Rikici Cigaban Budurwar Abbana Book

Description

RIKICI BOOK CI-GABAN BUDURWAR ABBANMU 

PREETY SK 

The seventh of the ninth month in the year two thousand and sixteen was the day the book of my destiny began to open—the day I plunged into an anguish I never thought I would escape for as long as I live!

I was sitting inside a tricycle (adaidaita sahu), on my way back to Brigade from my older sister's house in the Hotoro neighborhood. All my attention was on my phone as I replied to my lover, whose wedding to me was only two months away.

"Young lady, please, I'm going to pull in here. I'm picking up an errand package for my boss," I heard the voice of my tricycle driver say.

I looked over and saw the laundry shop he was pointing to, and I said, "Okay."

Misfortune never misses its appointed day! If I had known what I was about to see today, what on earth would have brought me out? A black car was trying to park in the spot. Even though I don't know much about the prices of cars, I knew this one was certainly no ordinary vehicle. It had been parked for about three minutes; the driver's side door was open, but he hadn't stepped out yet. That is what made me focus all my attention on seeing this celebrity.

Right before my eyes, he stepped out of the car, and my heart skipped a beat from just one single glance!

He was exceptionally fair-complexioned, with large, bright white eyes—so clear he looked as though he had never cried in his life. He didn't have a very long nose, and his moderate mouth sat perfectly against his rounded face. He wore a black shirt and black shorts that reached his calves, paired with a striking black watch that looked wonderful on his fair wrist.

He did a number on my faith and senses right then and there. Immediately, I felt a strange sensation in my heart and throughout my body; I let out a languid sigh while continuing to stare at him.

I saw him wrinkle his face, bringing his hand up to his hair, which was shining as if it had been styled to perfection. He ruffled his locks in a way that made me feel he did it on purpose, because it only added to his striking handsome looks. You would have sworn he wasn't a Nigerian. By God, I never imagined such handsome men existed in the city of Kano!

He stepped back toward the car. Without even getting inside, I saw him reach out, pull out a dark-colored facing cap, and put it on.

Just then, my tricycle driver returned, carrying a bag.

As I watched, the young man walked into the establishment looking quite displeased.

"Sorry, Hajia, I delayed you," the tricycle driver said.

I gave a small smile as we drove past, saying, "It's nothing."

After we had traveled a short distance, I heard his voice: "His name is Salim. He owns that laundry place, and he also owns the Seven Thirty restaurant. He isn't very friendly, and he smokes. People say he owns a company in Sharada that he manages himself, and his family lives over there too."

I wasn't surprised by his remarks, because I knew they had everything to do with the intense way he saw me staring at the man he called Salim.

"Hmm!" I let out a sigh before asking, "Don't you know anything else about him besides this?"

"That's all I know," he replied.

"Don't you have his number?" I asked, my heart pounding.

He laughed and said, "Tabb! Who am I?"

Eagerly, I said, "Please, take me back there! If he comes out, follow behind him."

The tricycle driver spun around in astonishment, his eyes wide, and said, "Save me from trouble! I'm not ready to die. Young lady, I have a family."

I let out a small laugh and said, "Does following behind him mean you'll die?"

He replied, "Well, why not? Even if I don't die, I know I'll suffer. Who knows, I might even end my life in prison."

I just laughed and said, "That's true."

"Amm... you said he smokes? How do you know that?" I asked, eager to hear his answer.

The tricycle driver replied, "Yes, twice I've seen him smoking there. It seems like it's a habit because he smokes right in front of everyone."

I nodded before saying, "May God guide him."

We didn't speak again until we reached our neighborhood, and my mind drifted back into the world of Salim.

I entered the house with a greeting and found Mama Saude picking through rice. The stove she had lit was billowing smoke, and the entire house smelled of scorching heat. Mama Saude was my father’s new wife, married shortly after he separated from my mother—a separation for which I was the root cause. Whenever I remembered that, I would fall into deep distress, sometimes even shedding tears.

