Kamarsu Ce Daya Complete Book

Description

English Translation

It was Saturday, around quarter to 11 in the morning when I woke up from the ghetto, completely high out of my mind from drug abuse—weed, "madaran suku die," codeine, hard drugs—in short, everything you can think of that strips away one’s sanity, except alcohol. After consuming all that, I started making my way home. As I walked, I was swaying unsteadily like a tricycle, while neighborhood children gathered around, shouting at me, "Yayi marisa, he's taken a capsule!"

My eyes were tightly shut like someone half-asleep due to the heavy intoxication. Right there, I blindly reached down, grabbed stones, and started throwing them wildly everywhere like a madman, eventually hitting Malam Yusuf, our neighborhood Imam, right on the head. All the children scattered, running away in fear of the new madman.

Next, I began feeling heavy lashes landing on me from everywhere. The senior men of our neighborhood had given me a severe beating (like a donkey) for my reckless and insane behavior. I collapsed on the ground, falling into a deep sleep right next to an open drainage gutter and a pile of refuse. I did not wake up until after afternoon prayers (Asr). No one had bothered to wake me up or drag me away from the edge of the gutter. I felt a burning, throbbing pain all over my body, coupled with a deep, gnawing hunger, so I slowly limped my way home.

With a heavy and bitter heart, I burst open the door and forced my way in. Since we lived in a rented compound, all the women and their children rushed into their respective rooms to hide so I wouldn't harm them. I headed straight for the kitchen, opening pots one after another like someone looking for hidden treasure, but I couldn't find even a scrap of burnt rice (k'anzo). Frustrated, I aggressively yelled for my mother: "Daso! Daso!!"

Trembling, she stepped out, heavily pregnant and due to give birth any day now. "Where is my food?!" Frightened, she started stammering, "Um... um... please forgive me, Muh'du. Honestly, I didn't think you would want food, which is why I gave it to Fatima earlier."

"What?! My food?! You're lying! Is your father the one providing for us, or mine?"

"Please don't..." Before she could even finish her sentence, I delivered a stinging slap across her left cheek, then yanked her up and slapped her right cheek as well. I started kicking and shoving her around as she wept, "I swear, today you will taste the bitterness of your actions, I will kill you and the unborn baby inside you!"

I swear, I beat my mother mercilessly without feeling an ounce of remorse. She began crying out in deep anguish, lamenting that the very child she gave birth to was the one beating her instead of protecting her from even a verbal insult.

Musa, as I tell you this story, whenever I remember what I did to my mother in this life, I feel like setting myself on fire just to find a little relief in my heart. Both my friend Aliyu and I could do nothing but weep. Truly, HAQQI (divine justice/rights) is no joke; it surpasses the imagination of both humans and spirits. Anyone who knows Muh'd and looks at him in his current state would weep for him. He is severely bloated and completely out of his mind. His clothes have to be torn into two halves just for him to wear one part, and even then, it is still too big for him. In his current condition—even though nobody knows what tomorrow holds—I honestly don't think he will survive to see the light of another morning. Anyone who doesn't know what is going on would think he is suffering from a terminal illness, but I swear, it is only the consequence of divine retribution (al-hak'i) catching up with him.

Anyway, let's get back to our story. Neither the collar of my shirt nor any ounce of pity could stop me; I didn't care about the baby in her womb, acting as though she wasn't the one who gave birth to me.

I picked up a shovel, kicked her to the ground, and raised the shovel to strike her. She let out a piercing scream. That was when Ali, Hamza, and Dauda rushed into the compound and shoved me aside. I staggered and nearly fell. Ali flew into a rage, shouting, "What kind of a madman are you? Isn't this your mother, you fool? Did you not know she is pregnant when you beat her like this?"

Before I could process it, smack!—a heavy slap landed on my left cheek. I swear I saw stars! I looked up and saw Hamza standing over me. Before I could attempt to get up, he delivered a powerful punch straight to my face, busting both my lips and my nose.

