Gudun Aure Book 3

Description

GUDUN AURE BOOK 3 COMPELE

I was lying on a massive Italian royal bed in a luxuriously appointed master bedroom. My S22 phone was beside me, playing the recitation of the Holy Quran in the voice of Mahmood Hosary. My eyes were half-closed, as if I were falling asleep, and the cool breeze from the air conditioner brushed against every pore on my skin. Meanwhile, the tip of my nose inhaled the pleasant fragrance of the incense I had lit in the burner, which didn't emit any smoke because of the careful technique I used to set it up.

I was dressed in a long, lightweight material gown—one of my absolute favorite outfits, even though the fabric wasn't particularly expensive. My face was completely bare of makeup or powder, which only accentuated its drawn, emaciated look.

All day today, I felt as if I were sick or as though someone had died, though neither was true. Ever since I woke up this morning, my mouth had been entirely tasteless, accompanied by a severe, troubling palpitation in my chest. Because of this, I had spent the whole time reciting supplications (adhkar) and tasbih, while the Quran recitation I played helped chase away my loneliness. Yet, despite all that, I felt deeply inside me that a major event was about to shake my world, and that this felt very close to being the end of everything in my life.

I let out a heavy sigh and turned over so that I was now facing the bedroom doorway. Inside my heart, I prayed to the Almighty that whatever was about to happen would turn out for the best, and that He would grant me the strength to endure every kind of trial and accept whatever destiny brought. I stared continuously at the silver ring on my finger, feeling a profound surge of emotion, while memories from a few years ago brought a broad smile to my face—a smile that could only be described as a forced one.

I picked up my phone to check the time; it showed five past five in the evening. I sat up in bed, astonished at how fast time had flown, murmuring to myself, "It's already five? Indeed, time flies—may Allah grant us a faithful end."

Promptly, I slipped my feet to the floor and adjusted my headtie, feeling as weak as though I might collapse, much like someone drained by severe diarrhea in a single day. I walked over to the oversized dressing mirror in the room and reached for a tissue to wipe the crust from my eyes, as I had been dealing with an eye infection for the past two days.

I stood looking at my reflection in the mirror. Truly, if life and aging bring changes, then I had certainly changed. I hardly looked like myself anymore. One single glance at me was enough to tell you that the vibrant youthfulness once on my face was gone, revealing that I was young in age, yet if you knew me well in the past, you would say I had transformed. This wasn't a change in character or behavior, but a physical one. In the past, I used to be a plump, beautifully contoured woman—tubarakallah—with the kind of body that knew no worry or hunger. Contrast that with now, where skin, bones, and visible veins dominated my entire frame. My eyes bulged out like an owl's, my cheeks were completely hollow, and whatever brightness I had was purely the result of my ghastly emaciation. My chest had completely deflated like that of a woman who had nursed a hundred children. I had become an unsightly figure, completely devoid of the glow of a twenty-four-year-old youth.

Suddenly, my eyes welled up with hot tears, though they didn't manage to spill over. In a state of overwhelming self-pity, I lowered my head, feeling a hard lump stuck in my throat that refused to move—a painful obstruction that I wished I could clear with my saliva or have vanish on its own so I could find some relief. Summoning my usual fortitude, I raised my head, blinking back the gathering tears, and swept my gaze across the room. Is this all a human being is given for comfort and enjoyment, for worries to cease? Especially when you live in a house this magnificent, looking as though it belongs in a Western country. I was swimming in luxury; anyone who visited my house never wanted to leave. A fortune had clearly been poured into building it; you would swear it wasn't a world inhabited by ordinary mortals. Unless Allah favored you with His mercy, Satan could easily distract you from performing your worship.

Often, my friends and female relatives would say to me, "Sa'ida, you are truly blessed; you don't know grief or worldly sorrow because Allah has provided abundantly for you. Wealth is everywhere. Look at the house you live in—it's like you'll never die. The cars you are driven around in alone are enough to keep you plump and fresh. You eat meat every single day; you have no worries left." They didn't know that appearances can be deceiving, and true wealth is peace of mind.

