Amanar Aure Compelete Book

Description

English Translation

These past three days have dragged by very slowly for me. It is not that I feel time is crawling because nothing is happening—quite the contrary. Too many things are happening all at once rather than one after another, filling my mind to the point where I can barely make sense of anything. Mommy has been aggressively pushing the topic of marrying Mukhtar, Mukhtar is pressuring me and trying to change my mind about him, Abdul continues to beg me not to choose him as a husband, and Daddy keeps asking me who my ultimate choice is.

As for me, the topic of marriage is the least of my problems. My biggest issue is the fast-approaching time when the pregnancy will be removed from my body so I can gain the freedom to properly nurse Daddy, or at least use that window to rekindle our relationship. Yet, Daddy’s constant refrain is, "I don’t want to go and leave you in this condition, Safiyya. I want to fix your life before I leave you."

And through all of this, Gidado weighs heavily on my heart. 💜 Thoughts of what he might be going through make my days feel endless, and dreams of him rob me of deep sleep.

On the fifth day of our stay in the city, I managed to get a long, deep sleep in the morning—the kind I hadn't experienced in a very long time. Mommy had already woken up, dressed, and left for the hospital to see Daddy, leaving me asleep. When I woke up, my body felt significantly better; sleep deprivation had been one of the main things fogging my mind. I got up, took a bath, and started getting dressed while wondering how I would get to the hospital since I had no cash on hand—I hadn't exchanged any money since we arrived. As I sat there calculating what to do, Aunty Hajjo walked into the room. I greeted her, she replied, and then she took a seat on the chair. This made me feel uncomfortable, so I lowered my head, hoping my protruding belly wasn't too obvious.

Then she began to speak, "Safiyya, I have been wanting to talk to you for a while, but I never get the chance to be alone with you. This is a conversation I want to have with you in private."

I remained silent and didn't say anything. She continued, "Sa'adatu told me what happened to you—or rather, what you told them happened to you—because from what I understand, they didn't believe the story, and up to today, I haven't quite settled with it in my mind either. But I cannot find it in myself to blame you, let alone sit here to scold you, hate you, or feel disgusted by you. That has a lot to do with your mother. God is my witness that until the day she died, I looked at her like a sister. In fact, I can call her my role model because I copied her in many things, especially in how she cared for her husband and showed love to children. I vividly remember the day she gave birth to you, Safiyya. I remember the immense love I saw in her eyes when I went to congratulate her on your birth. I wasn't surprised by the depth of that love, considering how long she tried to conceive before having you. I understood that love even better when she told me the doctors confirmed she would never be able to have another child after you."

I raised my hand to wipe away the tears that had already started streaming down my face. She went on, "I also remember the day she passed away, Safiyya. Her shroud was prepared right in front of me. What I remember most from that day is the sound of your crying. You were barely two years old. Everyone in the house tried to comfort you, but you kept crying and calling the name you called her: 'Ammi.' What broke my heart the most at that moment was looking at her lifeless body, knowing her soul was still around and hearing your cries, yet she was completely powerless to comfort you, despite how fiercely she loved you. It broke everyone's heart, especially because of how sudden her death was."

She paused, trying to steady her voice—evidently, she was fighting back tears. She continued, "This is every mother's worst nightmare, and I couldn't help thinking about my little boy, Abdul Hakim. I imagined: if I were the one who died, what would happen to him? And I wondered what your life would become. Even back then, I realized you were facing a massive trial and had lost a part of your life that could never be replaced, though I never imagined the void left behind would bring you to the state you are in now. I offered to take you in to try and fill that gap. After me, many people tried to take you, but your father refused. He wouldn't let anyone have you, saying he would raise his precious daughter with his own hands. I remember one day when I went with my husband to check on how you were doing, and we found him carrying you on his back tied with a wrapper while you threw a tantrum. Despite the house staff available, he couldn't trust anyone else with you because of the immense love he had for you."

