Page 01

A terrifying thunderclap struck, perfectly timed with the piercing, ear-splitting cry of a newborn baby. It was raining heavily—the kind of rain that would strike fear into the heart of any sensible person. It had been a very long time since Damaturu town had witnessed such a downpour. Darkness engulfed their hut because the lantern was on the verge of dying; its light was barely visible, serving only as a faint flicker to confirm it was even lit.
The baby's silence coincided with the sudden cessation of the rain, as if it had never happened. Slowly, the young woman drew a labored, painful breath. The family man cast his eyes toward what his wife had given birth to, equally astonished by the baby's silence. For over twenty minutes, they remained in this state without either of them uttering a word. With great difficulty, the woman shifted to check on the condition of her newborn, her heart sinking with a bittersweet throb as she saw her daughter lying lifeless beside her. Even without anyone telling her, she knew this one too had followed her siblings.
She closed her reddened eyes as hot tears streamed down her cheeks. It certainly hurt, just as it always hurt—yes, every time she gave birth to a boy or a girl and it died, but what could she do? That was her destiny. With a heavy heart, after cutting the umbilical cord, she pulled the baby’s corpse toward her and placed it on her chest. After months of carrying the pregnancy through hardship, once again, God had reclaimed His own.
The man stood up, picked up a calabash from the corner, and went outside... A piercing, body-chilling breeze blew, while a light drizzle still lingered. The atmosphere was pleasant, filled with the scent of damp earth and the croaking of frogs gathered in pools outside. Walking slowly, he approached a pond-like accumulation of water. He squatted and placed a clay pot under the flowing water, letting out a soft sigh that reflected the heavy state of his heart. However, his deep fear of God and acceptance of destiny stopped him from revealing his inner turmoil.
As if startled by something, he glanced to the side and caught sight of a wide, white object. He couldn't quite tell what it was right away. Shaking off the distraction and mentioning the name of God, he stood up with the pot of water hoisted onto his shoulder. He walked forward without looking back at the white cloth. Suddenly, he stopped dead in his tracks as his heart gave a violent thud. Slowly, he turned back to look at the edge of the pond. Drawn as if by a magnetic force, he found himself walking back toward the spot. The chill of early dawn was creeping into his bones, bringing with it a feverish shiver.
He squatted a second time, right in front of the white fabric. His heart hammered wildly against his ribs as an overwhelming dread washed over him. With his lips calmly uttering the name of God, he placed his hand on the cloth. To his utter surprise, it felt softer than any fabric he had ever touched—like cotton, yet adorned with soft fur resembling a cat's coat. With trembling hands, he opened the cloth, which could rightly be called a blanket.
Subhanallah! He staggered backward in shock at what he saw inside the blanket. In his heart, every remembrance of God rushed to his lips. For about two minutes, he stood paralyzed before summoning his inner courage. Slowly, he used both hands to lift the blanket and stood up. Being a man of strong stature, he picked up the clay pot with his other hand and continued his journey back to where he came from.
He returned to his wife just as he had left her. The baby's body still lay on her chest as she drifted deep into thought, entirely unaware that he had stepped into the hut. Noting this, he said nothing. He walked over to the corner of the mat and gently laid down the creature from the blanket, for to claim he knew what it was would be a lie. Seeing that the blanket was wet, he quickly pulled it away. Ya Ilahy! A sweet, enchanting fragrance rushed into his nostrils, instantly filling their tiny hut.
Nodding in wonder, he stood up and walked toward his wife. Despite the darkness of the hut, he could see the tracks of tears on her face. He breathed out, reached down, took the baby from her arms, and walked out of the hut. It was only then that she released a heart-wrenching, soul-crushing cry—a cry springing from the depths of her soul, reflecting intense grief. She pressed her head between her thighs and continued her sorrowful wailing.
At around 5:10 AM, he returned to the hut as daylight began to filter in. He hurried over to where he had laid the child, feeling an urgent need to check on it. His entry coincided with his wife slowly lifting her head. Her eyes had shifted in color from white to red. He raised the creature with his hands, and she rushed forward instantly. She looked at him, then down at what he held: a baby girl. Just by looking at her, you could tell she was a newborn, not even a day old.
She quickly snatched the baby, staring at her. She was remarkably fair—the kind of rare fairness rarely found among Hausa children. Despite her infancy, her natural beauty was unmistakable. Her eyes were closed, and her long eyelashes rested against her cheeks. Her tiny hands were balled into fists like any newborn's. Feeling the dampness on the baby's skin and noticing she seemed breathless, she pulled the infant tightly against her bare chest. For the first time since her delivery, she looked up at her husband and said:
"Call the river chief, Yaya Gani."
Without a word, he stood up and hurried out of the hut. She hugged the baby tighter, letting out a soft sigh as new tears tracked down her cheeks—though this time, they were tears of pure joy, even though she still didn't know where her husband had found the baby and knew it wasn't the child she had birthed.
A deep sigh of relief escaped her when she heard the baby let out a cry. Tears sprang unbidden to her eyes; she was filled with immense joy. Clenching her hands in sheer happiness, the Sarkin Ruwa (River Chief) handed the baby back to the man and said warmly, "I wish you the best, Ya Gani. May God raise her for you."
A gentle smile graced the man's lips as he replied in his rich, calm voice, "Ameen Ya Rabbil Alameen."
The Sarkin Ruwa left, and the woman hurried over, gazing at the beautiful infant. "Ya Gani, give her to me." It was only then that I realized she wasn't Hausa; her native Fulani accent rang out clearly in her speech. Though just looking at her face immediately confirmed she was a beautiful Fulani woman, dressed in traditional blue Fulani attire with coral beads hanging around her neck.
He simply smiled and handed her over. She snatched the child to her chest as if someone might snatch her away. In her broken Hausa, she asked, "Who is this? Or is it my child who has returned?"
He adjusted his seat on the mat, looked at her calmly, and stated firmly:
"IT IS NOT HER!!"
She stared at the baby's face again. Seeing the infant sleeping peacefully, she looked up at him with a trace of worry. "Then who is this? And where did you find her?"
He took a deep breath, took her hand, and gently recounted everything that had happened. He concluded, "Therefore, I have decided that we will care for her from now until the end of our lives. We will keep her as our own daughter who passed away. Truly, I am certain there is a hidden mystery surrounding this child, and only time will reveal it to us."
By the way he spoke, you could tell they didn't share the same native tongue; he spoke like the locals, specifically Kanuri, proving he was of Kanuri descent.
Gently, she replied, "Don't worry, Ya Gani. I will look after her just like my own lost daughter. I already feel so much love for her, and look—she even resembles me!"
He smiled, shaking his head at her earnest attempt to prove the baby looked like her, then stood up and walked out of the hut. She lifted the baby's face, gazing at her with boundless love, breaking into a radiant smile until sleep quietly overtook her.

