Facala Book Compeleted

Description

Chapter One (Continuation/Segment)

Preparations were in full swing to welcome the family’s favorite, Momma’s last-born. You would think a grand festival was taking place in the house; every corner was filled with excitement and joy over the return of Momma's youngest. Matching outfits had even been tailored for the occasion, truly a sight to behold. The men were dressed in snow-white short-sleeved shirts paired with black trousers, the chests of the shirts beautifully decorated with red-striped floral embroidery and the word "Love" boldly written on them.

The women wore long, sleek maroon-colored gowns—all the young ladies donning this identical style. The older women wore gorgeous black and red lace ensembles. Truly, it was a magnificent spectacle visible only to those present.

Off to one side, I caught sight of a young lady taking her time getting ready, acting as though they weren't about to go welcome a very important guest. While putting on her earrings, she heard someone calling out, "Salma, Momma’s last-born, come out already! You know bro doesn't like delays, and his flight is about to land."

She putted out her lower lip like she was about to cry and said, "I swear, if Momma hadn't told me to get ready, I wouldn't have stepped out at all."

The person calling her from afar retorted, "Oh, oh, let’s go before you start getting military style punishment."

She completely ignored her, didn't even bother wrapping her headscarf properly, and walked out in her slip-on sandals with absolute composure.

Everyone piled into the cars and headed to the airport to receive the distinguished guest, Canal Aliyu A. Aliyu—widely known as "Triple A," a nickname that had stuck with him since primary school all the way to his current status as a Canal (Colonel/Captain equivalent rank, or title style).

The young women were intensely eager to catch a glimpse of Canal. Each of them had dolled up to look drop-dead gorgeous; despite wearing the exact same uniform fabric, every single one sported a uniquely stunning dress design. They all looked undeniably lovely—haters gonna hate, after all.

At the same time, they kept shooting sidelong glares and curling their lips at one another, clear signs that every single one of them was a handful, just waiting for the slightest spark to ignite. 😂

Even at the airport, petty drama ensued. Each girl stationed herself right by a car door, hoping he would see her first upon stepping out. Momma’s last-born just watched them and chuckled. For longer than yesterday, she knew exactly who Bro Aliyu was: a man blessed with ferocious stubbornness and an absolute aura of indifference. If you tried to do something just to impress him, he would not only ignore you, he wouldn't even look at your face to acknowledge that you had put on something special! But if you ever saw him engaged in conversation with a gentle smile, you didn't even need to ask—it was either with Momma, his older siblings, or Abbah, their father. Remembering this made Momma’s last-born suppress her laughter because she knew very well that these girls were about to catch serious pepper soon. He didn't even care for casual glances, let alone romantic talk.

The young ladies were buzzing and hyperactive, constantly adjusting their glasses and fixing the posture of their fitted outfits. Momiga—the daughter of Canal’s paternal uncle—looked at Momma’s last-born and snapped, "Salma, why on earth do you look down on people? Just because we came to welcome your brother, you're giving us this kind of attitude? Well, let me tell you, unlike Fatima, I won't cut you any slack; if you try me, I will put you in your place!"

Momma’s last-born gave her a look so piercing it made Momiga’s internal organs churn. The young girl commanded natural presence and authority; she had zero tolerance for disrespect, which was precisely why she rarely mingled much with people.

She didn't utter a single word in response, but that one glare spoke volumes. She turned away and fixed her gaze intently on the airfield, praying silently because she genuinely missed her Bro. Twelve years apart was no joke; he had left when she was just ten years old, and now she was twenty-two, while he was twenty-nine.

All attention shifted to him as he began descending the steps, clad in his immaculately tailored military uniform that fit him so impeccably it looked as though it had been custom-made for his skin alone.

My oh my! Oh my word! Oh goodness!

This guy outshined all other men. He was enviably tall—a pure-blooded fair Fulani man glowing with youth, looking so fresh you’d think blood was about to burst from his skin, especially since he lived abroad where his complexion had enjoyed total rest and pampering. He looked striking enough to rival any woman. The young ladies nearly buckled at the knees right there from how devastatingly handsome he looked, his physique exuding absolute rugged vitality.