She paused again. We both fell silent, save for the sound of my occasional sobs. She resumed, "I don't know if the meaning of this story I'm telling you is getting through, or if you understand what I'm trying to say. But you are so precious, Safiyya. You are far greater than how you have made yourself feel. And you have enemies everywhere. The stories Sa'adatu told me about you—I don't know which ones are true and which are the opposite. I won't claim to know what is in people's hearts either. She told me your marriage to Mustapha would be arranged after you give birth. But the man of the house [Daddy] also told me they want you and Abdul to marry if you both agree. I don't know which is true. But I want you to know that in my heart, I still intend to take you in and raise you if I ever get the chance. If you choose Abdul, I would love that. But if you don't choose him, I want you to know that I will be here for you whenever you need a mother."

To gain access to the book contact 👇 0704 203 0419 Via Telegram app

❤‍🩹 Safiyya ❤‍🩹 By Maman Maama

Episode Seven (7): The Good and the Bad Choices

That day, I didn't go to the hospital until night. I sat alone in my room with my thoughts, thinking that if I spent a day completely by myself, I would be able to make a decision about my life. Yet, by nightfall, I still hadn't reached any conclusion. True to form, that night I prayed intensely for God to look upon me, bring light into my life, and guide my heart.

It was also that night that I finally understood why I couldn't pick any of the young men Daddy had listed out for me. The reason is Gidado. If I am going to view marriage through the lens of what Gidado and I shared, then Daddy would just have to be bold and choose for me because I simply cannot choose anyone else on my own. But then again, I wished he would do just that. If he did, it would lift a massive burden from my shoulders and take away the heavy guilt I feel whenever I think about choosing a husband who isn't Gidado.

If Mustapha isn't the one being chosen for me, then I don't have a problem with anyone else.

As for Abdul, I know that if I choose him, I wouldn't have any issues with his parents. Aunty Hajjo's words today reaffirmed her love for me, and Uncle Sufyan is someone I can call a second father, seeing as Daddy has no other friend he trusts quite like him. But Abdul loves someone else, just as he told me verbally. My own experience with love has taught me that he likely loves that person dearly. Whenever I think of choosing him, I picture Muhammad and me back when we used to plan our lives together, only for his parents to force him to marry someone else for their own selfish reasons. It would have destroyed our lives, and I refuse to destroy someone else's life just so I can find happiness.

Mukhtar, on the other hand, genuinely loves me. He is one of the few men who has ever physically confessed his love to me. Mukhtar has loved me for a long time—a love that I initially viewed as an obsession, which eventually irritated me and made him lose his status as an older brother in my eyes. If I marry him, at least I would live with someone who loves me, even if I don't return those feelings. But what about his parents? Uncle Ahmad is Daddy's only surviving brother, and everything we own has been in his hands ever since Daddy fell ill more than five years ago. However, ever since I was young, I've had issues with him and his wife because they viewed me as a spoilt, undisciplined girl. That friction worsened in recent years and became unbearable after my pregnancy came to light. They would accept my marriage to him—they might even be happy about it—but that doesn't mean we would ever live in peace or that they wouldn't use my past to taunt me in the future.

And Mustapha—if I choose Mustapha, my life will be a disaster. I have never hated anyone as much as I hate him, and there is no way I could ever seek paradise underneath his care. Yet, Mommy has shown me every kindness a person could possibly expect from another. Not just her; her relatives were extraordinarily good to my Ammi, especially considering they weren't blood relatives. Even though I know love and kindness aren't the real reasons they want this marriage arranged between us, I honestly don't care. If I could just manage to live with Mustapha, he would definitely be my choice.

Just like every day since we arrived in this city, I found myself performing Istikhara prayers, asking God to make His choice manifest and to settle my heart upon it.

Two days later, at night, I was lying in bed staring at the ceiling unable to sleep, desperately needing anything that would take my mind away from my thoughts. I remembered the twins and felt a pang of guilt because we hadn't spoken since we parted ways in Nigeria. I picked up my phone, turned it on, and calculated the time in Nigeria, realizing it was very late there—they were probably asleep. But I thought about going online to check on them anyway. However, the moment I turned on my mobile data, my heart dropped. That was the exact moment I remembered I hadn't blocked Gidado on WhatsApp, and I was certain he had been looking for me there.

