Dadin Zama Book Compelet

Description

DADIN ZAMA BOOK COMPELET

It was a time when the sun poured its blazing light across the expanse of the sky.

Around one-forty in the afternoon.

The intense heat compelled those whom God had blessed with air conditioning in their cars to turn it on and roll up their windows for relief.

However, those inside the commercial Napep (tricycles), as well as those on motorcycles and bicycles caught in the heavy traffic, had to constantly press their palms against their skin to wipe away the profuse sweat brought on by the heat and the prolonged standstill under the scorching sun.

The shouting and commotion over clearing the path failed to register in her mind because her heart was already overflowing with deep distress. Her eyes remained fixed on some children who had just been dismissed from school, watching them chat merrily with their peers, full of life and health.

She watched until they vanished from sight, then shifted her gaze to a small boy wearing a brand-new uniform, clutching a brand-new blue lunch box, as he hopped about joyfully at the school entrance.

A smile escaped her lips before she even realized it, and she softly murmured, "Just like my Muftee." She was certain he couldn't be more than three or four years old.

She clutched the envelope tightly against her chest, continuing to watch the boy with admiration until a man walked up to him. Upon seeing him, the boy burst into joy and started jumping, and from where she stood, she could hear the sound of his tiny voice calling out, "Yay, Abba!"

The man walked over, picked him up, and tossed him into the air before catching him, pure happiness shining across his face.

He set the boy down in front of his motorcycle. The boy waved goodbye to his other schoolmates as his father started the engine and turned toward a less congested route home, riding off into a happiness that the blazing sun could never melt away from their hearts.

She felt the warmth of tears on her face. Not bothering to wipe them, she looked ahead again to see how the traffic jam was clearing up. However, the bitter arguments between a large truck driver who had forced his way onto the wrong lane to offload goods in front of a big shop, and a motorcyclist who had scraped a Napep and broken its side mirror while trying to avoid the truck, showed no signs of being resolved anytime soon.

"Everything in this life requires patience. If only they had opened the road for people to pass and attend to our urgent matters."

"Hajiya, so you're going to pay for his damages if he doesn't stay to claim his right?" The Napep rider sitting among them turned to face the elderly woman in the middle, scratching his ear with a small matchstick he had picked up from the floor.

"And what business of ours is it that our way is being blocked?" she retorted.

Meanwhile, the young woman sitting on the other side of the elderly lady had her eyes glued to her phone, letting out a continuous stream of irritated sighs.

Such is life; everyone has their own burdens.

She looked down at the envelope in her hands again. If only they knew the magnitude of her urgent mission, that alone would prompt them to pour cold water on their hearts and clear the path.

She couldn't afford to get off and walk the rest of the distance on foot because she still had a long way to go ahead. She didn't even have the money to hire another means of transport; she had even had to pool together Khausar’s loose change just to get enough fare for a round trip.

Her only prayer was that when she finally met the people she was going to see, they would grant her request. Doing so would save two lives, and she would spend the rest of her days thanking them.

From another angle, however, there was someone who genuinely believed that his own urgency—if combined with the troubles of everyone intending to use that route put together—would not even amount to a tenth of his own.

That was why, despite the continuous horn-blaring that filled their ears—causing some drivers to temporarily abandon their air-conditioned cars and step out into the scorching heat to confront his impatience by venting their own frustrations—it made no impression on him.

He was entirely unfazed, not because he couldn't hear them, but because, much like them, his car windows were rolled up tight.

"If one could sprout wings and fly over, wouldn't you have fitted your car with feathers?" shouted a man walking up to the side where he hoped to catch a glimpse of the driver, only to find someone with tinted car windows.

Amidst the chaos, the quarreling parties were coaxed into moving to the side to settle their dispute, and the road began to clear. Those at the very front started up their vehicles, ready to leave the moment they got the chance.

Yet, for him, he was waiting for opportunity to come to him directly. But to someone who felt every wasted second on the road widened the gap between him and reaching the thread that stitched his life together—preventing it from tearing completely apart at a moment when he felt his secrets were fully exposed to a naked world—such a person would manufacture a way for himself, even if everyone assured him it was impossible.

