Sara Da Sassaka Hausa Book Complele

Description

SARA SA SASSAƘA... (Excerpt)

AISHA ADAM (AYSHERCOOL)
YOUNG TALENTED WRITERS ASSOCIATION (YOTA 002)
BRIGHT PENS.

P1
On the 15th of August, heavy storm clouds gathered aggressively across the sky, with nothing visible except the relentless flashing of lightning accompanied by thunderous roars.
A man firmly held a young boy by the hand with one hand, while carrying a bundle of belongings in the other. They hurried through towering stalks of corn, as it was the peak of the rainy season, and the crops had flourished beautifully. The boy struggled to lift his feet despite the man’s fast pace. With a heart weighed down by an oppressive heaviness threatening his breath, he followed the man, feeling completely detached from himself.
Gradually, a fine drizzle began to fall just as a bolt of lightning illuminated a rugged path filled with gullies and pits. The man looked at the boy, his heart burning with a fierce, searing pain that scorched from his chest up to his throat. He stopped, turned to the boy with a weakened gaze, and said:
"Be patient. Now that I have led you to the path, hurry and leave this town. Do not let dawn catch up with you before they find you. You heard what they said with your own ears. If Allah decrees our paths to cross again in the future, we shall meet."
He handed the boy his bundle of clothes, reached into his pocket, pulled out some money, and pressed it into his hand.
"Take this, keep walking, and once you find shelter, hide so the rain doesn't beat down on you."
From the moment the man started speaking, the boy kept his eyes fixed on him through the flashes of lightning. With a subdued body, the boy whispered, "Leave quietly, so they don't find you."
Without uttering another word, the boy turned and began walking. After taking barely five steps, he stopped and looked back to see the man heading back toward the village. He stood staring at him just as a torrential downpour broke out, drenching his body.
"I will return, surely I will return. Tomorrow, the next day, or whenever? I don't know, but I know I will return," he muttered, swallowing the bitter taste of pain rising in his throat.
The town was dead silent. Nothing echoed except the patrol sirens of security vehicles. The streets were empty due to the curfew imposed to prevent riots as the final presidential election results were about to be announced. Most people stayed indoors, glued to radios, phones, televisions, or calculators, tallying votes and waiting for the Independent National Electoral Commission to announce the results.
An elderly man of sixty-eight, whose life of comfort and luxury had masked his aging so that he looked fifty, stood staring at three large portraits hanging on the wall of his grand room: the President, the Governor, and the Emir of the town. Behind him, several other elders of his age sat quietly, waiting for what he had to say.
He slowly turned around, surveyed them one by one, cleared his throat, and said:
"Indeed, he has crossed the boundaries we set for him, forgetting that we are the ones who placed him in power. We only gave him the vehicle, but the steering wheel is in our hands. Therefore, we will turn the steering wheel and the passengers wherever we want. If people have to die—even the Imam—as long as our political math works out, that is all that matters."
"That is true," they responded respectfully.
"We will create a situation that will deny him a peaceful tenure. We will pick up from where we left off last time; we will mix politics with turmoil, and trigger pressure that will force his mind to focus solely on damage control, right at the moment when we intensify our pressure on him."
One of the men asked, "But how will that be, Your Excellency?"
The man frowned deeper and replied, "By using security to instill fear!!!"

ORIGIN...