Mama Saude was an unkind woman who harbored no affection for me and constantly sought to pit me against my father. Whatever she told him, he believed entirely, sitting down to shower me with harsh scoldings. Though I didn't always blame him, since my own faults were greater—I hated being told what to do—it was the exact reason everyone was eager for me to get married so they could have peace. Hmm! Later on, you will find out who I really am.

Ignoring Mama completely, I slipped into my room, which was devoid of clutter, threw my bag down, and collapsed onto my mattress.

The afternoon call to prayer (Asr) woke me from a light nap. I went straight to take a bath, performed my ablutions, and just as I was about to enter my room, I heard Mama's greeting as she entered the house. I didn't answer; instead, I hissed, marveling at her peculiar behavior. She knew full well I was sleeping, yet she had gone out without even securing the front door. What if someone had come in and stolen something?

"May God protect us," I muttered, trying to slip into the room.

Before I could get in, I heard her voice: "Hey! Whose ancestor are you cursing at like that?"

Ignoring her, I retreated into my room. If I engaged her, we would still be arguing by Maghrib. She never let anything go, never grew tired of nagging, and today, thank God, I wasn't in a rebellious mood, otherwise I would have matched her blow for blow. This had become our daily routine—we acted like rival co-wives or fierce adversaries. It was precisely why I rarely stayed at home, preferring to wander about, only to face my father's wrath upon my return.

That was Zinatu—a self-assured young woman of precisely twenty years old. She had finished secondary school three years prior, while Islamic education had long since been cast aside. She had tried everything to get her father to let her continue her education to earn a degree, but he flat out refused. Believing she was unruly and refused to take advice, he saw no reason to send her to higher education, fearing she would mix with men and worldly women because Zinatu simply wouldn't listen. God had blessed Zinatu with natural charm, and wherever she went, admirers swooped in. Yet, she never gave men the time of day, believing romance was nothing more than trouble. That was why she had gone so long without settling down with a suitor.

She didn't have a single female friend, but her male friends were countless. To her, every man was a friend, which earned her the reputation of being a wild girl, with some even suspecting her of darker vices.

I hadn't stopped reeling from the incident with Salim until nighttime came and sleep eluded me completely. Tonight, no matter how tired I felt, sleep vanished. The image of Salim's face kept flashing back in my mind like a recurring film. I finally had to get up, fetch the Quran, and read until sleep finally overtook me.

The dawn call to prayer (Fajr) rang in my ears. I got up, prayed, and went back to bed because my sleep hadn't been enough. Shuuu! I heard Baba turn on his radio, ruining my morning sleep. I hissed, preparing to roll over, when I heard his voice:

"Zinatu! You, Zinatu!"

"Here we go! Trouble is brewing, the night is over and day has broken," I said aloud as I got up, put on my hijab, and stepped out.

I found him sitting by the doorway, while Mama was busy preparing her business area—she sold rice cakes (masa/waina) and groundnut cake (kulikuli) every morning. I greeted her, and she replied coldly. She motioned for me to sit beside him.

"Alright, Zinatu! May God deliver me!" I said inwardly, because whenever Baba called me for a sit-down like this, it meant serious business—either a reprimand or a lecture. Sure enough, before I could even guess my offense, I heard his voice:

"Zinatu, do you think the kind of life you've chosen for yourself will lead you to safety?"

"Subhanallah! Baba, what did I do? Has someone been telling lies about me to you again?" I asked, glancing sideways at Mama.

Baba's face hardened as he began to speak: "Now they are saying at the mosque that yesterday you were seen letting men teach you how to ride a bicycle! Good grief, Zinatu! Why don't you care about what people say? Is your daily goal to bring shame upon me so people point at you as my daughter? Please, spare me and let me marry you off in peace. We didn't have this trouble with your siblings."

The gentle tone with which he ended his speech filled me with pity, because I knew how hard poor Baba was trying to see me settle down.