A scramble immediately broke out among the crowd to rush and welcome him, though shyness ultimately held the young women back because of the elder men standing present. He walked up to the elders with utmost decorum, greeting them respectfully as they welcomed him home. He responded with a smile while glancing around, trying to catch a glimpse of his Momma or Papa. Failing to spot them, his characteristic aloofness kicked in; he didn't bother asking about their whereabouts. You wouldn't think he cared at all as he furrowed his brows and marched right past.

The praise-singers immediately broke into rhythmic beats and chants: "Galadima, the prince has landed! May Allah preserve you, future king!"

With his characteristic, unforgettable swagger, he walked past the group of young ladies. They felt like pulling him toward them by sheer force, but they didn't dare utter a single word. Instead, they zipped their lips and trailed closely behind him.

Even the scent of his cologne was captivating—arguably the most intoxicating fragrance imaginable, causing everyone to involuntarily flare their nostrils and inhale the sweet aroma that instantly chased away all worries.

Stepping into the GRAND PALACE, you would encounter high-ranking guards and attendants stationed everywhere. Looking up at the upper balcony, I spotted the King—Sarkigara Badau—magnificently attired in breathtaking royal garments that instantly commanded attention. Adorned in dazzling regalia that caught the light from every angle, one didn't even need to be told that he was the father of Canal Aliyu Galadima.

The elderly monarch's radiant smile widened, especially since Aliyu was his only surviving son, whom he loved with a fierce, deep devotion that everyone in the palace acknowledged. Aliyu was thoroughly pampered on every front. However, the hearts of certain individuals within the royal household were filled with sworn oaths of vengeance against Aliyu, dating back years to an attempted assassination plot from which Allah had protected him.

Despite Aliyu's intense reserve and aloofness, he hurried toward his father, opened his arms wide, and embraced the old man tightly. He shed quiet tears, knowing intimately how deeply he had missed his parents—especially his father, whom he adored beyond measure, having been raised in the ocean of his father's affection.

Onlookers stood frozen, watching the poignant scene. Some rejoiced, while others felt their chests burning with inner turmoil and dread. To them, the return of this young prince signaled the potential collapse of their unhindered reign of mischief, as they had run amok unchecked for years—and they knew everything was about to change.

The Palace Vizier looked at the Heir Apparent and murmured, "Indeed, a massive war is brewing in this palace. This sharp-eyed young man will never let us be. Even now, I am certain his return isn't out of pure goodwill; whether he likes it or not, he will never rule this land."

Chapter Two & Three (Segment Translations)

RABIATU

...Wiping away hot, scalding tears, I checked the clock once more: exactly 1:30 AM. Frustration and deep heartache had robbed me of even a wink of sleep. Ahmad and I had been married for a full year, yet I could tell you that I hadn't shared a night with him in nearly five months. I am his legitimate wife, yet I firmly believe there is another woman with whom Ahmad alternates nights. Ahmad has completely turned his back on me, showing me zero respect whatsoever. I racked my brain trying to figure out what I might have done to make him treat me this way, but I couldn't recall committing a single fault, not even the size of an atom.

Only one thing came to mind if it could be called that—the problem of FACALA, whom I often claimed was worse than a co-wife (rival). My experience with Facala was completely different from any other form of polygamous rivalry. Even my mother-in-law—a dignified woman who respected everyone—somehow stood between us. Whenever I greeted her, she would neither respond nor even look my way.

Facala and I lived in the same house and moved in on the exact same day; the day I was brought in as a bride was the exact day she was brought in as a bride, as our weddings took place simultaneously. Yet, we possessed vast, glaring differences in character, lineage, and everything else.

The primary reason my Facala tormented me was because my husband loved me more—a fact she realized during our early days together. Back then, as a new bride, Ahmad and I used to do chores together. He would playfully carry me on his back while we laughed, as I had been married off at a very young age—not more than 16. Right now, I am 17 years old. Unfortunately, Allah hasn't blessed me with children yet; my very first pregnancy miscarried early on, and I haven't conceived since.

Balaraba—which is my Facala—has given birth. In fact, right then, she had a toddler whose birth gap was barely two months old, and she was currently heavily pregnant again, due to give birth any day now. Balaraba wasn't a young teenager like me; she was around 29 or 30 years old, and her husband was only slightly older than her.

