Yiwa Kai Hisabi Compelet Book Sumayya Abdulkadir

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The Prologue of the Story (Part 1)

The name I have grown up with since birth is MA’U. My full, original name is Nana Asma’u Adam Bebeji. "Ma’u" stuck to me from the lips of my mother, Nene, when I was a little girl. My father, Malam Adamu, was a Fulani man from Bebeji, a large town within the local government areas of Kano State. Meanwhile, my mother, Nene Zainabu, came from Babura village in Jigawa State.
Nene was dark-skinned but tall and beautiful, someone who had her fair share of suitors during her youth. In the end, God destined her to be the portion of my father, whose market trading had brought him to Babura, as was his custom on every market day of the town. He saw her at the market selling fura (millet dough balls), and instantly, she captured his heart. He put his absolute best efforts into seeking her hand in marriage, until God granted him success, and he brought her away to his hometown, Bebeji.
My father’s business was the kolanut trade, a trade he relied upon from his youth up to his adult years. The kolanut business suited him well, as he traveled all the way to Shagamu to buy kolanuts in bulk and bring them back to various local markets. It was with this business that he raised me and my only younger sister, Arifah. God blessed our parents with just the two of us, just as our father was one of only two children born to his own parents—himself and his elder sister, Adda Kilishi.
Between my father and Adda Kilishi, there was a considerable age gap; she was already seven years old when he was born. I will never forget how Baba used to tell us how much Adda struggled and cared for him when he was a child. Wherever she went, she would carry him on her back, and no other child dared to lay a hand on him. She was married off early, which eventually led to her separation from her husband. When she was fourteen, a suitor named Atiku from Sokoto came to visit his friend in the town of Bebeji. They met, and within a short time, they grew fond of each other. After a thorough investigation, the parents accepted his good character and married Adda Kilishi to Atiku Dogon Daji, who then took her with him to Sokoto, his hometown. At that time, he was working with the national telecommunications agency, namely the Ministry of Communication and Digital Economy.
Alhaji Atiku Dogondaji worked there for a long time. Even when they transferred him to Rivers State—specifically Port Harcourt—he did not move his family; he left them in Sokoto. Adda told me that at the end of every year, he would take his leave to spend time with his family, and he visited Sokoto every three months.
Ever since I was an infant, Adda Kilishi took care of me, providing clothes and toys as if I didn't even live in a village. Frequently, Adda would come from Sokoto and give my parents generous gifts, and for me, she would buy clothes and toys, which she habitually brought whenever she visited Bebeji. Adda did not rely solely on her husband. Since she had not gone far in western education—she was pulled out of school in her third year of junior secondary school to be married—and her husband did not want her to continue, saying his own education was enough for them both, he instead gave her capital to start a business. Adda’s business was trading atamfa (African wax prints), laces, and women's veils. The business treated her very well, to the point that she owned two large shops in the Dan Jabalu market. She would order her goods from abroad to stock her shops, and God blessed her tremendously in this enterprise.
My sister Arifah and I received the utmost care and moral upbringing from our parents and our father’s elder sister, Adda Kilishi. Furthermore, the birth of Arifah did not strip me of my favored status with Adda; the privileges I enjoyed from her were things Arifah did not get. But God did not grant Arifah a long life; at the age of five, she contracted measles, which led to her death.
Despite the deep bond between me and Adda, there was nothing I hated more than going to her place in Sokoto, strictly because of the attitude of her children. The eldest, Nabeelah, used to mistreat me, while Yaya Maccido (Attahir), who came after Nabeelah, was extremely strict regarding western education. Both I and Muhsin—Adda’s youngest child, who was my peer among her children as he was only two years older than me—suffered greatly at their hands.
Because of this, later on when I grew a bit older, whenever Adda arrived and started preparing to return to Sokoto, I would disappear and could not be found until she left town. At first, she didn’t understand, but eventually, she realized I was running away from going to her house. One day, she sat me down to find out the reason, speaking to me gently. I lowered my head and told her the truth: I did not want Yaya Maccido’s lessons. Maccido would use the cane if he taught you and you failed to understand. And as for me, God had created me with a natural dislike for western education.
The day I told Adda my reason for avoiding her house, she spent a long time advising me, explaining that Maccido only wanted us to be academically bright like him, so we could win amazing prizes at school just like the ones he always brought home, and become champions among our peers just as he was. He did not mean to oppress us.
Yaya Maccido was named after the Sultan of Sokoto, Mohammad Attahiru, which is why the parents called him Maccido. Mohammad Attahiru was the thirteenth Sultan of Sokoto in the Seat of the Caliphate. His parents hoped he would inherit his traits, his devotion, and his contributions to Islam, which is why they named him after him.
As I mentioned earlier, from Adda to my father Malam Adamu, God did not give them many children. After me and Arifah, God did not grant my parents any other children, and Arifah passed away early. As for Adda, after Nabeelah (whom we called Auntty Nabeelah) and Yaya Maccido, twelve years passed before she gave birth again. It was thought that her childbearing years had ended with him, but then God brought Muhsin.
Among all of Adda’s children, Muhsin was the kindest; he did not inherit their mean streak, tendency to mistreat others, or oppressive nature. Perhaps this was why I bonded with him the most, or perhaps because he was close to my age, which made me love and cherish him more.