"Forgive me, Baba, I will stop, God willing. Just keep including me in your prayers," I said as I stood up and returned to my room without waiting for his response.

"Don't you dare stop! That's why I'm so anxious for you to leave this house so I can finally have peace and stop looking at your irritating face!" Mama Saude blurted out, hissing loudly.

I threw myself onto the mattress with a smile, remembering Anas teasing me that after falling three times, I would never master a bicycle.

"May God cure gossips," I murmured, closing my eyes as sleep swept over me.

My phone's ringing woke me. I shook off the noise of the cake buyers outside, and my thoughts immediately drifted back to Salim. Closing my eyes, I recalled how I had seen him, lying there daydreaming for a while before getting up. Ignoring who was calling on the phone, I threw on a small hijab and stepped out to take a bath.

Breakfast didn't concern me; when did I ever have the privilege of being fed? My mother was the only one who forced me to eat; I even cooked my own lunch because I had long since freed myself from Mama's petty tyranny over food. If I had leftovers, I'd hand them over to her, and without shame, she'd take and eat them—she was quite greedy, truth be told.

After dressing in a long Ankara gown, draping a generous scarf, putting on shoes, and grabbing my bag, I applied just a touch of face powder. Right as I was about to step out, my phone rang again.

"You glutton for trouble, I almost forgot about you," I muttered, picking it up. As expected, it was Habib calling.

"Trouble is your middle name since you're so stubborn," I said before answering the call.

"Hmm!" He sighed deeply before saying, "My heart is about to burst, Zinatu."

"Let it shatter completely," I whispered under my breath.

"What did you say?" he asked.

With a faint smile, I asked, "What stopped you from coming yesterday...?"

"Who am I to disobey your orders? I called, you didn't pick up, and you warned me not to come unless you told me to."

I smiled and said, "That's true! So how are you?"

"Well, here I am—neither well nor entirely sick. By God, Zinatu, I don't think my sanity will return until I truly possess you. These two months feel like two years, and..."

I quickly cut him off, saying, "Hey! Stop right there. You've started a long chat, but I have somewhere to be and you've interrupted me. Come over tonight and we can talk about it, okay?"

Without waiting for his reply, I hung up, tossed the phone into my bag, locked my room, and stepped out.

"And where off to now?" Mama called out from her frying shade.

"Wherever God destines," I replied, walking out of the house.

I headed straight to my mother's house. I found her inside sweeping, and after taking the broom from her to finish the chore, I sat down to greet her.

"Zinatu!" she called my name calmly.

"Yes, Ummi," I responded, giving her my full attention.

"Are you truly serious about going through with this wedding?" she asked.

I gave a slight smile and asked, "Why do you ask, Ummi?"

"You don't seem prepared, yet the day is fast approaching," she said, rising to fetch a nylon bag containing clay pots she had bought to add to my dowry items.

I smiled and said, "Thank you, Ummi, may God reward you."

Without answering, she got up, poured me a cup of tea, and handed it to me. After drinking more than half, I stood up to bid her farewell.

"Aren't you going to greet your grandmother?" Ummi asked.

I cringed. I didn't get along with Ummi's mother; anyone who dared tell me the harsh truth aside from my mother instantly became my enemy. I lifted the curtain of the room without even greeting. I saw her sitting down folding clothes, dropped the curtain, and turned right back around. Even though our eyes met, I raised my voice slightly and lied to Ummi that she was sleeping.

I stood by the roadside for a bit. It wasn't that I lacked transportation fare—rather, I was hesitating over the destination my heart was urging me to visit. Eventually, taking a leap of faith, I flagged down a tricycle, hopped in, and told the driver where to take me.

I stopped right at the spot where I had seen Salim park his car the day before, looking around anxiously, but there was no sign of anything resembling his vehicle. Summoning my courage, I walked into the establishment with a stern face to ward off any disrespect. I approached the first worker I bumped into and asked, "Excuse me, did Salim come in today?"

He widened his eyes and asked, "Who told you he comes here every day?"