The second reason Balaraba deeply resented me was my beauty and education. I am very fair-featured (though not light-skinned), with long, thick, luscious hair that cascaded down like a black American model's. Allah had blessed me with a wonderfully proportioned figure—not excessively tall, but certainly not short; not bulky, but possessing that coveted hourglass shape. Everything about me was neatly put together. Furthermore, I possessed both Islamic and secular education; before my marriage, I had completely memorized the entire Quran (Hafidha) and completed my secondary education (commercial/candy). My father passionately wanted all his children to attain well-rounded education. I was the only one among my mother's children who hadn't proceeded straight to university, as all my older siblings earned degrees before marrying. Being an only child born to my mother—who was my father's third and youngest wife—made me unique. My mother was of pure Shuwa Arab descent, incredibly beautiful, full-figured just like me, and flawlessly light-skinned. Unlike her, I inherited my father's complexion—he was a dark-skinned indigenous Hausa-Fulani, and I even shared some of his facial features.

I bolted upright upon hearing my bedroom door being shoved open. I spun around quickly to look at him; he was staring right back at me, my hands crossed over my chest. I was dressed in a gorgeous nightgown that clung softly to my smooth skin, leaving half my thighs exposed—all in an effort to please my husband. Yet, alas, he didn't even spare me a glance, let alone offer a word of appreciation. My hair was tied up into a cute top-knot bun that looked remarkably chic, like an African-American style.

He stared at me intensely, just the way he always did whenever he looked at me.

I wiped away my tears. I couldn't wrap my head around this madness, I swear! Ahmad and I loved each other deeply with a Layla-and-Majnun-style romance, but everything had suddenly changed overnight. Even now, Ahmad would constantly stare at me with intense desire to be close to me, yet whenever he drew near, he would freeze up and retreat to the side. It troubled me deeply, but out of shame, I couldn't tell anyone—not even my mother, Innah. I felt as though exposing my husband's flaws would shatter the public illusion that Ahmad and I were living happily, and I desperately wanted that facade maintained.

Ahmad walked up to me and asked, "What kept you awake?"

The question caught me completely off guard. Astonished, I stared at him, glanced at the wall clock, and replied, "Your failure to return home on time is what kept me awake, Habibi! Look at the clock—do you know what time it is?"

He glanced at the clock casually and said, "It's 11:30. So what?"

His casual response provoked me beyond measure. Unleashing a burst of anger I didn't know I possessed, I snapped, "Is that all you have to say? You're out there chasing loose women, and you have the audacity to ask what—"

BAM!

He delivered a vicious strike straight across my mouth. It immediately burst open, bleeding. I raised my hand in shock and stared at the blood on my fingers. Panic overwhelmed me; I completely lost my composure because Ahmad had never laid a hand on me before, despite our frequent disagreements. Whenever he stayed out late, the moment the frustration peaked, I would scream at the top of my lungs... ➡️ [To be continued]

Analytics Summary

• Literary Genre: Contemporary Hausa Domestic Fiction / Romance Drama.
• Core Themes: Polygamy friction (rival wives/co-wives), domestic strain, miscommunication, emotional distance, marital abuse, patriarchal expectations, and class/family dynamics (contrasted with the royal subplot in the opening chapters).
• Key Character Dynamics:
  • Rabiatu & Ahmad: A young, childless teenage bride facing emotional abandonment and sudden physical abuse from a husband who was once deeply affectionate, complicated by the presence of a co-wife.
  • Balaraba (Facala) & Rabiatu: A fierce, older co-wife characterized by envy, childbearing status, and direct hostility rooted in household politics.
  • Zubair: A supportive brother-in-law and family friend trying to mediate domestic peace despite resistance.

Comments and Conclusions

The narrative effectively highlights the complex psychological and social pressures young women face in complex marital arrangements, particularly regarding age gaps, fertility struggles, and co-wife rivalry (Facala). Rabiatu’s character portrays the tragic vulnerability of a young girl thrust into adult realities, clinging to the illusion of past affection while enduring progressive emotional and physical trauma. The juxtaposition between the high-stakes royal drama involving Canal Aliyu and the intimate domestic anguish of Rabiatu creates a dual-layered narrative structure characteristic of popular contemporary Hausa pulp fiction.