I grew up before my parents, receiving a sound Islamic upbringing and absolute indulgence, which luckily did not make me stray from good behavior. God who created me endowed me with a hatred for western education; it gave me nothing but hardship, and I didn't understand it at all. I was always the bottom of the class, the one who took the last position in every exam we took from the time I started primary school until I finished it.
And since my parents themselves were not educated in western knowledge, this never bothered them, because I put all my efforts into Islamic school. Even there, I couldn't spell out words well, but I excelled at memorization; by the age of twelve, I had memorized half of the Quran. As for other Islamic religious books, when I would read and translate them from memory, you would think I was the daughter of a great Islamic scholar.
When it comes to beauty, I know I wouldn't be counted. My looks were just average, inherited from my mother. I wasn't ugly, but I wasn't beautiful enough to write home about either. I am dark-skinned, tall, and somewhat thickset, with a skin tone that clearly displays my identity as a thoroughbred Hausa girl from Kano—a descendant of Barbushe and Tsimbirbira.
The hair on my head is thick and strong, but not long. When it is neatly braided, it looks very attractive, because you only appreciate the beauty of my hair when it is freshly done in small braids. I never let anyone touch my head except Nene (the name I called my mother Zainabu), and that name stuck to everyone's lips; everyone in our neighborhood called her Nene.
From time to time, we would go to Babura where my mother's relatives lived. Her parents had passed away long ago, but some extended family of her parents and their households were still alive.
I grew up always eager for the day Adda Kilishi would visit. She was a mother who showered me with kindness in every aspect, and she was a good sister to her brother, my father. She became the mother and father they didn't grow up with. Her sense of family bonding (zumunci) was legendary, as she never treated me differently from her own biological children. From a very young age, I recognized this side of my father's elder sister, Kilishi.
It is said that there are people whose dedication to family ties will lead them to paradise; I have no doubt that Adda and my father, Malam Adam, are among them. In my entire time on earth, I have never seen siblings who loved each other purely for God's sake as they did. Although my father was not wealthy, this never stopped him from sewing Eid clothes for Maccido exactly like the ones he sewed for himself. Similarly, he raised a whole flock of sheep for him in the vacant plot behind our house. He started by giving Maccido a pregnant ewe, which kept reproducing. Maccido had asked Baba to rear it for him because their own house in the city had no space for livestock.
Baba began rearing this livestock for Yaya Maccido when the boy was just ten years old, and God blessed them, because now they had turned into a large flock of goats, rams, ewes, and their offspring. To this day, Baba never grew tired of keeping this livestock for Yaya Maccido. Only Baba called him by his original name, Attahir, but on the lips of his household, his parents, and his friends, he was "Maccido" to everyone.
When I was in my first year of junior secondary school—where I had to repeat the class twice before I managed to move up to senior secondary school—I kept dragging myself to school just to avoid sitting idly at home, so people wouldn't say I wasn't going to school. In my entire life, I had never picked up a western schoolbook with the intention of reviewing what I was taught after returning home. I never did homework or assignments either; the way the book was given to me was exactly how it was returned, without me writing even a single letter 'Alif'.
I received so many beatings from teachers that I became numb to them; they could give me seven strokes of the cane on the palm of my hand and I wouldn't shed a single tear. Countless times, our school authority summoned my father regarding my academic issues. What he always told them was:
"Perhaps Ma’u does not have a destiny in western education. Since she started primary school until she finished, this is how she has been. Just do me the favor of letting her continue attending school and sitting in class; if she doesn't learn academics, she will learn life skills and how to interact with people."
I marveled at my father's easygoing nature. When I looked closely, I realized Adda Kilishi was exactly the same way. Their tolerance and gentleness with their children were immense. They openly showed us their love.
It was around this time that I was returning from Islamic school one day. From a distance, I saw the sleek car that signaled to me that Adda had come to town. So, I quickened my pace, running and hurrying until I reached home. But to my surprise, only her driver, Malam Hussaini, was sitting in the entrance hall (zaure) of our house, looking completely stripped of joy. I quickly greeted him and rushed into the courtyard, calling out:
“Welcome, Adda!”
But in my heart, I wondered why Malam Husaini didn't playfully shower me with his usual praise epithet today when we met, which was: “ASMA’U, THE FAIR-SKINNED DAUGHTER OF THE SHEIKH.” I would usually reply to him by saying, “This Asma’u is dark-skinned. There isn't a speck or drop of fair skin on her body.” Whenever I said that, Malam Hussaini would burst out laughing.
Suddenly, I froze! I stopped dead in my tracks upon seeing Nene zipping up a huge traveler's bag, while Baba was also standing over his own large bag, adjusting the items inside. Their faces looked exactly like that of Adda's driver, Malam Hussaini, out in the hall. That is to say, their faces were filled with intense grief. Feeling faint and unsettled, I stepped closer and asked:
“Nene, where are you going? And where is Adda?”
Nene looked up at me, her face completely expressionless, and said, “She didn't come; we are the ones going to her. Go put away your schoolbag, change your clothes, and come so we can leave. We are taking the road to Sokoto right now.”