Through a narrow gap wide enough only for motorcycles and school children's tricycles, he spotted a way through which the Highlander he was riding in could pass. Without consulting anyone, he slammed his foot on the accelerator and laid heavily on the horn. As he sped forward, he narrowly missed plowing into a man who stepped directly into the path of the car, charging ahead recklessly.

The sheer speed of his passing vehicle hit the faces of those caught in the middle of the traffic, leaving their hearts pounding with terror and profound gratitude to God that he hadn't run right over them. Even those by the roadside stared open-mouthed at the dust trail the car left behind, long after it had vanished from sight.

"Look at that ignorant fool." "What a brainless idiot."

These were just a few of the derogatory words hurled into the air before the dust even settled. Yet, those with no time to waste followed his lead on foot, squeezing through the path he had forced open to resume their daily lives after the brief delay.

By the time they reached the location she had been given—after dropping off the young woman in front of a beauty shop—the Napep rider who had brought them did not stop grumbling about the car that had sped past them earlier. In every line of his rant, he cursed the wealthy and their arrogance.

Had she been in a calm frame of mind, she would have told him that but for some of those wealthy individuals, many of those to whom God had granted no alternative means would simply not survive.

People like Muftee.

She stepped down, paid him his due, and turned toward the security guards stationed at the entrance matching the directions she had been given. As she walked, she tried to pull the paper from the envelope she had been carefully carrying.

"Good afternoon, officer," she greeted them respectfully.

They all chorused a response and gave her their full attention to hear what she had come for.

Stepping closer to the guard nearest to her, she handed him one of the papers from her hand and said, "I'm looking to see Hajiya Surayyah Kagarko. She told me to come and meet her here."

He examined the paper carefully. It was a hospital document containing the medical details of a four-year-old patient named Ibrahim Hashim Baniza.

She bit her lower lip, waiting for his response and wondering if he would figure out she was lying. Her neighbor in the children's ward—who was also admitted there with her daughter on an adjacent bed—was the one who had advised her to pretend she had been summoned rather than begging for a favor.

That was why she had been given the name of the woman who had visited the hospital on an unfortunate day when she had briefly gone home with Muftee to give him a bath and rest before his doctor came for the evening rounds, especially since no one else was beside him at the time and his intravenous drip had just been removed.

The organization had flatly refused to put her on the list of beneficiaries for children's medical support, stating they would never use patient information without physically seeing the patient, given the rampant scams in society. By the time she returned to the hospital after being called, they had already left.

Ever since that day, she had been struggling to find a way to get them to review her case because she desperately needed the help. Only through their support could Muftee receive proper medical care and maintain long-term health. She had even scraped together some money to give to the people who had promised to clear her path to the A&I Support Organization, but her efforts had hit a brick wall—and tomorrow was supposedly when they were going to begin distributing the aid.

"Do you know where to find her?" His question took her by surprise, as she had expected them to demand further explanation before letting her in. Hence, even as she silently repeated prayers in her heart, she was desperately formulating how to convince whoever was in charge before reaching Hajiya Surayyah.

She found herself nodding silently as he handed the paper back to her. She did not welcome any delay, not even for a single second, unless absolutely necessary. She knew that come what may, once she got inside and made her plea, she wouldn't regret it.

He reached behind him, pushed open the gate door, and swung it wide. "Go on ahead, may God heal him and grant relief."

As she responded with an "Ameen" and expressed her gratitude, she slipped halfway inside.

She paused to take in the compound. It was moderately large, resembling a private school or hospital. Shifting her gaze from the line of parked cars on one side to the exterior offices—most of whose doors were closed, bearing nameplates—her eyes finally rested on a massive building standing solidly right before her as if merely awaiting her arrival. A large black sign was mounted across the top of the building: A&I SUPPORT ORGANIZATION.

"A&I," she repeated the two letters under her breath just as the phone inside her small purse began to ring.

She tucked the large envelope securely under her right armpit, opened her purse, pulled out a keypad itel phone, pressed the call-answer button after checking the caller ID, and brought the phone to her ear.

"Hello, Khausar."

"Yes, Aunty Ilham," came the reply, loud and clear from the other end.

"How did it go?"