I stared closely at the mirror in front of me, let out a deep sigh, and offered a painful smile, wondering at those who spoke to me that way. I didn't know if they were so blinded by the luxury Allah had placed me in that they never noticed the difficult challenges lurking beside it. I wasn't enjoying this house; I wasn't happy at all. They failed to see how much I had deteriorated; they failed to understand that my past life was far better than my present one, and that I desperately needed their help. They assumed I could do anything for them since they called this grand mansion "Sa'ida's house," unaware that I could do nothing because I owned none of it—none of it was mine to boast about.

Truly, wealth, life, and health are blessings. Wealth is everything next to health; there is nothing better than being self-sufficient, being the one who gives rather than the one who receives, eating and sleeping well, wearing expensive clothes, flying across the skies wherever you want, spending without anyone rationing you, and mingling with high society. Yet what of it? Despite all that vast wealth and luxurious living, without peace of mind, there is neither happiness nor comfort. For my part, I would rather live in poverty than possess mountains of wealth without peace, tranquility, or inner calm.

I let out a third heavy sigh, offering a bittersweet smile as I shook my head, knowing the true meaning of it all myself. One thing I kept in mind was that every level of success comes with its challenges, everything in this world has a beginning and an end, reliance on Allah is true capital, and no one brings about change except Him. As long as there is today, tomorrow, and the day after, everything will pass and become history. I readjusted my headtie, applied scented oil, and dragged my weary, lifeless body out of the bedroom, feeling as though my feet were walking on ice.

Moving swiftly and unhappily, heedless of how time had slipped away, I headed out. I knew wherever Hubbi was right now, he was on his way home—or perhaps he had already returned without my knowing, since lately I rarely knew when he came back unless I was sitting in the parlor, just as I never knew when he left. To make matters worse, I hadn't cooked yet—a lapse in duty I had never committed before. Even if the food I made wasn't appreciated or was left untouched, that would never stop me from trying to fulfill my duty of cooking what had been bought and stored. As I stepped out of the bedroom, I didn't even go downstairs, feeling it would be a waste of time.

I went straight to the upstairs kitchen, opened the fridge without delay, and took out the container where I stored boiled pepper paste. I didn't have the patience to grind peppers daily; Hubbi usually bought a massive quantity of ingredients, which I blended, boiled, and poured into jars. Working quickly while pondering my thoughts, I soon finished cooking jollof spaghetti, which filled the air with the aroma of dried fish and vegetables. I transferred it into one of the expensive food warmers Hubbi had brought back from Dubai last week—Hamida had mentioned they cost two hundred thousand naira. Afterward, I grabbed the blender, prepared fresh pineapple juice, and poured it into a jug.

Once finished, I carried everything to Hubbi's upstairs parlor and arranged it on the table. I tidied up the room until it smelled fresh, then stepped out and locked it. Peering out the window into the parking lot, I didn't see the car he had left with, so I knew he hadn't returned yet. That made me calm down somewhat, though I remained surprised by his unusual delay. Usually, he was back home by five-thirty; after eating, he would rest until the Maghrib call to prayer, go to the mosque, and return only after Isha. That was one thing I appreciated—Allah hadn't given me a husband fond of lingering in public hangouts; he preferred staying home. Yet lately, I dreaded his return given how frequently we clashed, though I had lost track of the root cause, the trigger for our distress, and where the discord had begun.

I returned to my room, took a fresh bath, and dressed in an ankara top and skirt set that fit my body impeccably. The skirt accentuated my curves, especially my hips, which were my most striking physical feature after my moderate bust. I left the room trailing fragrance. Despite the grim reality of my marital life, I never neglected grooming myself, dressing up, and presenting myself attractively to my husband, nor would I let outsiders realize I was in trouble. I knew how to guard the secrets of my marriage.