Frowning harder, I replied, "We had an appointment to meet here, and I'm surprised he isn't around."

Fiddling with my phone as if checking it, I held it to my ear, hissed, and muttered, "Look at this! I've been calling his phone all day and it's switched off, and he's the one who insisted on seeing me today. Salim is such a headache!"

"Can we see the number?" he asked.

I felt a brief internal panic, but hiding it smoothly, I replied, "How about we look at your phone?"

Without hesitation, he handed me his phone after pulling up the contact. A wave of relief washed over me. Glancing at the number, I said, "Look at that, it's not even the same one I have. I don't even know how many numbers he has—he acts like a kidnapper."

Snap! I copied the number down, handed the phone back, and thanked him. I walked out as elated as if I had received news of a major dream coming true.

I saved the number as "Salim" and tossed my phone into my bag with a smile.

I headed straight to the market to buy provisions, including a whole chicken, because today I was in high spirits. Back home in the courtyard, I found Mama picking through rice. Despite my loud greeting, she didn't look up or answer—evidently, she was in a foul mood today. Smiling, I slipped into my room without saying another word.

Throughout my cooking, Mama didn't glance my way. She struggled with blowing air into the smoky stove while constantly muttering complaints about how tired she was of cooking over firewood. Once I finished my tasks, I retreated to my room where my electric hotplate was kept, safe from Mama's habit of stealing my kerosene. Just as I finished frying my stew, I heard Mama screaming my name: "Zinatu! Zinatu!"

"What is it?" I called back from inside.

She burst in holding a plate and said, "When I saw you go out earlier without eating breakfast... I figured I should save you some rice cakes."

She set down a hardened, stale rice cake and peeked into my stew pot sitting on the hotplate.

With a mocking laugh, I said, "Look here, Mama... what business do you have with my stomach? So what if I went out today without eating?"

Adjusting her headtie with a guilty expression, she said, "Well, seeing as you're getting married soon..."

"Is getting married dependent on whether I eat breakfast or not?" I cut her off.

Her face darkened immediately. "I don't like disrespect, especially when I'm trying to pamper you! Fine, don't eat it!"

Smiling, I grabbed a bowl, scooped up some food, and handed it to her. "You just smelled the aroma and couldn't resist asking directly, could you?"

She took it and walked out without another word.

After eating and praying, I lay down and pulled out my phone, which now felt intimidating due to the alien presence of Salim's number. I stared at the digits for a long time before taking a deep breath and hitting call.

It rang until it timed out without an answer. Undeterred, I dialed a second time, only to meet the same result. Well, game on! I proceeded to call him repeatedly as if there was no tomorrow, treating it like a high-score game I was determined to win.

After nine straight calls, just as I was about to dial for the tenth time, an incoming message popped up.

Eagerly, I opened it to see if he was offering an excuse for ignoring my calls.

"Who is this?" was all the message said.

Quickly, I replied as if we were already acquainted: "It's Zinatu".

"Who on earth is that? And where are you from?" he replied.

I hissed and called the number again, hoping he would pick up. Luckily, he did! Softening my voice—since my natural voice wasn't particularly sweet—I said, "Assalamu alaikum."

I heard him hiss. Instead of returning the greeting, he snapped, "Mistress, get straight to the point. I don't have time for nonsense!"

"Subhanallah!" I thought to myself. He was definitely going to be difficult.

Clearing my throat, I said, "It's Zinatu."

He let out another hiss and said, "Did you call me just to teach me your name? I've memorized it. What is it now?"

My heart fluttered nervously as I scrambled for something to say, knowing my pretext was flimsy. Gathering my courage, I stammered, "Um... yesterday I saw you heading into the laundry, and you caught my eye. I wanted to talk to you then, but I didn't get the chance, and then last night..."

Click! The line went dead before I could even finish. I tried calling back immediately, but the call wouldn't go through. I suspected I had been blocked.

I sat in silence, pondering my next move. Almost like taking an order, I began typing out a text message:

"If my words upset you, please forgive me. God willing, I will never speak to you in that manner again."