"Did you make it there?" Khausar asked, stating the reason for her call.

"Yes, I just arrived. But I haven't been able to see her yet. How is Muftee doing?"

"He's a bit better," Khausar replied, adding, "May God grant you success and help you find what you're looking for."

"Ameen," she answered, feeling warmed by the prayer. "Let me go inside. We'll talk later. Tell my little Mami hello."

"He's fallen back asleep, but he'll hear you when he wakes up, in sha Allah."

"Thank you, Khausar. May God reward you with Jannatul Firdaus."

"Ameen, Aunty." With that, she disconnected the call, slipped the phone back into her purse, and strode toward a crossroads of destiny that would pull her past and future together and bind them into one in a way no one—least of all herself—could ever have anticipated.

She stopped at the reception desk and handed over her papers just as she had done at the gate, repeating that Hajiya Surayyah Kagarko had told her to come.

Not just her heart, but her very intestines seemed to quiver when the receptionist picked up the phone to call Hajiya Surayyah.

"What's your name?" the receptionist asked, slightly pulling the phone away from his ear.

Quickly, she answered, "Amina Usman Jen, mother of Ibrahim Hashim Baniza."

He returned the phone to his ear, repeated everything she had said, and listened in silence for a few seconds before saying "Alright" and putting the phone down.

"She said you should wait for her; she has guests."

She offered a silent prayer of gratitude, answered aloud with a polite "Alright," thanked him, and headed toward one of the waiting chairs lined up in the reception area.

"Pardon me, ma'am, but we're expecting inspection guests today. Could you please wait outside?"

She didn't mind; she nodded in understanding. Although she was already enjoying the cooling blast of the air conditioner, securing the assistance she needed far outweighed her comfort.

She stepped back outside and found a shaded spot beneath a neem tree where she could keep an eye on everyone entering and leaving.

One hour, two hours, three... At first, she stood patiently, but eventually, she gave up and sat flat on the interlocking paving stones. When the afternoon Asr call to prayer reached her ears, she stood up and hurried back inside to the reception in a state of nervous anxiety, worried she might have been brushed off and forgotten.

She intercepted the receptionist just as he was heading out for prayers, looking like he had already performed his ablutions.

"Excuse me, please, has she not come out yet?" she asked, pressing her dry lips together.

He had completely forgotten she was sitting out there waiting. "They're in a meeting, that's why. But since it's prayer time, I'm sure they'll be coming out soon."

Lowering her voice even further, she asked, "Please, where can I perform my ablutions and pray?"

"Let me get you a prayer mat. Go around to the back of the building outside; there's a restroom and a tap there."

"Thank you so much." A smile broke across a face completely worn out by the scorching sun and the trials of life.

"Oh, it's nothing," he replied, fetching the prayer mat. She took it, thanked him again, and did as he instructed, managing to complete her obligatory prayers.

After finishing, she remained seated on her prayer mat, pouring out her heart to God, praising His name, and begging through His mercy that things would finally go right.

She soon spotted a tall, somewhat plump white woman hurrying out with a phone pressed to her ear. Right behind her was the same receptionist, scanning the area frantically to spot her.

Fortunately, his eyes landed right on where she was sitting. He pointed a finger toward the woman heading for one of the parked cars, mouthing silently to her, "That's her."

Luckily, she understood immediately. She sprang up and rushed toward the woman before she could climb into her car, knowing full well that if she missed this chance, it was over.

"Hajiya, for God's sake, please help my child!" she cried out, nearly dropping to her knees and clasping her hands together in desperate supplication.

The woman, whose own demeanor suggested distress or anxiety, quickly pulled her up, saying, "My dear, please bear with me; an emergency has just come up. But please come back tomorrow morning at ten o'clock. I promise I will attend to whatever you've come for."

With that, she slipped into the driver's seat, holding the phone—which she hadn't disconnected—to her ear and asking, "Which hospital was she admitted to?... Medi-plus?... I'm on my way." Those were the last words Ilham heard before the woman pulled her car door shut and locked it.

MEDI-PLUS HOSPITAL, KADUNA.

