HUSNA

Chapter3

Saturday mornings in kaduna were always soft and lazy ....the kind that smelled like fresh dew and roasted groundnuts from the street corner. Roosters crowed in the distance, and the faint hum of a radio floated in from the next compound, playing Ali Jita's love songs.

The aroma of boiling pap filled the air. Husna stepped out of her room, yawning and dragging her slippers across the cement floor. Her wrapper was loosely tied, her hair wrapped in a scarf, and sleep still clung to her eyes.

But when she reached the kitchen, she froze.
"Adda?" she exclaimed, half in disbelief. "Kowadi a watta kuje hasutuggo? A andi a nyudo blood pressure ma ommi Toi Fatima?" (Adda, why are you cooking? You know your blood pressure's been giving you trouble! And where's Fatima?)

Her mother turned around, a wooden spoon in hand, smiling softly despite the beads of sweat on her forehead. "Mivi mo o dilla Islamiyya. Minani miyi defogo mai on," she replied in her calm Fulfulde tone. "I told her to go to Islamiyya. I just wanted to make breakfast since I'm feeling stronger today."

Husna crossed her arms, her lips pressing into a stubborn line. "Adda, you will never cook again as long as I'm here. Wallahi, if I see you near this stove again, I'll hide all the firewood."

Her mother chuckled quietly, the lines around her eyes deepening. "Husnatu, I can't just sit and watch you do everything. I'm not that kind of woman. Your father married a wife, not a guest."

Husna sighed, walking over to take the ladle from her hand. "Adda, we're not talking about pride ...we're talking about your health. Min do vola hala jamuma haddo on. (Please, just take care of yourself.) I'll handle everything. You just rest."

Her mother gave in with a small smile, sitting on the wooden chair by the door. "Alright, Husnatu. But don't pour too much milk inside that pap. You know your sister likes it thick."

Husna laughed softly. "Yes, Adda. I know."

After serving breakfast, she sat briefly to eat her own bowl, blowing lightly at the steam. When she got up, the plastic chair made a loud screech against the floor.

"Husna!" her mother scolded, frowning. "How many times have I told you to lift the chair, not drag it? It's bad manners."

Husna immediately softened, her voice small. "Sorry, Adda. I won't do it again."

Her mother's face relaxed. "Good girl. Now hurry, it's almost nine. You'll be late for Islamiyya."

Husna rinsed her cup, fixed her scarf properly, and picked up her Qur'an from her small wooden shelf. Just as she was tying her slippers, her father entered from outside, carrying a black nylon bag of bread and beans.

"Assalamu alaikum," he greeted warmly.

"Wa alaikum salam, Abba," she replied, quickly taking the bag from his hand.

"Are you not late for Islamiyya?" he asked, looking at her wristwatch.

"I'm leaving now, Abba," she smiled.

"Allah hokku sa'a," (God bless you) he said, patting her shoulder.

"Ameen," she replied, stepping out into the bright morning sun.

The road to Islamiyya wasn't far....just a ten-minute walk past the dusty junction and a small provision shop where children were buying sweets. She walked with easy grace, her Qur'an clutched against her chest.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket. Only one person called her this early.

"My hussy!" Faiza's playful voice sang through the line. "Are you still sleeping?"