her eyes on the sky, her heart filled with a silent prayer for Inna’s immediate return.
She stood in a state of jittery anxiety. Although she lacked extensive formal education, she knew that lingering around animal enclosures during a storm was dangerous, and their culture emphasized extreme caution during such times.
Lost deep in thought, she didn't notice Laulo slip away, nor did she realize the storm clouds had fully converged, whipping up a fierce wind carrying dust. Just as the dust swept past her eyes and the first drops of rain began to fall, her eyes caught sight of the animals scattering across the compound.
She sprang up instantly, gripped by a double fear: the rain pelting her skin—which she desperately tried to avoid—and the scattering animals that meant she had to start all over again to herd them together.
Just as she stood up, a tall, statuesque woman emerged—a purebred Fulani woman dressed in pristine white woven garments, her head draped in a vibrant green shawl. Moving in a hurried manner, clearly trying to escape the rain, she stopped in her tracks.
"Maimunatu!" she snapped, halting as she spotted her amid the animals in the fading twilight swallowed by the storm and approaching night.
"Yes, Inna."
"Wicked girl! Because I wasn't around, you let the livestock go to waste... Seto me wanna nima ɓerde (I am going to upset you)! Go catch them and lock them away!" With that, she turned and marched toward their quarters as the rain intensified.
That was what broke Maimunatu's heart. She had already resigned herself to the fact that tonight would bring no sleep if the rain touched her skin; her body reacted to rain with a raging, punishing fever. Yet Inna walked away without a care in the world, solely focused on protecting her property.
Despite the driving rain, Maimunatu began rounding them up, securing one cow while searching for its calf born the previous week. Her foot slipped on the slick mud, sending her sliding with her eyes closed, bracing for impact. But instead of hitting the ground, something checked her fall right in front of her feet, prompting her to snap her eyes open. As she blinked away the rainwater plastered across her eyelashes and brows, her face illuminated by a flash of lightning, revealing an arresting, glowing beauty.
If her eyes weren't deceiving her, a young man stood right before her, holding an umbrella and a high-powered flashlight.
She quickly recoiled in absolute terror. In all her time growing up in the ruga, she had never seen this face, and it was nearly impossible for a native of the settlement to be completely unknown to her.
"Hold on," he said in a firm yet gentle voice, which instantly calmed her nerves. The way she looked at him showed she wasn't entirely convinced.
"What are you doing out here in the rain at the haggo?"
She lowered her gaze. The flash of lightning illuminated his face clearly, and she desperately wanted to recognize him.
"I'm tying up the livestock."
He looked as though he wanted to speak, but instead, he placed his umbrella aside, hooked his flashlight onto his clothing, and began helping her catch and tie up the remaining animals.
She froze, watching him in disbelief before slowly stepping forward to join him. Side by side, they worked. From time to time, she stole glances at him, just as he glanced back at her. She could hardly believe her eyes—someone in the ruga actually stepping up to help her? She couldn't remember the last time that had happened. Unaccustomed to such kindness, she remained wary until they finished. He retrieved his umbrella and closed it, as its shelter was no longer needed.
"Thank you," she whispered softly, wiping the water from her face.
He looked at her and smiled. The aura of gentleness and peace he sensed in her captivated him for a brief moment.
"Don't worry about it. It's nothing."
She nodded, then turned toward the compound, pulling her shivering body inward as the biting cold began to seep through her bones. He watched her retreat into the darkness until she vanished from sight, releasing a sigh as he turned his focus back to the path. His mind buzzed with thoughts of her. In all his time in the ruga, he had never noticed her, nor had he ever laid eyes on a woman possessing such quiet, exquisite grace. Who on earth is she?
With those thoughts, he reached the door of a house—the only compound in the area built with a mix of mud brick and modern blocks.
The large courtyard was completely deserted due to the rain. He glanced at the row of doors, heading toward one before pausing and redirecting to the adjacent room. He touched the lock; it was locked. He needed to get the key. Moving quickly, he headed to another room, lifting the protective straw mat shielding the doorway from the rain.
A wave of warmth hit his face, and the bright glow of a kerosene lamp filled his eyes. Two young women and a young boy were seated around the lamp, eating bowls of tuwo. Their mother sat nearby, wrapped in a thick shawl against the chill.
"Noi saare, Daada."
"Jam... Alhamdulillahi. Where were you? I was worried the rain would beat down on you."
He smiled. "I'm going to change my clothes, Daada. Please give me the key."
His mother reached into a nearby wooden bowl where she kept her items and handed a key to one of the boys. "Nabugol (Take it)."
The boy grabbed it, hurried over to his older brother, and respectfully handed it over, saying, "Hamma..."
"I'll change my clothes, Sadam. I'll be right back."
"Okay," the boy replied with a smile, eager to share the news burning on his tongue. The young man turned and walked back out, heading toward his intended room.
Maimunatu did not rush to reach their hut because she was already thoroughly soaked, and she knew her only resting place would be right by the entrance. They shared the hut, but it practically belonged entirely to her foster sister, Gaje.
With cautious care, she lifted the straw mat of the hut. The dim glow of their lamp revealed Gaje sitting cross-legged, a medium-sized bowl of dambu before her—their staple meal. Rice was a rare luxury for them.
Gaje cast a sharp, venomous look at her, like someone looking at a pile of filth. "Dirdutu, teacher (Move aside, teacher)!"
Maimunatu knew Gaje was simply looking for a fight, even though she was standing nowhere near Gaje's space. To keep the peace, she stepped aside and reached into an old black sleeping bag hanging by the wall. To Maimunatu, that bag held the value of a grand chest. Though weathered by hardship, it held all her worldly possessions: a single set of clean woven clothes saved exclusively for prayers or special occasions. Though she rarely mingled, her life was shackled to a dark shadow that stripped away her freedom and joy—a crime she knew nothing about and had no part in committing.
She stripped off her wet clothes, wrung them out near the entrance of the hut, and wrapped herself in a spare wrapper. Cupping water collected from the dripping eaves, she performed ablution and stepped inside to establish her prayers.
Maghrib was the only prayer on her mind. Even while herding, she never missed her prayers. Though lacking deep Islamic scholarship, her mother had taught her how to pray right on time before she passed. It was a habit she held onto with fierce devotion, blessed with a sharp memory that rarely forgot.
She struggled through the prayer due to a gnawing, agonizing hunger. Glancing over at Gaje's bowl, she saw it had been wiped completely clean. Not even two bites remained. Did this mean she had no dinner tonight despite the starving void in her stomach? She couldn't fathom this logic. Inna always prepared food for both of them, yet Gaje ate like she had been born with a bottomless pit, devouring everything in sight. Maimunatu, on the other hand, could barely eat much even when starving, often settling for just a cup of milk or local yogurt if available. Whenever food was prepared for them, Gaje invariably ate almost all of it before remembering her. Though Gaje often left leftovers, tonight bad luck had struck, leaving Maimunatu with nothing.
At about the same age as Gaje—in fact, slightly older—Maimunatu felt the unfairness sharply.
"Gaje, didn't you leave any for me?"
"If you have any, add some more to mine," Gaje snapped back, sucking her fingers, shoving the empty bowl away with her foot, and letting out a loud burp.
Maimunatu lowered her bright, glistening eyes from Gaje. Her small, reddish lips parted as if to speak, but words failed her. Pure rage simmered in her chest, though she dared not voice it. She knew she wouldn't close her eyes in sleep tonight without putting something in her stomach, especially with exhaustion creeping into her bones and a mild fever setting in.
She rose abruptly, peeking out the small window of the hut. The rain had slowed to a steady, lighter drizzle. She lifted the flap and stepped back outside.
With a pounding heart, she walked up to Inna's hut and knocked. Silence. She knocked again.
"Who is it?!" a harsh voice snapped from inside.
"It's... it's me, Inna."
Thinking Inna wouldn't emerge, she heard movement. The curtain lifted, and Inna stepped out, glaring down at her from head to toe.
"What is it now?"
Maimunatu lowered her head. "I'm hungry, Inna."
"So you came to eat me?" Inna shot back, causing Maimunatu to quickly lift her head and shake it. "No, Inna."
"Then what? Didn't you know I prepared food for you and Gaje?"
"She ate it all, Inna."
"You stood there and watched her finish it? Well, there is no more food in this house. Go lie down like that and eat tomorrow."
"No, that won't do," a voice interrupted from behind them.
Maimunatu instinctively stepped aside. Even without turning, she knew who it was—the only person who looked at her with eyes of mercy. He walked up to them, still wearing his rain gear, clearly just returning home.
Maimunatu quickly reached out to take his damp gear, offering a soft welcome. Inna shot her a furious glare, but Maimunatu ignored her; she couldn't just stand by and watch him hold wet items without helping.
"How can someone sleep on an empty stomach? Scoops some of mine for her..."