Hamza wasn't even angry in a calm way; he naturally speaks with a crackling, aggressive voice, and seeing him now completely infuriated, he couldn't even bother to curse me—he just kept raining blows on me from every direction. All of them were my friends and age-mates, yet while I feared them, I didn't fear any other living soul on earth, for reasons I couldn't explain. Among them, only Hamza was a fellow drug addict; Ali and Dauda had never even touched Tramadol, let alone other mind-altering substances.

In his cracky voice, Hamza yelled, "You fool, isn't this your mother? What kind of drugs did you take today?!"

Ali and Dauda were over by my mother, who was still weeping, trying to comfort her before finally leading her inside a room. Throughout all this chaos, not a single neighbor or woman in the compound came out.

They grabbed me, tied me up in a "sweet" binding (tied tightly at the top and bottom with a clothesline rope), and dragged me out of the house. They took me to a garden where no one could hear my cries for help or rescue me. As I well knew, Dauda and Hamza never went anywhere without their ten-tailed cable whips hidden around their waists. To my utter shock, I watched them lift their shirts and pull out the cable whips, each holding his own.

With his cracky voice, Hamza said, "Today you will pay for your actions. Are you trying to show off your drug addiction to me? When did you start doing drugs to the point where you take stuff that doesn't even faze me, and then come back to beat your mother?"

I screamed at the top of my lungs, begging them for forgiveness. Then I saw Ali slip away from the spot; it turned out he went to pluck something else. The next moment, I saw him return carrying a thick, thorny stick, stripping away the leaves from it. My screaming volume instantly spiked like someone who had just looked upon the angel of death. They glared at me with wild, bulging owl-like eyes. I knew I was in for a brutal beating—the kind that would land me in the hospital where doctors would ask if I had gotten into a fight with a leopard.

Before I knew it, the blows began raining down. From screaming, my voice eventually grew hoarse until only the sound of whipping filled the air. They only stopped when I had completely broken down and softened up.

I was unconscious for over two hours. When I finally woke up, I found myself lying on a hospital bed with an intravenous drip in my hand. It turned out they had brought me home after my father threw a fit of anger and called the local vigilantes ('yan qato da gora) to arrest my friends, refusing to bail them out until I woke up. I swear, I was thoroughly beaten that day; my body was completely battered everywhere from Ali's thorny whip and Hamza's cable whips.

The following day at 8:00 AM, my mother herself went down to the vigilante office to bail out Hamza and the others, and they returned home. As for me, after the doctor came to check on me, he prescribed some medications which a nurse retrieved from the dispensary. He handed us our discharge papers and sternly warned my father never to let me take drugs again, because the substances I was consuming were far too strong for my physiological system. My father replied, "We will heed the warning, God willing, Doctor."

When we returned home, my younger sisters Aisha and Fatima had just returned from selling local bean cakes (awara). Our father called out, "Aisha?" "Yes, Baba," she responded. "Quickly bring us a woven mat." After she brought it, he ordered her to spread it out for me. I collapsed onto the mat.

Our father yelled out for our mother, "Daso?! Daso?! Are you not coming out?" "I'm coming," she replied, stepping out while biting her lower lip and cradling her heavy pregnant belly. "Now Maryam, do you have no shame? Are you out of your mind? You sat back and watched my only son get severely beaten by his friends like that, eh?" "Haba Malam! Are you the one who is going to cover up falsehoods?" she cried out tearfully. "The boy was trying to destroy me, and those good boys rescued me from his hands with great difficulty, yet you are saying this?"

Hearing her voice made me furious, and I immediately started hurling insults and abuses at her while my father just sat there and let me. I cursed the very mother who was now taking care of me day and night. Even though the things I did to her in this life are unforgettable and unforgivable, she still showers me with special care. I never knew she loved me this much until I fell into this terrible calamity.

Ever since my mother gave birth to me, I had never brought her true happiness; every single day I did things that made her cry, yet she never once opened her mouth to curse me or say, "Muh'd, God's wrath be upon you."