Wise elders say that the root is the beginning of the sorghum plant, and whoever leaves home leaves their foundation. Every creature takes pride in the origin that produced it. Yet, our foundation was built on an evil ideology that we opened our eyes to find our parents and ancestors practicing, without knowing how it started—only hearing tales handed down through stories.
Forever, the cinematic replay of what happened will never leave the screen of my heart. Likewise, my heart will never cease to ache and watch tears flow, because we inherited the debt of a feud passed down from our parents and ancestors, leaving us with nothing to do but count its losses.
Our village is located in a remote part of a state in the northern region of our country, where three to four tribes live together. Each tribe specializes in a specific trade. However, living together did not bring us blessings, because one of the three tribes was larger and more powerful, treating the rest of us like slaves. The other tribes forcibly left the center of Yelwa town entirely and established their own settlements at a distance, leaving two tribes remaining in the town.
To cut a long story short and spare you boredom, the story I want to tell you began at a specific time.
The rainy season is a mother of abundance, as elders say, because it is a period when society benefits from its overflowing blessings. The town's atmosphere transformed with a cooling breeze that brought peace. Green trees became a feast for the eyes and food for domestic and wild animals. Rivers swelled with abundant water for people and livestock, reviving the ancient trade of farming practiced during this season to produce food. The hearts of herders and farmers filled with joy as the rains intensified.
I suddenly stopped, lifting my head to watch how dark the town had grown. Thunder rumbled, threatening the first rainfall of the season. Despite my love for the rainy season, deep down my heart was filled with anxiety and panic. Once the rainy season set in, it always served as a catalyst, reviving old enmities and the terrifying tensions lingering between the two remaining tribes living in Yelwa village.
As the town grew darker, fear and panic tightened their grip on every corner of my heart. I watched my father pacing back and forth in the courtyard, talking to our mother, his voice laden with worry and unease.
"This is strange, where has Iro gone on such a dark night? With this heavy rain, even if he went out, he should have waited till tomorrow. When did he even return from herding that he would go so far? Mairo, hand me my cap so I can look around, maybe Allah will help me find him." He spoke anxiously.
Our mother agreed, handed him his cap, and he went out.
For some reason, my heart grew cold, and my legs felt weak, as if they could no longer support me. My heart raced with an overwhelming sense of dread that I couldn't explain.
Step by step, I recalled what had happened.
It had been two days since Iro returned from herding, having spent four months away from the village with our livestock.
I was returning from the stream, reciting Jaki's letter in my mind, thinking of how to achieve what I constantly pondered day and night. At that moment, I caught a glimpse of a warm smile on his handsome face. Without hesitation, I smiled back and asked, "All dressed up like this? Where are you headed?"
He adjusted his stance and asked, "Did you send me on an errand?"
I shook my head and replied, "I just figured we haven't seen enough of you yet, and you're already going out. Are you going on a date?" I finished, lowering my voice.
He playfully flicked my forehead and said, "Go inside the house. When I return, I have a mountain of stories to tell you. And please, take care of that brown nanny goat, signs show she's about to give delivery."
I nodded and said, "Safe journey. I'll be waiting for you to tell me your stories, because you know wherever a story is, I am there. I never belittle listening to one, no matter how small, because there is a lesson in every story."
Ever since he went out, up until this moment—around half-past eleven at night—he had not returned.
My father's greeting cut through my thoughts, but my heart skipped a beat when I saw him return alone, without Iro.
Even before my father spoke, my heart palpitations increased, and his next words nearly stopped my breath:
"I went everywhere I thought I'd find him, but I didn't see him."
Inna placed her hands on her head and exclaimed, "Innalillahi wa innalillahi raji'un! Where has this boy gone? Iro has never done anything like this!"
I stood rooted to the spot, feeling that even his biological parents couldn't be suffering the terror and panic I felt.
Slowly, my ears began to catch faint noises. I looked at my parents to see if they heard it, but they showed no sign of noticing.
After a moment, my father paused and said, "I think I hear noise."
I quickly responded, "Me too."
As the noise drew closer, my father rushed outside. Without waiting, both Inna and I followed him, holding flashlights.
We saw a large crowd of people carrying flashlights and sticks, making a racket. Before we could reach them, my father pushed through the mob. Driven by an intense urge to know what was happening, I ran forward without thinking and squeezed through the crowd to see.