I opened WhatsApp and stared as a torrent of incoming messages flooded in, finally coming to a halt. Just as I expected, there were many messages from Muhammad. I couldn't bring myself to open his texts out of fear of what I would see. My heart couldn't take any more harsh words from him. And if he was pleading with me, I couldn't bear the thought of continuing to betray his love. Yet deep down, I knew walking away from him was the kindest thing I could do for him. I couldn't stain his clean life with my dirty, tragic life. Even if I told him the absolute truth of what happened to me, he would never leave me alone, his parents would never agree to let him marry me, and my parents would suspect him of having a hand in my ordeal. So, either way, he was in deep waters, and I would rather drown myself than let him get wet. That is the depth of the love I have for him.

I only read his very last message: "Please Piya, I just want to know why."

I closed my eyes, feeling the dampness of tears on my cheeks, pressed down on our conversation, and hit delete, knowing full well I was deleting all our chats. I had to delete it so I wouldn't read further before replying, even though I didn't know the full context of what he had said. I finished typing, sent my reply, and then blocked him from my WhatsApp chats.

I covered my face with both hands and had a proper, soul-cleansing cry. Then I wiped my face and continued scrolling through other chats to see if anything could calm my nerves. That was when I bumped into messages from Yaya Mukhtar. I opened them, knowing in my heart that it would only bring more sorrow—maybe even taunts about my pregnancy. Instead, I found him apologizing:

"Fiyya, I don't know what words to use to apologize to you. Both Abba and I know we wronged you. At a time when we should have been the ones wiping away your tears, we became the ones making you cry."

"You know how Abba is; it was just his temper talking, not him. He loves you, which is why he is so heartbroken over your condition. Please forgive him."

"And as for me... out of all people, you know what my problem is: jealousy is eating me up, nothing else. I know I shouldn't have said I would help you by marrying you because, as you said, I am the one who needs help from you, since I am deeply in love with you. It would be my pleasure to marry you even with your disability. And whatever you give birth to will be our child, yours and mine, and no one will ever know what happened. I promise you this with my life."

"Please, Safiyya, if you see my messages, call me. Or call Abba if you're still angry with me. We are worried about you. We can't reach you on the phone, and Daddy isn't taking our calls—neither mine nor Abba's."

And the last message: "Tell Mustapha that the moment he steps foot back in Nigeria, he will regret it. I swear I'll disfigure him."

I dropped my phone and let out a heavy sigh. I closed my eyes, rolling Mukhtar's words over in my mind while wondering what on earth had transpired between him and Mustapha. They never really got along even when we were kids. Mukhtar has a wicked heart, much like Daddy and Abba, whereas Mustapha is a silent killer—you rarely see him angry, and he always shows utmost respect and obedience to elders, which was how he bought Daddy's heart. But only I know who he really is.

In the morning, I woke up, took a bath, and was getting dressed while Mommy was in the bathroom when my phone rang. I was a bit startled because I had forgotten it was turned on. I felt a surge of hope, thinking the twins were calling me, but when I picked up the phone, it was Uncle Ahmad. I let out a sigh, sat on the edge of the bed, and answered with a greeting.

"Abba, good morning."

He replied, "Morning, Safiyya. Did you only turn on your phone today since you left?" I said, "I turned it on last night." He asked, "Why? So you could see that no one cares about you enough to check on you? You turned off your phone, and when I called your older brother [Daddy], his phone rang endlessly and nobody would let him answer it. I know it's his wife along with that cursed boy Mustapha. Mustapha of all people! When I called, Yaya answered and said he was sleeping and shouldn't be disturbed. What about me?"

I clutched my head because it had already started aching early that morning. I said, "Please forgive me, Abba. In sha Allah, when I go to the hospital today, I'll call you and pass the phone to him so you two can speak."

He paused for a moment. "Yes, I want to talk to him badly, and I want to talk to you too. I want to apologize for what happened the other day. I realized that was why Yaya is angry with me. I didn't scold you out of malice; I did it because I felt I had the authority to correct you. Adam and I were born of the same parents. You are like a daughter to me. I never expected that because I reprimanded you, Yaya would be so angry with me as to stop speaking to me. I never expected that you would go and report me to him."