The Turning Point (Part 2)

Ever since we took the road to Sokoto from Bebeji, no one spoke a word inside the car. Nene and Baba did nothing but tell their prayer beads, while Malam Hussaini drove expertly, paying close attention to road safety. As for me, my mind was racing with endless thoughts. I wanted to ask what had happened, but the atmosphere was too uninviting, as they weren't even talking to each other. A terrible thought flashed through my mind: could something bad have happened to Adda? For something to move Nene and Baba to travel to Sokoto this evening, it must be nothing short of a major crisis.
This is a gift to Takori's Lounge
Sumayyah Abdulqadir (Takori)
A token of appreciation to my book readers: Count your blessings (Yiwa Kai Hisabi)
At that time, Nigeria was completely peaceful. There were no issues with armed robbers, no kidnappers, none of those things. I am describing to you what happened to me, Asma’u, twenty-two years ago, a time when our country enjoyed peace, harmony, and tranquility.
I turned over every possible thought in my mind, but I couldn't pin down a single solid deduction to explain what had caused us to make such a sudden night journey to Sokoto, the city of Shehu. The intense prayers offered by Baba and Nene brought us safely to Sokoto.
Adda—whom I feared had met with some terrible fate—was the very person I first set eyes on in her massive living room. However, seeing her, it was clear she had wept until she could weep no more; she had lost weight and grown frail within a single day. It wasn't until we spent the night and the following day that I understood what had happened: Muhsin’s father had been in a plane crash while flying from Port Harcourt to Sokoto. They couldn't even recover his body. It was confirmed that he was among the passengers, and their plane had crashed and burned to ashes.
He had gone, leaving her with three orphans and a vast wealth that they had no idea how to manage. Maccido was studying in Cuba (a country in the Caribbean), while Nabeelah was in Beirut, Lebanon, pursuing her own studies. Only Muhsin was at home with her.
It was into this nightmare that Adda’s household woke up. When she saw my father, she laid her head on his feet and wept bitterly. She wept a heart-wrenching cry, one that carried the heavy echoing pain of her sudden widowhood and the orphanhood of her children. Alhaji Atiku Dogondaji was a husband she hoped God would reunite them with even in paradise. He had held Adda in high esteem and dignity; he never let his advanced education make him despise her, nor did he ever seek to marry a western-educated woman who might claim to be more exposed than her. He provided everything for her and her children in life, so his loss was like the collapse of a great building—a protective wall that she and her children leaned upon.
A decision was made not to inform Maccido about his father's death because he was in the middle of his examinations at that exact time. However, five days after the incident, Nabeelah arrived. She kept fainting repeatedly, requiring water to be splashed on her face to revive her. Even if you didn't know this family well, seeing the state they were in at that moment would break your heart.
The one who showed the least distress in the house was Muhsin. He grieved, but after two days, he picked himself up and went about his business. Everywhere he went, we were together, like a tire and its rim. A week after the funeral, Nene and her husband wanted us to return home to Bebeji, but Adda refused, insisting we stay another week. When we were finally about to leave, she declared that I would be left behind with her. The house felt too empty for her, especially since Nabeelah was scheduled to return to school the very next day.
Without any shame, I burst into tears, declaring that I would not stay. They tried everything to convince me, but I insisted my feet would only follow Nene's footsteps. When Nene grew fed up with my stubbornness, she slapped me hard across the face. I opened my mouth and wailed even louder. Adda pulled me to her bosom, comforting me while simultaneously scolding Nene for being so quick to use her hands. What was the need for a beating? She turned to me and asked, “Ma’u, won't you stay with me?”
Amidst my tears, I asked, “Adda, then when will you take me back to Nene?”
Wiping my tears, she said, “Insha Allah, once Nabeelah and Maccido finish their studies and return home, I will send you back to your Nene, Asma’u. This loneliness is too much for me; I need someone to keep me company. Don't you feel sorry for me, Ma'u?”
My entire body went cold. Even though I was a young girl, I understood that Adda was a deeply pitiable figure at that moment. Yet, I still preferred to stay with my parents, even though I knew I would enjoy far more luxury and comfort in this house than what we had back home. Comfort didn't matter to me; my only desire was to open my eyes every day and see myself in front of my Nene and Baba.
That night, I slept in the room where Nene was lodged. We stayed up for half the night as she scolded me before changing her tone to gentle advice. She said Adda did not deserve the way I reacted earlier; it was out of deep affection and love that she asked me to stay, not because she lacked children of her own. She pointed out Adda's current predicament, emphasizing that she desperately needed a close relative by her side. She told me to stay with her, serve her, and show her absolute obedience to the best of my ability, because I had no one closer to me in the world after my father than her.
I slept tucked tightly against Nene's back. Even at dawn after we prayed, she comforted me further, reiterating that I must obey Adda and serve her diligently. She blessed me and said, “If you fail at western education, do not worry; it is not the ticket into paradise. The knowledge you have mastered [Islamic knowledge] is what will save you on the Day of Resurrection.”