Before my eyes could fully comprehend the scene, my father's screams of shock filled the air, louder than the crowd's noise. It coincided with the sight of our Iro lying on the ground, soaked in blood, his body covered in mud and injuries, bleeding profusely.
I dropped to my knees, my body trembling as if shaken violently.
My father clutched Iro, bursting into tears as he cried out, "What did he do to you? What did Iro do to you, Saleh?"
Without paying attention to my father's gray hair, Saleh flashed his light at him and said, "Oh, you're even asking questions? This is a judgment we executed on someone who thought his voice had grown loud enough to touch our family. Drag him on the ground and tie him to that tree! Let him be an example to anyone who fails to keep their greed in check regarding farmers' daughters."
My heart skipped a painful beat. What did Saleh mean? What had my Iro done to deserve such humiliation?
I lunged forward, grabbing Iro's body—though I doubted life remained in his flesh—crying uncontrollably, unable to speak.
Saleh flashed his light at me too, reached out, violently yanked me away from Iro, threw me to the side, pushed my father aside, and dragged Iro along the ground. The other youths followed behind him, some kicking Iro, others beating him with sticks.
Our neighbors came out, begging Saleh to be patient, to talk things through and find out what Iro had allegedly done. But he warned that anyone who spoke up again would share the same fate.
I stood up and ran toward them again, sobbing heavily, but none of the youths listened to our pleas. They held me back so Saleh wouldn't harm me. As we watched, they tied Iro to a mahogany tree.
With arrogance and command, Saleh ordered: "Go to their house and drag out their livestock from the pen; let them serve as compensation for what he has done. And I swear, anyone who unties him from this tree will suffer what he suffered! Furthermore, I want to emphasize that this punishment awaits anyone who commits the kind of crime Iro committed. We caught him attempting to violate one of our young girls outside the town, so let this be a deterrent to anyone attempting a similar crime."
I stood petrified upon hearing Saleh's words. Even if I swore an oath, I knew I wouldn't incur expiation—he was lying against our Iro!
Inna had already fainted. Right before our eyes, our livestock was driven out, our house was ransacked, and they left Iro tied to that tree.
I cried, wailed, and tried to reach my brother, but I was blocked to prevent any further tragedy.
A torrential downpour broke out. We spent a night of intense grief and bitterness, our hearts weighed down by a sorrow words cannot express.
At early dawn, we went out. There was no sign of life in Iro's body.
Even after the sun rose high, no one dared approach Iro for fear of what might happen. Just as we grew up living in fear under the tyranny of our oppressors, suffering humiliation at will, we were born into it and raised in the same manner.
When the sun peaked, Saleh arrived with his entourage, carrying vicious sticks.
They untied Iro. The heavy thud of his body hitting the ground confirmed beyond doubt that Iro was gone.
"Take him to the outskirts and bury this filthy corpse of your son, because a criminal will not be prayed over in our town! Go dig a grave and bury him out there alone, because this is a vile corpse that deserves no shroud."
Despite the deep resolution burning in my heart since growing up, I put my vengeance aside for a moment. I stepped forward, knelt on the ground, and wept before Saleh, my voice trembling:
"For the sake of Allah's greatness, please have mercy and let him be shrouded and buried according to religious rites. Whatever crime he committed, he is still a Muslim, please!"
He stared at me for a moment, then burst into a mad, merciless laughter.
"Granddaughter of herders, have you broken already? Have you forgotten your vow against me? Today you are the one begging me for favor? I wish I could grant you this favor, even just because you knelt before me. But alas, your brother is a transgressor who decided to test his ways on our family. Therefore, this is what your household deserves."
Crying, they forced my father alone to drag Iro's body across the ground deep into the bush.
Among the crowd of people present, not a single person had the courage to speak up or stop Saleh.
My father's relatives banded together and went to Saleh's father—the overall leader of our town—but they returned empty-handed because he fully supported his son's actions, insisting Iro was caught red-handed attempting the heinous crime and was not framed.
Although oppression and dictatorship were nothing new in our village, this time they left us with a deep, permanent scar that would linger in our hearts forever.
As far as I knew my brother, he was a cautious person who kept to himself. His constant focus was protecting our dignity—especially mine, ever since my brown goat made a scene in town and I locked horns with Saleh. He always advised and cautioned me to be patient with what Allah decreed and to live in peace.
My father had intended to arrange a marriage between Iro and Baffa's daughter, Mariya, but Iro had stated he wasn't ready for marriage at the time. Being an understanding father, my dad dropped the subject and didn't pressure him.