I shook my head as though he could see me. "Abba, wallahi I didn't report you. I didn't speak to him with the intention of reporting..." He cut me off. "I know, Safiyya. I understand. It's that wife of his. She has brainwashed both of you until you refuse to listen to anyone else. You show no respect to anyone except her and her children. I know she's the one who put you up to badgering me to take your money to buy cars for her children." I shook my head again. "Uncle, she didn't tell me that, I..." He interrupted, "You won't understand, Safiyya. You won't understand. Like I said, she has brainwashed you."

I stayed silent as Mommy walked out of the bathroom and began getting dressed.

He continued, "When you get to the hospital, try to connect me with Yaya, maybe God will soften his heart so we can talk. I am not at peace with you two being around them. My mind is uneasy." I nodded, looking at Mommy, who had paused what she was doing to watch me. I said, "In sha Allah, I will speak to him when I get there. In sha Allah, everything will go back to normal." He said, "Good. If you do that, you've done right by all of us. Because in this whole world, you have no one better than us, and we have no one better than you."

I pulled the phone away from my ear and laid it aside. Mommy, who had been watching me the whole time, asked, "Who was that?" I said, "Uncle Ahmad." She scowled. "Ahmad has no shame, wallahi. What is he even saying to you after the public humiliation he put you through? What could he possibly want to say?"

I stayed silent at first, but seeing she expected an answer, I said, "He wants to speak with Daddy. He said he couldn't reach him on the phone." She hissed. "Well, of course he refuses to take his calls! How can someone pull the wrapper off your waist in public and then come home expecting to tie it back for you? I thought for sure he was calling about that impudent boy, Mustapha. That boy is a literal demon—let him choke on it, wallahi, because you are way out of his league."

She kept grumbling while I finished eating and got dressed. Once she was ready too, we went out, bid Aunty Hajjo goodbye, and left. Right there in the car, she told Mustapha about my call with Uncle Ahmad. I could hear him reassuring her, telling her not to let it stress her out—that both Uncle Ahmad and Mukhtar would get what's coming to them. I said nothing to them, despite their efforts to drag me into the conversation.

When we arrived at the hospital, we found that Daddy had been discharged. They had finished administering all available treatments, and there was nothing more they could do. This was typically the routine at all the hospitals we visited: they would send us home, and if any symptoms flared up or worsened, we would return. But his illness has no cure; a cure hasn't been found yet.

It was then I learned that Daddy had arranged and paid for an apartment for us to stay in until the time came for my procedure. His plan all along was that once he was discharged, we would all move into that house to stay together until I got rid of the pregnancy, after which we would return to Nigeria. His main anxiety up to that moment was how he was going to deal with whatever would be extracted from inside me, as he definitely didn't want us living with whatever I gave birth to. He didn't know I had already found a solution to that.

I waited until he sent Mustapha to pick up his remaining prescribed medications, and Mommy stepped out to make some inquiries with the nurses. I pulled a chair close to him, kept my head down, and said, "Daddy, Uncle Ahmad said he has been trying to reach you on the phone and couldn't get through."

He frowned. "I see his calls. What does he want to say? I never imagined he would be one of the people to mock me if tragedy struck my life."

I shook my head. "He didn't mock me, Daddy. He scolded me."

He turned his face away. "Is that what he told you? He wants to use you to get back to me. I have already made my decision: once God safely delivers you and we return to Nigeria, I am taking back everything of ours that is in his hands. By the time you get married then, your husband can take care of everything for us."

I felt tears pooling in my eyes. I said again, "Daddy, in this whole world we have no one closer than him. Blood is thicker than water."

He gave a small, humorless smile. "Is that what he told you?"

I lowered my head, playing with my fingers, and said nothing. At that exact moment, I reached my final decision. I raised my head and said, "Daddy, I have made a decision regarding the choice you gave me."

He turned to look at me, saying nothing.

I said, "I choose Mukhtar. I will marry Mukhtar."