Summary

The excerpt introduces Maimunatu, a beautiful young Fulani maiden living a harsh nomadic life in a lush, rain-soaked forest. Despite her stunning looks and diligent hard work herding cattle alone, she is neglected and mistrusted by her community, notably burdened by an unexplained past stigma and mistreated by Inna and her selfish foster sister, Gaje. Returning late from a grueling day in the rain, Maimunatu faces a starving night with no food left. However, a mysterious, kind-hearted young man from the settlement breaks protocol to help her secure the livestock during the storm, and later intervenes on her behalf when she begs Inna for food, offering her a portion of his own meal.

Description

• Setting: A vast, fertile Fulani nomadic settlement (ruga) surrounded by a dense, rain-drenched forest during the peak of the rainy season (damina).
• Tone: Melancholic, atmospheric, resilient, and romantic, highlighting themes of hardship, social isolation, quiet endurance, and unexpected compassion.
• Key Characters:
  • Maimunatu: A resilient, strikingly beautiful, yet deeply marginalized young Fulani woman who endures grueling labor, emotional isolation, and hunger without complaint.
  • Inna: A harsh, strict guardian figure who shows favoritism and cruelty toward Maimunatu.
  • Gaje: Maimunatu’s selfish foster sister who hoards and devours their shared meals.
  • The Young Man: A compassionate, observant young man of the settlement who breaks the mold of indifference by helping Maimunatu in the rain and defending her right to food.