However, I was desperate to know: which girl was he accused of attempting to violate? A man who spent four months away from town—when did he return to attempt such a thing?
"Which girl in this town is this? I must find out who she is, so she can taste what Iro tasted. Come hell or high water, my brother Iro's blood will not go in vain. But who is this girl?" I asked myself again.
(Ghost writer 12/7/...)
She slowly let out a short hiss of annoyance upon seeing where the story stopped, scrolling back and forth in the group chat, but there was no continuation.
A crowd of Islamic school students emerged from their school compound, some lingering as they attempted to cross the busy, vehicle-congested road.
A young girl, around fourteen to fifteen years old, held her Islamic school bag and chatted cheerfully with other children as they crossed the street, walking past a young man standing by the roadside.
They laughed merrily, engrossed in conversation. She glanced back and spotted him walking behind them, but she paid no mind and continued talking with her friends. As they walked, each friend peeled off when they reached their respective street corners, until only two of them were left. Reaching a junction, she looked at her companion and said:
"May Allah spare us till tomorrow. Remember exactly where you stopped for me; you must finish telling me that story. If my elder brother catches me reading a storybook, he'll practically kill me! So make sure you memorize it and come tell me."
Her friend laughed and said, "I read in secret too! Only after everyone falls asleep do I switch on a tiny flashlight under the covers. Send my greetings home and to Yaya's wife."
"She will hear it, in sha Allah. Give my regards to the baby." As she prepared to turn into a lane, she looked back and locked eyes with that same young man once more.
He was tall, with a complexion neither strictly black nor fair. His youthful face was stocky, adorned with a rough, untrimmed beard. He wore a large, oversized, unironed gown. His eyes were large, but instead of white, they were bloodshot and reddish. A sudden wave of fear gripped her. She hurried down her lane, but after walking some distance, she looked back and saw him again. Panicked, she broke into a fast walk, almost running. Looking back in terror, she realized he was no longer in sight. Breathing a sigh of relief upon seeing the empty lane, she sprinted the rest of the way home.
"Assalamu alaikum," she greeted as she burst into the courtyard.
A young woman stood nearby, gathering dry laundry. "Yaya? You and who?"
Her eyes widened slightly. "I saw a man following me all the way from the front of our Islamic school!" she said, terror evident on her face.
The woman paused, analyzing her words. "Following you for what?"
"How would I know? But later when I entered this lane, he stopped following me, because when I looked back, I didn't see him."
The woman smiled and said, "Oh Alina, it was probably just someone whose path happened to cross yours. Who knows, maybe you've got a secret admirer trailing you, and here you are running like you're not a grown maiden!"
Alina widened her eyes, blinking rapidly. "Spare me! If Yayanmu hears about this nonsense—someone claiming I have a boyfriend—he'll practically skin me alive! Save me from trouble. Anyway, is dinner ready?"
The woman frowned playfully. "Go inside, take off your clothes, and settle down first, missy!"
Alina headed toward the room with a smile. "You know I have a bottomless stomach; once I smell food, it calls out to me!"
"You are the bottomless pit," the woman laughed as she stepped into the room.
She squatted inside the goat pen situated in the middle of the spacious courtyard. She swept the pen thoroughly, catching the animals and tying them up one by one. Once done, she poured food and water into their troughs.
"Well done, Ramatu," someone said.
She looked up to see an elderly fair-skinned man sitting on a raffia mat, a radio beside him playing softly.
"Baffa, please stop using modern names. Ever since you visited me and called me 'Ramata,' people have been teasing me with it."
He laughed and replied, "Alright, Ramata."
"Oh Baffa, you're like a scorpion's sting! Please call me Rahma."
"I refuse," he chuckled.
She walked over and sat down beside him on the mat.
"When you're done resting, I have some medicine for you to take to Talatu; they said her child has a fever."
Ramata tilted her head, lowering her gaze modestly. "Alright, Baffa."
"Ramata, I know what you're thinking. Pay no attention to them. Just go drop it and return immediately—don't even stop to listen to what they have to say."
She nodded. "In sha Allah, Baffa. But actually..."
"Actually what?"
Composing herself, she asked, "Baffa, will I ever be able to continue my education?"
He paused briefly, then looked at her. "Ramata, I would be proud to see you attain advanced education. Perhaps through your blessings, our town might find a way forward and out of this darkness. But as you can see, even as things stand, they are already trying to brand us as infidels just because of the schooling you've attained. Be patient with suitors; find someone suitable—if not now, then later when destiny permits, you can continue your studies. But I don't want too much talk centered around you. Even though we already stand out as the most educated household in this entire district, no one else has attained the level of knowledge you have achieved..."