Over on Gidado's end, he had found some relief—not from the burning rage in his heart, but because his parents had finally softened toward him a little, even though things weren't back to how they used to be. They still blamed him for being negligent, for being vulnerable, and for letting a little girl toy with his emotions. Two days after their sit-down meeting with him, they called him in again to deliver their verdict:

"We are not canceling your wedding arrangement with Mufida as we originally planned. You are going to get married."

He raised his head, looking at them in confusion.

Abba said, "Look through our relatives—from Yalleman to Kano to Abuja—and pick a woman, because you are getting married in the next two months."

He turned to look at Mama, hoping for some glimmer of hope from her, but she refused to meet his gaze. He knew from experience that whenever his parents agreed on something, whatever one said, the other fully backed it up.

Abba continued, "Believe us, Muhammad, it is going to be the best thing that has ever happened to you. All of us know that after what that girl did to you, it will take time for you to heal and trust women again. From our experience, the easiest and best feeling ever is to fall in love after marriage. To make things easier for you, we are giving you a choice: pick anyone you think you can grow to love later on, and we will speak to her parents—provided she doesn't already have someone she loves."

Gidado...

Summary

Safiyya is trapped in a suffocating web of familial pressure, health crises, and haunting memories. While her father, Daddy, battles a terminal illness in a foreign city and obsesses over "fixing" her life before he dies, Safiyya's mind is consumed by the impending termination of her unwanted pregnancy, her lingering trauma, and her deep, unyielding love for Gidado (Muhammad). Family members circle around her with competing marriage proposals: Aunty Hajjo pushes for Abdul, Uncle Ahmad and Mukhtar scheme and demand apologies, and Mommy leans toward Mustapha. Meanwhile, Aunty Hajjo delivers a poignant history of Safiyya's late mother (Ammi), attempting to offer maternal comfort amidst the chaos. After deleting her painful digital history with Gidado to protect him from her tragic life and enduring manipulative calls from Uncle Ahmad, Safiyya finally reaches a breaking point at the hospital. Faced with her father's lingering bitterness toward his brother and desperate to bring him peace, Safiyya makes a self-sacrificing and fateful decision to accept Mukhtar's marriage proposal. Concurrently, Gidado's parents force him into an arranged marriage with Mufida to heal his emotional wounds.

Description

This dramatic seventh episode of the Hausa digital novel Safiyya explores themes of grief, emotional manipulation, sacrifice, and the heavy toll of societal expectations. Set across hospital rooms and tense domestic spaces, the narrative dives deep into the psychological turmoil of a young woman carrying a secret trauma while forced to navigate marital politics dictated by her male relatives. Through poignant flashbacks to Ammi's death and visceral digital interactions (WhatsApp deletions and blocked chats), the chapter highlights Safiyya's profound self-loathing and protective instincts toward the man she loves, culminating in a desperate, pragmatic choice of marriage out of duty rather than desire.

Comments

• Emotional Resonance & Character Psychology: The author (Maman Maama) expertly captures the claustrophobia of Safiyya's world. Safiyya's rationale for blocking Gidado ("I rather drown myself then get him wet") is a heartbreaking testament to self-sacrificing love.
• Toxic Family Dynamics: Uncle Ahmad and Daddy's feud, combined with Mukhtar's aggressive entitlement masked as "jealousy," showcases how patriarchal control and weaponized guilt dictate women's lives in this environment.
• The Weight of Grief: Ammi's backstory introduced via Aunty Hajjo provides essential context for why Safiyya is so deeply protective of her bond with Daddy, explaining her ultimate willingness to sacrifice her own happiness to appease him.

Conclusions

Safiyya's choice to marry Mukhtar represents a tragic surrender of her personal autonomy. Rather than choosing a path of genuine healing or pursuing the love she actually wants, she opts for the familiar cage of family appeasement to grant her ailing father peace of mind before his passing. This decision sets the stage for future conflict, as marrying a man she views with irritation while tied to a hostile extended family promises more disaster than salvation.

Keywords

Safiyya, Maman Maama, Hausa novel, Gidado, Mukhtar, Mustapha, Abdul, family pressure, trauma, sacrifice, marriage, grief, mental health, emotional turmoil.