Keywords

• Hausa Literature
• Domestic Drama
• Polygamy
• Co-wife Rivalry (Facala)
• Marital Abuse
• Royal Romance
• Fiction Translation

Extended Description

The narrative serves as a dual-narrative canvas, capturing both the grandeur of traditional aristocratic power and the intense, suffocating psychological pressures of domestic life within contemporary Hausa society.

In the royal subplot, the return of Canal Aliyu A. Aliyu ("Triple A") after twelve years abroad introduces an immediate undercurrent of political intrigue. As the sole surviving son of the King (Sarkigara Badau), Aliyu's re-entry into the Babbar Masarauta (Grand Palace) threatens the established impunity of rival factions who have long operated without oversight. His striking military demeanor, combined with his characteristic emotional aloofness and deep-seated devotion to his father, sets the stage for a high-stakes generational and political power struggle. Meanwhile, the lighter peripheral dynamics—such as the young aristocratic women (including Momma's last-born, Salma) vying for his attention—provide a sharp contrast of youthful vanity and courtly pageantry against the heavier currents of palace ambition.

Shifting to the domestic sphere, the narrative plunges into the harrowing reality of Rabiatu, a young teenage bride navigating the toxic waters of a polygamist household. Married at sixteen and now seventeen, childless, and deeply isolated, Rabiatu experiences the cruel erosion of an idealized romance with her husband, Ahmad. Her emotional anguish is continuously aggravated by her co-wife, Balaraba (referred to as Facala), whose fertility, maturity, and aggressive resentment amplify Rabiatu’s alienation. The breakdown of communication culminates in a shocking domestic tragedy—physical violence inflicted by a husband who was once a source of gentle affection. Through the mediation attempts of figures like Yaya Zubair, the story exposes the silent suffering of young brides trapped between the preservation of public facades and private degradation.

Comprehensive Analytics

• Structural Motif: Dual-Plot Confluence. The text operates on two distinct tiers: the macro-level political maneuvering of the royal palace (Masarauta) and the micro-level psychological tragedy of the domestic household.
• Character Archetypes & Dynamics:
  • The Aloof Heir (Aliyu / Triple A): Embodies untouchable authority, foreign exposure, and strict emotional discipline, serving as a disruptive catalyst to entrenched palace corruption.
  • The Neglected Child-Bride (Rabiatu): Represents the vulnerability, emotional dependency, and systemic vulnerability of young girls married off into complex domestic arrangements without adequate emotional or social safety nets.
  • The Antagonistic Co-Wife (Balaraba / Facala): Operates as the domestic antagonist, weaponizing childbearing status, age, and seniority to assert dominance and fuel marital friction.
• Thematic Intersections:
  • Tradition vs. Modernity: Seen in the juxtaposition of royal protocol, praise-singing, and forced cousin marriages with modern education, military service abroad, and contemporary psychological alienation.
  • The Illusion of Marital Harmony: Rabiatu's desperate desire to maintain the public facade of a happy marriage highlights the cultural pressure on women to hide domestic abuse to protect family reputation.

Plot Summary

Preparations reach a fever pitch across the grand palace as the family gathers to welcome Canal Aliyu, the much-adored heir, back from twelve years abroad. Amidst playful tension and rivalrous posturing among the young women of the household—including the sharp-witted Salma (Momma’s last-born)—Aliyu arrives with military precision, displaying his signature cold indifference to the crowd while warmly embracing his aging father. His return instantly alarms rival palace factions, who recognize his presence as a direct threat to their unmonitored influence.

Parallel to the palace welcome, the narrative exposes the grim midnight reality of Rabiatu. Tormented by months of emotional neglect, isolation, and the looming presence of her hostile co-wife, Balaraba, Rabiatu confronts her husband Ahmad over his late-night absences. The confrontation shatters the final illusion of their once-passionate romance when Ahmad resorts to physical violence, striking her across the face. As a concerned brother-in-law, Zubair, attempts to intervene and counsel Ahmad on marital fairness, Rabiatu is left grappling with profound betrayal, physical pain, and the agonizing choice between silence and exposure.