Summary

In this compelling excerpt from Sara Sassaƙa... by Aisha Adam (Ayshercool), the narrative plunges into a tense socio-political and communal conflict in a northern Nigerian village named Yelwa.
The story opens with a dark, stormy night where a man desperately smuggles a young boy out of town, warning him of grave danger and vowing to return. Simultaneously, political elites are shown plotting behind closed doors to manipulate security and power during a tense presidential election period.
The narrative then shifts to the personal tragedy of a pastoralist family in Yelwa. Iro, a young herder, returns home after months away, only to be falsely accused by Saleh—the tyrannical leader's son—of attempting to violate a local girl. Despite desperate pleas from Iro's family and neighbors, Saleh subjects Iro to brutal public humiliation, ties him to a tree, and steals the family's livestock. Iro dies overnight, and his body is treated with utter indignity. His grieving sister vows to uncover the truth behind the false accusation and avenge her brother's death.
Later, the story transitions to modern daily life, following a young girl named Alina who feels stalked by a strange, menacing youth on her way from Islamic school, and Ramata (Rahma), a studious young woman living with her grandfather, Baffa, who navigates the harsh social stigma and educational barriers imposed on her family by the dominant ruling faction.

Description

• Title: Sara Sassaƙa...
• Author: Aisha Adam (Ayshercool)
• Association/Group: Young Talented Writers Association (YOTA 002) / Bright Pens
• Genre: Hausa Fiction / Drama / Social & Political Thriller
• Setting: A rural northern Nigerian village (Yelwa) and urban political settings during an election season.

• Core Themes: Class oppression, injustice, political manipulation, family loyalty, grief, revenge, and the pursuit of education amidst societal prejudice.

  Analytics

• Character Dynamics & Conflict: The novel thrives on sharp binary oppositions—the marginalized pastoralists/farmers versus the tyrannical ruling class led by Saleh and his political superiors. The juxtaposition of high-level political conspiracy with grassroots human suffering highlights how systemic corruption trickles down to destroy ordinary lives.
• Symbolism & Motifs:
  • The Storm / Rainy Season: Serves as a recurring atmospheric motif representing impending doom, emotional turmoil, and the revival of old, violent blood feuds.
  • The Bound Tree: Iro being tied to the mahogany tree symbolizes the psychological and physical entrapment of the marginalized under tyrannical rule.
• Pacing and Structure: The narrative uses parallel storytelling—jumping between political elites planning chaos, historical family trauma (Iro's murder), and contemporary youth life (Alina and Ramata)—to build cumulative tension and a sense of inescapable fate.
• Linguistic Style: Written in rich, descriptive Hausa prose, the text employs idiomatic expressions ("Tushiya masomar dawa", "Ƙi", etc.) and vivid imagery to evoke deep emotional resonance, empathy, and suspense characteristic of modern northern Nigerian literature.