These words from Nene regarding my western education stayed with me always, erasing my anxiety over my shortcomings and serving as a guiding light for my life. Baba then told Adda that even when Nabeelah and the others returned, he had already fully entrusted me to her care until the day she would give me away in marriage.
The words spoken by him and his wife Nene were heart-breaking in hindsight. But at that time, neither I nor Adda realized their profound significance—not until the day their corpses were laid out right in front of us. They had met with a fatal accident just as they were about to enter the town of Talata-Mafara. Malam Hussaini, the driver, was hit so badly that his legs and arms were severed from his body.
This was a fresh horror, one that the human heart lacks the capacity to truly process. It is a day I will never forget in the records of my life. The day I truly became an orphan—losing both mother and father simultaneously, even more profoundly than Muhsin and his siblings had lost theirs. Life handed Adda and me a bitter pill, the bitterest taste imaginable. My mind left my body, my peace vanished, and I came very close to losing my sanity. For three days, I was delirious, muttering nothing but "Nene and Baba." I was fourteen years old at that exact time—the day I answered to the title of 'ORPHAN' completely, in a brief moment that felt like the blink of an eye.
It is said that death exposes secrets, and we didn't realize the truth of this until the brothers of Adda’s late husband, Malam Ilya and Malam Bilya, arrived for the forty-day fidau prayers of their brother. After the prayers were concluded, they called Adda into the deceased’s living room. Without beating around the bush, they demanded she produce every document and every single penny she knew the deceased had left behind so they could "safeguard" it for his children, until the children were mature enough to take over their inheritance. Furthermore, they added that if she agreed, Malam Bilya would marry her, arguing that the house shouldn't be left without a man; if she consented, he would simply pack up the rest of his family from Dogondaji and move them into the house.
Hajiya Kilishi sat for a long time with her head bowed, saying absolutely nothing until they finished detailing all their plans—plans filled with nothing but greed and a desire to usurp control under the guise of family solidarity. When they pressed her for an answer, she told them she had nothing to say at the moment; she was still grieving the loss of her husband and her only brother, and inheritance distribution was the furthest thing from her mind, especially since there were no other heirs to this estate besides her and her children. As for the matter of marriage, she vowed never to marry again! At forty-eight years old, she was nearing menopause and had no need for another marriage in her life. She would simply live for her children and wait for her own time to come. She had no remaining worldly desires.
These elders did not back down. Three months later, they returned and aggressively declared that she had no choice; she must bring out everything so they could divide the inheritance among "their" children. To avoid conflict and chaos, Adda brought out the late husband’s minor assets and handed them over. They brought in fake scholars who performed highly questionable calculations, swept up everything, stood up, and told her that they would only hand over the property once the children married and settled down. As for the marriage she rejected, they said that was her problem, claiming they were only trying to help her manage her orphans.
This behavior stemmed largely from a lack of exposure and education; otherwise, they would have known that the small wealth they saw and went crazy over did not amount to even a fraction of what a man like Alhaji Atiku actually owned.
Nabeelah called on the phone that day, and she and her mother wept as if their souls would leave their bodies. Nabeelah mentioned that her biggest worry was that Maccido was already on his way home; he wanted to surprise Adda, which was why he hadn't informed her he was coming.
Despite everything Adda was going through, she had to pull herself together and force herself to be resilient. She began making preparations to welcome Maccido.
It had now been exactly three months and two weeks since the death of Alhaji Atiku Dogondaji, which coincided perfectly with three full months since my father and Nene had been laid in the grave that awaits every human being. Up to this moment, I had not returned to normal. I barely spoke, offering nothing more than a simple "yes" or "no." As for food, Adda had to literally sit over me to force me to eat, and even then, I could only take fluids whenever I felt my intestines rumbling. All the plumpness I used to have had vanished; I shrunk until I looked completely emaciated. I made sure to bathe, but after that, I wouldn't even apply body cream, let alone mention eyeliner or face powder. Adda was the one officially observing the widow's mourning period (takaba), but we practically went through it together. Her mourning period had ended just two weeks prior.
Only after she made sure that the food she had her house-help Halima assist her in preparing was set on the dining table did she go to take a shower. She emerged wearing slightly bright-colored clothes—clothing she hadn't worn since her husband was alive. She walked into the living room where she met me and Muhsin sitting down. He had just returned from school, and without even taking off his uniform, he looked up and said:
“Addah, are you going out?”
His face beamed with joy at seeing her looking beautifully dressed today. She sat down, saying, “Ma’u, hand me my prayer beads,” without giving Muhsin an answer.
Before the words could even completely leave her mouth, they all suddenly caught the sound of his voice greeting them from the entrance...