Musa, Aliyu, I swear I have destroyed my own life. Look at how I've turned out! Anyone who looks at me once never wishes to look at me a second time. Yet my mother—the very person I looked down upon and despised without her ever doing me any wrong—is the one caring for me. When I soil myself with feces or urine, she washes it away; when I vomit, she cleans it. If my clothes get dirty, she washes them and even bathes me.

At this point, he broke down into deep, heart-wrenching, pitiful sobs. Wheezing, he continued: "It's late now, Musa. It's quarter to 10:00 PM, you guys should head home and rest. Tomorrow, God willing, we will pick up from where we left off."

Tears were welling up in both my left and right eyes as I looked at Aliyu and said, "May God keep us alive and in good health, good night." "Amen, may God show us tomorrow," Aliyu replied. Aliyu couldn't utter another word; he was just shedding tears as we walked out of the room.

His mother was sitting on a mat outside the doorway. As we wiped our tears with a handkerchief, I said, "Mama, we are leaving, good night." "Alright Musa, go and rest off the fatigue. Thank you! Thank you so much!! May God reward you abundantly and preserve our bond."

With great difficulty, Aliyu managed to open his mouth and say, "Amen." "Aliyu, greet your mother very well for me, and you too, Musa," she added. "We will," we answered, and then walked away...

Summary

This emotional Hausa narrative tells the harrowing story of Muh'd, a severe drug addict whose addiction plunges him into complete depravity and violence.

The story opens on a Saturday morning when Muh'd returns home completely intoxicated on a cocktail of dangerous substances. In a drug-induced frenzy, he hurls stones in the neighborhood, injuring the local Imam, before collapsing near a refuse dump.

Later that day, high and delirious, he confronts his heavily pregnant mother, Daso, demanding food. When she explains she gave it away, he flies into a vicious rage, beating her mercilessly and threatening to kill her and her unborn child. His cries and violence attract his friends—Ali, Hamza, and Dauda—who intervene. Enraged by his unfilial cruelty, Hamza and Ali beat him severely, tying him up and taking him to a secluded garden where they subject him to a brutal flogging with cable whips and thorny switches to teach him a lesson.

The beating leaves Muh'd unconscious for hours, landing him in the hospital on an IV drip. Despite his monstrous behavior, his mother—the very victim of his abuse—shows him unconditional love. She bails his friends out of custody, brings him home, and patiently cleans up after him as he suffers from his injuries and withdrawal. Wracked with intense guilt and remorse, a deeply broken Muh'd weeps alongside his visiting friends, realizing the devastating spiritual and physical consequences (haqqi) of mistreating a mother who loves him unconditionally.

Description

• Setting: A ghetto neighborhood and a modest rented compound in Northern Nigeria.
• Main Characters:
  • Muh'd: The troubled protagonist and narrator's friend whose life has been ruined by heavy drug addiction.
  • Daso: Muh'd's long-suffering, heavily pregnant mother who exhibits profound, unconditional maternal forgiveness and sacrifice.
  • Ali, Hamza, and Dauda: Muh'd's age-mate friends who act as a harsh form of neighborhood/vigilante justice against his abuse.
  • Musa: The listener/narrator to whom Muh'd is recounting his tragic life story.
• Themes: Drug abuse consequences, parental rights (haqqi), unconditional maternal love, regret, remorse, and neighborhood vigilantism.

Analytics

• Narrative Perspective: First-person retrospective narrative ("Muh'd" recounting his past trauma to his friend "Musa").
• Tone & Emotional Arc: The tone shifts dramatically from chaotic, aggressive, and gritty in the first half to deeply sorrowful, remorseful, and melancholic in the second half. It acts as a severe moral cautionary tale against substance abuse and disrespecting parents.
• Cultural & Social Context: Highlights contemporary social issues in Northern Nigerian urban settings—specifically the menace of youth substance abuse (codeine, pharmaceuticals, cannabis), the role of peer intervention, neighborhood dynamics, and the sacred cultural/religious reverence attached to maternal rights (haqqi).

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