I had grown accustomed to my husband's cold indifference. While it bothered me, I acted as though it didn't, so as not to provoke him further. I never stopped serving him; even he knew I had immense patience, because another woman would have caused a scene long ago. At this point, my greatest desire was simply for us to sit down and understand each other, for him to point out my flaws so I could correct them. By God, I wasn't happy with how we were living. We had married for love, not hate, and for the eight years of our marriage, we had never gone more than a few days without speaking, let alone sleeping in separate beds. Yet he refused to let me talk to him or point out my faults, and as far as I knew, I hadn't wronged him. Moreover, his family had turned against me—I didn't understand the sudden shift that made everyone show open hostility toward me, making me hesitant to even visit them. They looked at me with disdain, shunning me as if I had a repulsive odor. Even at gatherings, I exchanged nothing beyond basic greetings. What boggled my mind was that all this hostility had erupted within just a few months. Previously, everything was fine; I used to think no woman in the world was as fortunate as I was with in-laws. Their love and affection for me were immense, and my husband adored me everywhere I went. But now? Now I was simply the unwanted wife.

Right then, I longed to pour my heart out to someone to find inner relief, but I had no idea whom to turn to. I couldn't confide marital troubles in a friend—I didn't even have a close confidante. As for my mother, I refused to burden her with such worries, especially since her greatest wish was always to hear that my marriage was peaceful. Her constant advice was for me to be patient and avoid lodging complaints, as doing so only worsened marital friction. I had no sisters—only four older brothers given to me by Allah. I certainly wouldn't dare bring this up to them. As the saying goes, only the person inside the house knows where the roof leaks. If I spent a thousand days explaining my plight to them, they wouldn't believe the issue originated from me; instead, they would instantly jump to conclusions, and one of them might even storm my house to teach me a lesson. But if I accused Hubbi of wrongdoing, a torrent of insults would rain down on me—not because they didn't love me, for they cherished me fiercely as their only sister and pitied me deeply, but because siding against my husband wasn't their style. The only exception was the day Ya Imam came to check on me, saw how emaciated I had become, and sat me down to deliver deeply moving advice about how worldly life requires patience. My father, on the other hand, had a fiery temper. The moment I complained, he would send someone to fetch me or demand I pack my belongings and return home—waiting for the husband to realize my worth and come beg for my return or divorce his daughter. But I abhorred anything that threatened to snap the cord of my marriage. I belonged to that category of women who could swallow immense heartbreak rather than face divorce; the very thought of a broken marriage, let alone one involving me, terrified me.

Ever since I came downstairs, I had been trying Hubbi's phone number, but it wouldn't go through. By the time Maghrib arrived, my anxiety reached a fever pitch. It wasn't even late, but this was completely out of character. In all our years of marriage, he had only stayed out past Isha once, and that was due to an accident he had suffered. That's why I felt a nagging sense of dread, though I kept fighting off the dark thoughts plaguing my mind.

I threw a shawl over my shoulders and stepped outside. The gateman hurried over upon seeing me emerge in a panic, bowing slightly and asking if everything was alright. Choking back my tears with great effort, I asked him:

"Hasn't Hubbi returned since he left?"

Surprise flickered across his face at the question. I knew he was astonished that a wife would have to ask about her own husband's whereabouts. Respectfully, he replied:

"Hajiya, he only left for the mosque a short while ago, though he drove out, so I suppose he might have stopped at a more distant mosque."

A heavy knot formed in my chest. Pushing down my frustration and worry, I said, "Okay." That was all I could manage before walking away, knowing that saying another word would unleash the tears I was struggling to contain.

Upon returning inside, I went straight to his downstairs bedroom. Judging by the look of the room, he had returned long ago. What shocked me immensely was the fresh scent of perfume—one I didn't recognize. He only ever used one specific fragrance, a brand I had gifted him even before our wedding, which he had stubbornly stuck to without ever changing until today. Yet here was a brand-new bottle sitting on the dressing table, even though his old bottle wasn't empty.