I waited and waited for a reply, but it was radio silence. I sat there brooding until Asr prayer was called. I performed my ablutions, took a bath, dressed in a long hijab that reached the ground, and stepped outside. I went straight to Hamza's house, greeted him by the front door, and we sat on the concrete bench outside chatting like old friends until Maghrib, when I headed home because Habib had promised to drop by after Isha.

Habib was my maternal cousin—his father and my mother shared both parents. He lived in the Tudun Wada neighborhood and was the eldest in his family, with several younger sisters, some of whom were my age. However, I had no personal relationship with them except exchanging greetings during family gatherings. He had been in love with me since I was a messy kid. The depth of his devotion eventually made me pity him, leading me to tolerate his courtship. If I claimed I loved Habib, I would be lying, but I admired him and appreciated his familial affection. He was an eye doctor at the Nasarawa Hospital, and he had endured immense hardship wearing me down before I agreed to marry him. He religiously followed every single condition I laid down. Every month, without fail, he handed me ten thousand naira for my personal up-keep so my eyes wouldn't wander toward other men's wealth, and he lectured me constantly—unless he missed a visit.

From the day our wedding date was set, he had tracked down my closest male friends, Anas and Hamza, and warned them to stay away from me under no circumstances.

When Anas came home to report this, I immediately placed an angry call to Habib. Oh, he caught hell that day! I made it clear how important my friends were and warned him that if he ever gave any of them a dirty look again, the wedding was off and he could take his bride-price back on the spot. He panicked, profusely apologizing, begging for pity, and ultimately yielding—swearing he would never interfere with them again.

After Isha, he arrived. We spent a long time chatting, and he joyfully announced that my lefe (wedding trousseau) would be delivered next week. He was brimming with excitement and happiness. As for me, caught between joy and its exact opposite, I couldn't really tell what I was feeling.

At ten o'clock at night, I tried dialing Salim's number again, but it still wouldn't go through. It was only then I realized my folly—I hadn't even asked where he worked! Desperate, I sent him a text message:

"May the peace of God be upon you. I wish you well, and pray for everlasting joy in your heart and a permanent smile on your handsome face forever." "From Zinatu."

I smiled as if I were certain he would see it, offered a prayer, and went to sleep thinking of him.

Salim was sitting down chatting when the message popped up on his phone. He curled his lip in disdain after reading it, shaking his head at the sheer madness of some women.

Early the next morning, I sent him another pleasant text and tried his line again, but it still wouldn't go through. Deciding to take matters into my own hands, I went out and bought a new SIM card. Popping it into my phone without delay, I loaded airtime and dialed Salim's number. It was around ten-thirty in the morning. It rang out without an answer, so I dialed again. This time, he picked up with a greeting!

I sat upright, my chest pounding because I hadn't prepared what to say, never expecting him to actually answer. Pulling myself together, I responded to the greeting and greeted him in return. He acknowledged it before asking, "Who am I speaking with?"

"It's Zinatu, please listen to me," I pleaded, terrified he would hang up.

With a short hiss, he said, "What is it now? You're constantly pestering me—you're starting to trespass on my rights!"

His sharp tone made me calm down instantly. Pausing for a few seconds, I remembered what the tricycle driver had mentioned—that Salim managed their company in Sharada. Seizing the opening, I quickly said, "Uhm... it's actually about your company in Sharada..."

I paused to gauge his reaction, but he remained silent, signaling for me to continue.

Stammering in a way I never knew I could, I blurted out, "Uhm, yes, it's about that... I want to... make a purchase."

"A purchase of what?" he asked.

My chest thumped wildly! I had nothing prepared since I didn't even know the name of the company or what they sold. Talk about standing at the edge of abundance yet starving! He was giving me his time, and my golden opportunity was slipping away. Acting without a safety net, I dove in headfirst.

"I have some business to conduct," his voice cut through my thoughts.