2. Comprehensive Story Summary

The text serves as a poignant prologue narrated by Nana Asma’u (Ma’u), a young Hausa girl from Bebeji, Kano State. Ma’u grows up in a deeply loving, tight-knit family consisting of her parents, Malam Adamu and Nene Zainabu, her deceased younger sister Arifah, and her wealthy paternal aunt, Adda Kilishi.
Ma’u strongly excels at Islamic studies and Quranic memorization but possesses an innate, deep-seated aversion to western education. This academic struggle makes her dread visiting Adda Kilishi’s home in Sokoto, where her highly educated, strictly academic older cousin, Yaya Maccido (Attahir), uses harsh disciplinary methods to tutor her.
The story takes a devastating turn when Adda Kilishi’s wealthy husband, Alhaji Atiku Dogondaji, dies in a horrific plane crash. To comfort her grief-stricken, lonely aunt, Ma’u is pressured by her parents to stay behind in Sokoto. Tragically, while returning home to Bebeji from this visit, Ma’u’s parents and their driver are killed instantly in a horrific car accident near Talata-Mafara. At just fourteen years old, Ma’u becomes an absolute orphan.
As Ma’u and Adda Kilishi drown in mutual grief, the ugly side of extended family dynamics emerges. Adda Kilishi’s greedy brothers-in-law, Malam Ilya and Malam Bilya, try to aggressively seize the estate under the guise of family tradition and attempt to force Adda into a marriage. Adda proudly resists the marriage but surrenders minor assets to avoid conflict, knowing they are ignorant of the true scope of her late husband's international wealth. The excerpt ends on a cliffhanger: as a fragile Adda and an emaciated Ma’u try to pick up the pieces of their lives, Adda’s strict, highly accomplished son, Yaya Maccido, unexpectedly arrives home from his studies in Cuba.