I scanned the room, and my eyes landed on three warm food coolers on the floor. Something pierced my heart like a dagger. With trembling legs, I hurried over and opened them; the aroma of exquisite, professionally cooked food hit my nose. There was no doubt this food had been prepared by a master chef. My gaze drifted up to the bed where his discarded clothes lay, and I felt as though I were being pulled toward the wardrobe. With shaking hands, I opened the section where his traditional jallabiya robes hung. All thirteen of them were hanging neatly on their hangers; not a single one had been worn to the mosque as he usually did.

Suddenly, my mouth went dry. Desperate for a course of action, I grabbed my phone and dialed his number. First, it said "not available." When I tried again, it didn't even ring—it went straight to "user busy." I checked the time; the Isha prayer time had passed. That made me redial frantically. Four times in a row, the same response played: "user busy," yet I kept calling.

A mind devoid of bones began weaving worst-case scenarios, flashing images of them before my eyes. Panic-stricken, I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head. I didn't know when I sank onto the edge of the bed, gripping the bedsheets as a sharp pain pierced my chest. In my mind, I repeated over and over that Hubbi could never do to me what my imagination suggested. Even if everything else changed, he could never stop being a good man—a rare, noble gentleman. I hadn't married a scoundrel; no matter how tough things got, Hubbi would never turn his back on me or humiliate me in such a manner. The place I held in his heart was too high for him to disgrace me like this. I knew he loved me deeply, and everyone could testify to it.

As if falling from the sky, a greeting echoed in the parlor. I jumped up instantly, composed myself, and hurried out, eager to run into Hubbi—the real Hubbi I had married, brimming with the love, affection, and peace of our past.

But alas! The moment I stepped into the parlor, my heart sank as my eyes met a terrifying sight. I froze in utter confusion, not knowing where to turn or what to do. It was Hubbi's older sister, Maijidda—whom everyone, from younger siblings to children and relatives, simply called Yaya (Elder Sister). She was the eldest of them all, acting as a mother figure to the family. Everyone loved her, but everyone feared her as well. Her word was law; even their mother rarely made major decisions without deferring to her judgment or giving her full authority. Nothing was ever done without her consent, and she commanded immense respect and obedience while treating everyone with dignity. I wouldn't call her unkind—to say so would be an injustice—for she deeply loved her family and desired everyone's happiness. Anyone in distress brought their complaints to her; she was the pillar of the family. However, she had a fierce temper and tolerated no disrespect. When her anger flared, it spared no one, which made everyone careful not to cross her.

Among all her younger sisters-in-law, she used to favor me the most—not that she disliked the others, but my special place in her heart stemmed from her profound love for Hubbi. She used to dote on me just like her own daughter Shatu, who was my age. But all that immense affection and care had vanished within a matter of months. Her attitude and demeanor toward me had completely changed. I didn't know what crime I had committed; she had simply transferred all her fury and burning hatred onto me. During the wedding held last month, she had ordered everyone else to rest while assigning every single chore to me. I was reduced to a maid or a slave, struggling with mountains of dirty wedding dishes and sweeping floors until my back ached severely from bending over. When food was distributed, she would call out my name, hurl insults at me, and tell me to carry plates to guests. I had no moment to rest; even cleaning up children's mess and washing diapers fell entirely on me. She isolated me, treating me as useless and worthless. I suffered immense heartache and misery during that wedding, often wishing I could run away to my parents' house, though I dared not—Ya Shaik would have dealt with me ruthlessly if he heard I had walked out on my marriage.

Even the wedding guests pitied me, some suggesting I be allowed to rest since there were plenty of in-laws around. But I had no right to rest; taking a break was equivalent to taking a break at my parents' house, since Yaya was angry with me. Right now, I was deathly afraid of Yaya. By God, in the past, the mere sight of me would make her break into a wide smile and open her arms for an embrace. But now, I would almost prefer the authorities to come arrest me than face her wrath inside my own house.

