KWARATA – Hausa Novel
By Jamila Musa
I was seventeen years old. My father had four wives and fifty-seven children. From what I heard, he had married up to twenty-eight women in his lifetime.
My father was a poor man without any real job except gambling. He was clever at lying and borrowing money but never at repaying it. Though poor, he always dressed like a rich man — if you saw him, you might swear he could easily give away five million naira. He loved money but hated spending it on himself or his family.
He didn’t own a house or even a small piece of land. We moved from one neighborhood to another. In every place we lived, people gave us nicknames like “the house of Inna Ratata” or “the house of too many people.” My father had no proper work; all he did was drink, gamble, and waste his time. In the town of Katsina, there was no gambling spot where he wasn’t known.
He played a game called Nigerful, a kind of gambling that drains people’s money. Only the wealthy could afford to play it seriously because it required huge sums.
He never cared about feeding the family or our health. If gambling went well for him, he would buy one plate of rice and half a yam. Every morning, he gave thirty naira to each room as breakfast money, regardless of how many people lived there.
One day at his gambling place, he lost a huge bet and couldn’t pay what he owed. As punishment, they stripped off his clothes and sent him home wearing only shorts. From that gambling place to our house, he walked through the crowd half-naked without shame — that was the kind of man he was.
He didn’t care about the upbringing of any of his sons or daughters. Because of that, our home became like a house of prostitutes. Everyone did whatever they pleased. My father once said the best job for any of his daughters was to find a “profitable business” for themselves.
He even stopped paying rent, saying that since we were all grown, we should contribute and pay for the house ourselves. So my older siblings went out to fend for themselves — each started some kind of small trade or hustle. But not me.
The reason was simple: I realized how beautiful I was. Don’t think I’m exaggerating — I’m telling you the truth. Not only in my family, but in our entire lineage, there wasn’t a girl as beautiful and captivating as me.
My beauty was beyond imagination. I had the kind of body that men admired — curvy waist, smooth skin, and a well-shaped chest. My eyes were large and bright, and my complexion was the fair tone of a true Fulani. No one in our family was as light-skinned as I was.
Whenever I entered a gathering, other women would lose confidence in themselves until I left.
I was classy — I bathed often, used the best perfumes, and my fragrance lingered long after I left a place. In the entire household, I was the only one who had some Islamic knowledge, thanks to my mother, who taught me a few hadiths. But in terms of bad behavior, no one in my family could match me. I was smart and wild — and if you offended me, I could easily ruin your life.
So stay with me in this story, KWARATA, to discover what kind of father I had and what kind of daughter I became. Between me and my father, who was more corrupt?
The profession I chose for myself was prostitution — because, to me, it was the fastest way to make money.
And guess what? My father was the first person who opened the door to prostitution for me. He took away my virginity in one of his gambling places — he did it as part of a bet. That was the reason I chose this path. He started it, and I continued it. As people say, you can teach someone something, but they might become better at it than you.
I became like a company, complete with my own “ingredients.” Just as a business produces goods, I became my own enterprise.
This story must not be altered or twisted in any way, because it is meant to be a lesson for married women — not a tale of shame, but of warning.