"If, despite all my efforts, this sort of thing is going to keep happening, then what is the point of it all?" He punctuated his sharp question by throwing his hands up in the air, his eyes slowly sweeping across every living soul standing in the room, demanding an answer.

No one had the courage to speak up, even though there were people present who weren't just a few years older than him—some were old enough to be his parents. Yet that seniority gave them no boldness to utter a word, knowing full well that even if they spoke, he wouldn't listen.

He wouldn't give them a hearing; he would act solely based on what his stubborn, raging heart dictated. No matter what excuses they brought forward and laid before him, if it concerned Ikram, he simply wouldn't care to listen.

Most of them silently offered a single prayer: that God would send Surayyah back quickly, as she was the only one who could sometimes manage him.

Given the burning anguish in his chest regarding the condition Ikram had been in right before his eyes earlier, nothing could douse that fire except turning back the hands of time to prevent the accident from ever happening. Yet, the dead silence from the room only stoked his anger further.

"If our upkeep has become too burdensome for you all, just say so, and I'll take my daughter and leave your house!"

"By God, we would have been freed from this endless terror and misfor—" The woman standing beside her quickly slapped a hand over her mouth with her finger, cutting her off and forcing her to swallow the rest of her words. She hissed softly as the friction scraped her lip.

"Are you crazy? Let him catch you and we're doomed, Huda!" the woman whispered, covering her mouth with her palm so he wouldn't catch wind of what she was saying.

Huda pouted, forced to endure the tirade he kept raining down upon them because she had no other choice. Everyone knew that once things calmed down, if he realized someone hadn't been present during one of his outbursts, he wouldn't hesitate to blacklist them and cut off their funding. He simply had zero tolerance for anyone who didn't revolve around Ikram.

Their sighs of relief became audible the moment they spotted Surayyah approaching. God was their witness; they were exhausted by an argument that dragged on endlessly like a blind hen pecking at the ground.

Surayyah walked right up to him, making sure she was fully within his line of sight before taking both of his warm hands in hers. His skin was taut, the veins bulging visibly up to his neck and bare head, which no longer had enough hair to conceal them.

Softly, her lips parted to say, "Please calm down, Abdulhameed."

She knew that whenever she held his hands, he could never pull away, no matter what. Because back when he was desperately in need of someone to hold his hands, she had taken them and never let go to this very day.

"Aunty Surayyah, it's just one little girl, just one single plea. Yet nearly twenty people failed to watch over a child who is three years, eight months, and four days old. On top of the affliction God placed on her, our negligence added another. Have we been fair to her mother?"

Surayyah heard the heavy, irritated hiss someone nearby let out, but she ignored it lest his attention snap back to them. Instead, she tightened her grip around his wrists, even though her long fingers couldn't quite wrap all the way around them.

"There was negligence, absolutely. But this was also God's decree, Abdulhameed. Even if all of us had gathered around her at that exact moment, if God had already written that Kiki would fall and dislocate her arm, it would happen. Please, for God's sake, be patient."

She watched something shift in his throat as he struggled to swallow back his fury.

For the umpteenth time, he was reminded that in this world, some people live by the grace of others, and a truly grateful person never forgets kindness. He said nothing more. Slowly, she released his hands, and they returned to his sides. He simply turned and walked toward the door of the room he had just stepped out of moments ago—the room where half his soul lay hospitalized in a critical state. He turned the door handle, pushed it open gently, and once inside, pulled it shut behind him, needing no company. But at least, since she had asked, he had calmed down.

Aunty Surayyah and the others watched him until he vanished from sight, thinking to herself that it was soybean milk that had bought her this much leniency.

Soybean milk.

Seemahwrites ✨

Chapter 2 DAƊIN ZAMA 🍁

Saliha Ahmad Na’ibi Wattpad and arewapen @Seemahwrites

#THE TRIO OF TALES (Three minds, Three stories, One journey)

Sincerely to Aunty Hauwa Yarima, Allah ya so ki da rahamar sa 🤍

02... Ilham stepped down from the back of the motorcycle that had brought her. She pulled out her remaining funds from her purse—a crisp two-hundred-naira note Khausar had given her along with an old one-hundred-naira note—and handed the fare to the rider. He took it, shoved it into his pocket, and made a U-turn to ride off.