An idea struck me. "If you don't mind, can we meet at the office?"

He replied, "I need to know the scale of your transaction first. If it's not a large order, there's no need for us to meet since I'm on leave today and not going to the office."

Panic set in. I didn't want him to derail my train, so I bluffed boldly: "Oh, it's quite a large order—we're looking at about three vehicles' worth."

As soon as the words left my mouth, terror gripped me. What if they sold gold jewelry? Was I supposed to buy three carloads of gold? Talk about wrestling a thunderbolt by the horns!

"Can I come see you?" I asked, breaking the silence.

"Fine. Tomorrow is Monday, come to the office by one in the afternoon."

He hung up without waiting for a response.

Hmm! I let out a deep sigh, wondering how tomorrow would turn out. Then my eyes widened in horror as I remembered: I didn't even know where the company was located! Oh, sweet heavens! If I asked him for the company address now, I would completely blow my cover and give myself away. I knew Sharada was massive—where was I supposed to start searching? Phase 1, Phase 2, or Phase 3? If only I knew the name of the place, it would have been easier. But one thing was certain: I wasn't going to ask him, because I refuse to let this massive opportunity slip through my fingers.

I spent the entire day pondering a way out, never even stepping outside my front door. My body felt weak as I anxiously awaited the arrival of tomorrow.

Summary

The story revolves around Zinatu, a bold and headstrong twenty-year-old girl living in Kano, who is engaged to be married to her cousin Habib in two months. Despite her upcoming wedding, Zinatu is restless, rebellious against her stepmother Mama Saude, and dismissive of traditional expectations. Her life takes a dramatic turn when she encounters a strikingly handsome, wealthy young man named Salim at a laundry shop during a tricycle ride. Captivated by his looks, Zinatu becomes obsessed with him, tracks down his phone number through various means, and aggressively pursues him despite his initial hostility and rejections. Juggling her arranged marriage to the doting Habib, her strained relationship with her family, and her relentless pursuit of Salim, Zinatu bluffs her way into securing a business meeting with Salim at his company in Sharada, setting the stage for unpredictable complications.

Description of Analytics

• Character Dynamics: The narrative explores deep friction between traditional domestic expectations (represented by Mama Saude and Baba) and rebellious youth autonomy (embodied by Zinatu). The stark contrast between Habib (patient, devoted, obedient) and Salim (aloof, wealthy, elusive, dismissive) drives the romantic tension.
• Psychological Motivation: Zinatu's pursuit of Salim stems less from a calculated romance and more from infatuation, boredom with her prescribed life, and the thrill of the unattainable. Her stubbornness acts as both her shield and her fatal flaw.
• Setting & Atmosphere: Set in Kano, the story vividly portrays everyday northern Nigerian urban life—tricycles (adaidaita sahu), local businesses, family courtyards, traditional food preparation (waina), and neighborhood geography (Hotoro, Brigade, Sharada, Tudun Wada).

Comments

The narrative captures a compelling blend of teenage recklessness and romantic obsession framed within a culturally rich northern Nigerian setting. Zinatu is written as a flawed, unapologetic protagonist—neither a pure victim nor a saint—which makes her character dynamic and engaging. The pacing effectively builds suspense around her impulsive decisions, particularly her audacious bluffing to secure Salim's attention, leaving readers eager to see how her web of deception and desire will unravel.

Conclusions

Zinatu’s relentless determination showcases her refusal to be bound by convention, yet it simultaneously pushes her into dangerous and unpredictable territory. Her cleverness in acquiring Salim's contact information demonstrates resourcefulness, but her reckless lies (such as pretending to purchase multiple vehicle loads of goods) highlight her tendency to leap before she looks. As she prepares to meet Salim at his office the following day without knowing the company name or its products, the stage is set for an inevitable confrontation that threatens to expose her bluff and reshape her destiny.

Keywords

Zinatu, Salim, Habib, Kano, Romance, Fiction, Hausa Culture, Obsession, Relationships, Family Conflict.

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