Page 02: Rugar Jama'are

She knelt before him, staring intently. She was a little girl, maybe 4 to 5 years old, dressed in traditional blue Fulani attire, her hair styled into two large braids falling by the sides of her face. He watched her slowly, closing his eyes as he alone knew the intense agony he was enduring. Looking as though she might cry, she gazed at her father and said in a tiny, sweet, captivating voice, "Papi, get well soon. Please get well."
Before she finished speaking, the curtain—made of woven grass—was pushed aside. Dada entered hurriedly, raising her voice in panic:
"Baba Kura, come check on him! By God, we are in trouble! Ya Gani, be strong, God will lift this burden from your shoulders!"
The man addressed as Baba Kura rushed over, dropping to his knees before him. He reached out to touch his neck, finding his skin burning with fever. Panic instantly gripped him; terrified, he stood up and rushed out of the hut.
They watched him leave before Dada turned to the little girl with reddened eyes. "Hey, Muhaira, fetch water for him to drink!"
The little girl sprang up, picked up a small water jug, and headed for the exit. Before stepping out, she paused and glanced back at his face. To her surprise, he was looking right back at her. A tender smile touched his lips, despite how dry and cracked they were, reflecting his deep pain. Slowly, she returned his smile with a radiant one of her own. Ya Ilahy! The little girl possessed an enchanting, unearthly beauty—God had gifted her with mesmerizing features. Her eyes were a striking, glowing blue, shimmering brightly unlike the dark eyes of ordinary people.
He signaled her with his hand to come closer. She set down the jug and approached him. He gently caught her tiny hand, opened his dry mouth where saliva had nearly dried up, and whispered, "Baddon Papi!"
She quickly lifted her head to look at him as hot tears began to slide down his cheeks. Instantly, she used her free hand to wipe them away, scrunching up her face in a pout. "Papi, please stop crying!"
With a trembling hand, he stroked her cheek and nodded, his mouth too heavy for words.
Bani Kura re-entered the hut accompanied by another man, likely a traditional healer. Once seated, the healer looked at Papi, then at Muhaira sitting beside him, and said, "Baddo, run to my house and fetch me a calabash."
Muhaira jumped up and dashed out, glancing back repeatedly at their hut as she ran.
She ran at full speed, not pausing even for play, until she left their ruga (settlement). Since they lived near the town, she had to run a fair distance before reaching the doorway.
"Wundo!! Wundo!!"
Muhaira pouted, remaining silent. Ya'acca glared at her angrily. "Muhaira, you have no manners! Without greeting anyone, you just burst into people's homes like a ghost—look at the time, what kind of behavior is this?"
The girl shrank back, terrified by the outburst. With trembling lips, she stammered, "Uh... um... B-Bani Kura asked for a calabash."
Ya'acca hissed. "And that's why you have to act like a fool?"
Muhaira lowered her head in silence, trembling with fear. Ya'acca went inside, grabbed a calabash, and thrust it at her. Muhaira snatched it and sprinted back outside. Ya'acca scoffed, watching her go. "Absolute scatterbrain."
She rushed back into the hut holding the calabash. But what did she find? Bani Kura was gone. The healer was gone. Only Dada was left sitting beside him, weeping uncontrollably while Papi was covered with an old blanket.
She rushed over, kneeling before Dada. "Dadana, is Papi sleeping?"
Dada looked at her without a word. Her eyes were intensely red; even without asking, you knew she had been crying heavily. Muhaira burst into tears, rubbing her eyes. Dada just stared blankly, unable to speak. Seeing that Dada wouldn't answer, Muhaira threw herself onto the ground, throwing a tantrum.
Bani Kura entered with a few strong men. They walked straight to where Papi lay. Seeing Muhaira crying, Bani Kura asked, voice thick with distress, "Aishatu, who are you with?"