She turned to face the hospital, took a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and drew in another. She desperately needed to find some composure, just in case Hajiya Surayyah questioned her for following her there.

The grandeur and immaculate design of the hospital from the outside alone were enough to tell her this wasn't a place for people of her station. She prayed she wouldn't be interrogated about her business, as she was tired of spinning lies.

She began to walk, feeling as though she were treading on water, yet this was the only option left for her and Muftee. Her anxiety didn't subside until she finally caught sight of the hospital's courtyard. The very first thing her eyes locked onto was Hajiya Surayyah’s car parked in the designated lot. A genuine smile of relief bloomed across her face as she walked toward the gravel-paved area, comforted by the thought that even if she went inside the main building, she wouldn't have to wander around searching blindly; there was no way Surayyah could leave without her noticing.

She found a spot on the interlocking stone border surrounding the ornamental plants at the corner of the compound and sat down. She didn't care that the seating was hardly comfortable, so long as she had a clear view of Hajiya Surayyah's car parked between a black Highlander and a red Honda.

She settled in to wait with absolute faith. Surely, God never burdens a soul beyond what it can bear. She firmly believed that caring for Muftahul Khair was not beyond her strength, and that God would surely provide a way out.

Summary

The narrative shifts between two tense, parallel scenes: the sweltering chaos of urban traffic and the high-stakes emotional pressure at a private medical facility.

In the first storyline, Ilham, a struggling mother burdened with severe financial and emotional distress, is desperate to secure medical sponsorship for her ailing four-year-old son, Muftee. After being turned away earlier by the A&I Support Organization, she tracks down Hajiya Surayyah Kagarko—a key official at the organization—hoping for a second chance. Following a grueling wait outside in the heat, she manages to briefly intercept Hajiya Surayyah before an emergency pulls the official away to Medi-Plus Hospital in Kaduna, leaving Ilham with a promise to return the next morning.

In the second storyline at Medi-Plus Hospital, Abdulhameed is in a towering rage following an accident involving his young daughter, Ikram. His explosive grief and frustration terrify the hospital staff and aides, who rely on Surayyah to talk him down. Surayyah manages to calm him by appealing to his emotional vulnerability, after which he retreats in isolation to his daughter's bedside. The chapter concludes with Ilham arriving at the hospital gates, exhausted yet resolute, ready to continue her relentless pursuit of healing for Muftee.

Description

This excerpt is a deeply emotional, character-driven contemporary Hausa literary piece rich in sensory detail and social realism. Written with a flowing, immersive narrative style, it explores themes of socio-economic disparity, maternal sacrifice, grief, and resilience. The prose vividly contrasts the indifferent rush of city life and elite privilege with the quiet, agonizing struggles of ordinary citizens navigating systemic poverty and medical emergencies. Through characters like Ilham, Abdulhameed, and Surayyah, the narrative highlights the heavy burdens of parenthood, the complexities of human empathy, and the unpredictable intersections of fate.

Analytics

• Literary Genre: Contemporary Hausa Fiction / Drama / Social Realism.
• Core Themes: Maternal sacrifice, social inequality, grief, emotional volatility, institutional bureaucracy versus human desperation.
• Narrative Technique: Multi-perspective shifting (focalizing through Ilham's desperate perseverance and Abdulhameed's explosive grief), utilizing atmospheric setting details to reflect internal emotional states.
• Pacing: Alternates between slow, suffocating tension (traffic standstills, long hours of waiting) and sudden, high-stakes emotional confrontations.

Comments

The emotional resonance of this excerpt lies in its stark portrayal of contrasting human realities. The juxtaposition of a privileged driver insulated from the heat in a luxury car against commuters melting in traffic mirrors the broader social divide between the wealthy elite and struggling parents like Ilham. Ilham's quiet, enduring resilience contrasts sharply with Abdulhameed's volcanic, raw grief, yet both characters are united by the fierce, protective love they hold for their children. The introduction of intersecting plotlines—where Ilham's desperate chase for medical aid leads her to the exact hospital where Abdulhameed is in turmoil—masterfully sets up a high-tension collision of fates for the unfolding story.