The glare she shot me terrified me, forcing me to hurry over and cower before a chair, frozen by the sight of her sour expression. I huddled down in a crouch like a terrified mouse trapped in a jug. I felt her massive presence dominate the parlor—she was a heavily built, plump woman. Though my eyes remained fixed on the floor, I could feel the venomous, disdainful look she was throwing my way, curling her lip as if looking at vomit. Seeing me open my mouth, she cut me off furiously:

"Useless creature, troublemaker, ungodly wretch! Because you lack manners, upbringing, and respect for elders, you expect me to greet you? What have you achieved to consider yourself my equal? Just because you were pulled out from poverty and your secrets covered in luxury, you think you're above everyone else? Good-for-nothing show-off! What on earth have you achieved in this house to warrant such arrogance? Even the master of this house would be overstepping if he came to my home to humiliate me, let alone you! You wicked girl, you want to portray your husband's family as worthless people, which is why when you heard me calling out my greetings, you left me standing there, hoping I would grow tired, wither away, and leave? Well, in case you didn't know, I am the one who can have him divorce you, and you are divorced right now! Would you treat your own family with such disrespect? Am I, your husband's older sister, some worthless nobody that you couldn't even answer my greetings when I came to your house?"

Trembling all over, I shook my head in denial, stammering: "It wasn't like that at all, Yaya! For God's and the Prophet's sake, please have mercy; by God, I genuinely didn't hear your greetings because I was working..."

She cut me off with a sharp screech, shouting furiously: "Shut your hypocritical, scheming, Godless mouth! What on earth do you do in this house besides eat and sleep?"

Analytics

• Source Language: Hausa
• Target Language: English
• Genre/Format: Contemporary Northern Nigerian fiction / Romance-drama excerpt
• Word Count (Approximate): ~4,200 words (Source) / ~3,900 words (English translation)
• Tone: Emotional, introspective, dramatic, tense, and melancholic
• Primary Themes: Marital discord, wealth vs. peace of mind, societal pressure, loss of youth/identity, patriarchal family dynamics, and emotional endurance in marriage.

Comments

This excerpt is a deeply atmospheric and emotionally heavy piece characteristic of modern Hausa popular fiction (Littattafan Soyayya style, but leaning toward domestic drama).

1. Character Psychology: The protagonist, Sa'ida, presents a poignant paradox. She lives in material opulence (an Italian royal bed, a mansion resembling Western homes, luxury cars, wealth), yet she is emotionally starved and physically wasting away due to stress and mysterious marital alienation. Her internal monologue captures the universal truth that wealth cannot buy peace of mind.
2. Cultural & Social Nuance: The text heavily reflects Northern Nigerian socio-cultural norms: the immense influence of extended family (particularly older sisters like Yaya), the societal stigma surrounding divorce, the pressure on women to endure marital hardship silently, and traditional domestic roles (cooking, cleaning, deference to in-laws).
3. Symbolism & Imagery:
   • The physical contrast between Sa'ida’s past plumpness ("tarin kiba") and her current emaciation ("shegiyar ramar da nayi") mirrors the draining nature of her unhappy marriage.
   • The untouched jallabiya robes in the wardrobe and the unfamiliar perfume bottle serve as powerful, ominous foreshadowing of emotional betrayal or abandonment.

Conclusions

The passage successfully builds psychological tension by juxtaposing Sa'ida's internal spiritual reflections (listening to the Quran, seeking solace in prayer) with external, escalating domestic crises (her husband's unexplained absence, the discovery of another woman's cooking, and the sudden, terrifying arrival of her tyrannical sister-in-law, Yaya). It paints a vivid picture of a woman trapped in a gilded cage, highlighting the fragility of human happiness when foundational trust and peace within a marriage crumble.

Keywords

• Hausa Literature
• Domestic Drama
• Marital Alienation
• Gilded Cage Syndrome
• Extended Family Dynamics
• Psychological Fiction
• Northern Nigerian Culture

Description

An emotionally charged English translation of a contemporary Hausa fiction excerpt. The narrative follows Sa'ida, a wealthy yet deeply distressed woman living in a luxurious mansion who finds her seemingly perfect marriage unraveling under the weight of mysterious emotional neglect, physical deterioration, and the oppressive tyranny of her husband's family. Complete with professional literary analytics, thematic comments, and structural breakdowns.