Hearing her name, Muhaira scrambled to her feet and ran to him, still weeping. "Bani, where is Dada?"
He pulled her close, wiped the tears from her face, and said, "Hush now, sit right here." She quieted down and sat beside him, staring at the blanket covering Papi.
They stepped forward, pulled back the blanket, lifted him, and carried him out of the hut. Through all of this, Muhaira could only watch, too young to fully grasp what was happening. Dada wailed louder, her body trembling violently.
Muhaira crawled over and sat beside her mother in silence, just watching her. Dada was lost in thought, terrified for their future, heartbroken for her only child. Destiny had proven stronger than human desires—Papi was gone, leaving them when they needed him most. The realization made her break down in another soul-shaking sob.
As for Muhaira, her tender age prevented her brain from fully processing the finality of death. In her innocent mind, she assumed Papi was just being taken somewhere and would eventually be brought back to her. But she didn't know that her Papi had embarked on a journey of no return.
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years. Nearly three years passed since Papi left this world, making Muhaira 8 years old.
It was a piercing, bone-chilling morning—the kind of weather that triggers illnesses like asthma, pneumonia, sickle cell, and other ailments. It was a Friday morning, and the entire Rugar Jama'are was dead silent; everyone stayed indoors with their families.
Muhaira was crouched before a pot resting on three stones that served as a fireplace, trying to cook. Her body was hunched over, and her breathing came in ragged gasps; she alone knew the agony she was enduring, but her sole focus was finishing the koko (porridge) for Dada.
In a few minutes, she finished, poured it into an old cup, and hurried into the hut. She found Dada lying just as she had left her, eyes closed, though not sleeping. She set the cup down and gently shook her. "Dada, wake up. Wake up, please. I've made your koko, wake up and drink it so you can take your medicine."
With great effort, Dada opened her eyes, caught Muhaira’s hand, and pulled herself up. She rested her head against Muhaira's chest. Despite the weight, Muhaira didn't mind at all. She picked up the cup of porridge and brought it to Dada's lips.
Dada shook her head, holding Muhaira's hand. "No, Muhaira, I can't drink it. There is something I need to tell you... this sickness of mine..."
She drew a ragged breath, closing her eyes as tears raced down her cheeks. She signaled Muhaira to lean closer. Slowly, Muhaira pressed her ear against her mother's face to listen.
For over five minutes, Dada whispered to her. By the time she finished, Muhaira was frozen in silent tears; her mind went completely blank, too overwhelmed to fully understand what her mother was telling her.
When Dada suddenly fell silent, Muhaira looked up at her—and let out a piercing, terrifying scream.
At that exact moment, Falmata rushed into the hut. One look at how Muhaira was desperately clutching Dada, still weeping, told Falmata that God had reclaimed His own. Such was the will of God; just as Papi had passed, Dada had now followed him.
"Dadana! For God's sake, wake up! Don't die and leave me, I have no one, Dada... please wake up! Do you want me to cry for the rest of my life? I have no one, Dada, and you have no one either! My Papi left and never returned, and now you are following him too??? Do you both not love me? Why, Dada? What did I do to you? Where am I going now? Who will look after me, Dada...?"
Her words cut off abruptly as an intense, heavy weight slammed into her chest. She leaped up and bolted out of the hut as a violent wave of nausea hit her. But what came up? Instead of food or water, clots of thick, dark blood spewed from her mouth, and she collapsed right there.