3. Character Descriptions

• Nana Asma’u (Ma’u): The 14-year-old narrator. She is dark-skinned, tall, thickset, and deeply grounded in her Hausa identity. She is highly spiritual and naturally gifted in Islamic studies (memorizing half the Quran by age twelve) but completely rejects and fails at western education. She undergoes severe emotional trauma after losing her sister and both parents.
• Malam Adamu & Nene Zainabu: Ma’u’s parents. Malam Adamu is a mild-mannered Fulani kolanut trader from Bebeji, and Nene is a beautiful, dark-skinned woman from Babura. They are deeply loving, deeply protective of family ties (zumunci), and highly supportive of Ma’u despite her academic shortcomings.
• Adda Kilishi: Ma’u’s paternal aunt. She is a highly resilient, successful businesswoman who imports textiles (atamfa, laces) despite having her western education cut short at a young age. She acts as a second mother to Ma’u and exhibits immense strength when confronting both sudden widowhood and her greedy in-laws.
• Alhaji Atiku Dogondaji: Adda Kilishi’s late husband. A successful, well-educated official in the Ministry of Communication and Digital Economy. He was highly respectful, never looked down on his uneducated wife, and deeply loved his family before dying tragically in a Port Harcourt-to-Sokoto flight crash.
• Yaya Maccido (Mohammad Attahir): Adda Kilishi’s second child, named after the 13th Sultan of Sokoto. He is brilliant, highly accomplished academically, and currently studying in Cuba. He is feared by Ma’u due to his strict, uncompromising stance on western education and his use of the cane during tutoring.
• Muhsin: Adda Kilishi’s youngest son and Ma’u’s close childhood peer. Unlike his older siblings, he is incredibly kind, gentle, and lacks any oppressive tendencies, making him Ma’u's favorite cousin and closest companion in the household.

• Malam Ilya & Malam Bilya: The brothers of the late Alhaji Atiku. They represent greed and entitlement, leveraging patriarchal traditions and questionable interpretations of Islamic inheritance laws to seize property and pressure a grieving widow into marriage.

  4. Literary Analytics

  Cultural Context and Identity

  The narrative is rich with northern Nigerian, specifically Hausa-Fulani and Islamic, cultural identifiers. The setting alternates between rural Bebeji (Kano), Babura (Jigawa), and urban Sokoto (the Seat of the Caliphate).

• Lineage: Ma’u proudly references her roots as a *"daughter of Kano, descendant of Barbushe and Tsimbirbira"*—evoking the deep pre-Islamic mythology and foundational history of Kano.

• Naming Customs: The text explains the heavy spiritual and historical weight attached to names, such as naming Maccido after Sultan Mohammad Attahiru in hopes that he will inherit the ruler’s grand religious and leadership traits.

  Thematic Analysis

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  ┌────────────────────────────────────────┐
  │ CORE THEMATIC PILLARS │
  └───────────────────┬────────────────────┘
  │
  ┌────────────────────────────┼────────────────────────────┐
  ▼ ▼ ▼
  ┌──────────────────┐ ┌──────────────────┐ ┌──────────────────┐
  │ Dual Systems │ │ Kinship │ │ Greed vs. │
  │ of Education │ │ (& Orphans) │ │ Resilience │
  ├──────────────────┤ ├──────────────────┤ ├──────────────────┤
  │ Conflict between │ │ The power of │ │ Extended family │
  │ Western school │ │ 'Zumunci' cut │ │ exploitation met │
  │ vs. Islamic rote │ │ short by sudden │ │ by a widow's │
  │ memorization. │ │ double tragedy. │ │ quiet autonomy. │
  └──────────────────┘ └──────────────────┘ └──────────────────┘