2. Summary

Set in the remote town of Damaturu and later the Fulani settlement of Rugar Jama'are, the story follows a mysterious and tragic narrative. A couple suffers the recurring loss of their newborns. During a fierce storm, the wife gives birth to another child who seemingly passes away. However, her husband discovers a magical, sweet-smelling bundle by a pond containing an extraordinarily fair, mysterious baby girl with striking blue eyes. They adopt her, naming her Muhaira.
Years later, Muhaira's biological father (Papi) falls gravely ill and passes away, leaving her mother (Dada) and young Muhaira devastated. Years pass, and as Muhaira grows into an 8-year-old girl, tragedy strikes again when Dada falls terminally ill. Just as Dada passes away in her arms, grief-stricken Muhaira suffers a traumatic shock, culminating in her coughing up blood and collapsing unconscious.

3. Description

This is an emotional, dramatic, and culturally rich contemporary Hausa fiction excerpt (written by Nanameera). It masterfully blends elements of magical realism, family drama, and tragedy. The narrative highlights themes of unconditional parental love, destiny, resilience in the face of profound poverty and loss, and the stark realities of rural life in northern Nigeria. The vivid sensory descriptions—from the chilling dawn breeze and the scent of damp earth to the mystical aura surrounding the infant Muhaira—create a deeply immersive and heart-wrenching atmosphere.

4. Analytics

• Genre: Hausa Drama / Contemporary Fiction / Tragic Romance / Magical Realism
• Author: Nanameera (Squad 2024 / Mikiya Writers Association)
• Setting: Damaturu and Rugar Jama'are (Northern Nigeria)
• Main Characters:
  • Ya Gani: A Kanuri man, adoptive father of Muhaira, resilient and dutiful.
  • The Fulani Wife / Dada: Muhaira's mother/adoptive mother, a gentle yet sorrowful woman burdened by the loss of her biological children and husband.
  • Muhaira (Baddo): The mysterious, blue-eyed, strikingly beautiful adopted child endowed with an ethereal charm, who faces immense orphanhood and trauma.
  • Bani Kura & Falmata: Secondary community members who witness and support the family through their tragedies.
• Key Themes: Human trafficking awareness tag (as per author metadata), heart-touching adversity, destiny (ƙaddara), loyalty, and profound pity/grief.