THE HIDDEN SCAR OF HAJARA
Written by Asmie’s Pen
The sun hovered lazily over the horizon, spreading its heat across the bustling Hausa community. At the centre of this chaos stood the General Hospital, a building that never slept—where whispers of hope mixed with cries of pain, and where lives changed in a single heartbeat.
At the reception sat Nurse Hajara.
Tall, stern, and known for her razor-sharp tongue, she was the type of nurse who patients prayed not to meet. Her colleagues avoided her when possible; even doctors tread carefully around her.
Her eyes held no softness, and her voice carried no warmth. Many whispered:
“Hajara ba ta da zuciya. She has no heart.”
But no one knew that behind her hostility lived years of unanswered questions, buried memories, and a strange, painful emptiness she could never explain.
---
A LIFE-OR-DEATH ARRIVAL
It was almost noon when a dusty car screeched to a halt at the hospital gate.
Two women—Jummai and Talatu—jumped out frantically.
“Ku taimaka mana! Help us!” Jummai screamed, struggling to support their elderly mother whose body trembled with weakness.
“Mama, please stay with us,” Talatu whispered, tears already gathering.
They burst into the reception area—straight to Nurse Hajara’s desk.
“Please! Nurse! Our mother can’t breathe well. We need a doctor immediately!” Jummai pleaded.
Hajara didn’t look up. She simply raised a finger.
“Fill that form.”
“What? Nurse, she is collapsing!” Talatu cried. “Please, just help us.”
Hajara clicked her pen slowly.
“No form, no treatment. That is the rule.”
The mother’s legs buckled.
“Mama!” both daughters screamed.
A hospital attendant, Bello, rushed over.
“Bring her here! Quickly!” He grabbed a wheelchair, guiding them toward an open ward. He shot Hajara an angry look.
“Wallahi, Nurse, sometimes your wickedness pass human understanding.”
Hajara hissed and shifted her files.
The family found Dr. Musa, who immediately examined the old woman.
“She is dehydrated and her blood pressure is dangerously low,” he said. “But don’t worry. You brought her just in time.”
Relief washed over the daughters.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Jummai whispered.
---
TENSION IN THE WARD
The ward was quiet except for the rhythmic beeping of machines and soft groans of patients. After treatment, their mother regained consciousness.
Alhamdulillah,” Talatu sighed, holding her hand.
But trouble returned in the form of Hajara.
She walked in briskly. “Time for injection.”
Her tone cut like a knife.
The daughters stiffened.
“Please, Nurse, be gentle with her,” Jummai said softly.
Hajara rolled her eyes. “If you know better than me, do it yourself.”
“Mama is still weak. Have mercy,” Talatu pleaded.
Hajara paused, glaring. “I don’t have time for drama.”
She moved closer to the old woman—who stared at her with curiosity.
Her gaze wasn’t one of fear, but recognition. Something deep inside her stirred.
As Hajara adjusted the drip line, the old woman’s eyes fell on something—
A scar on the nurse’s right hand.
A long, faint mark carved with three letters: H.T.I.
The old woman gasped suddenly.
“Ya Allah…”
Her trembling hands reached for Hajara’s arm.
The nurse pulled back sharply.
“What is it now? You people should not stress me!”
But the old woman wouldn’t let go.
Her voice broke with emotion.
“Where… where did you get this scar?”
Hajara frowned. “I don’t know. I grew up with it.”
“What is your name?” the old woman whispered.
“Hajara.”
Her hands began to shake violently.
“What is your full name?”
The mother’s voice trembled like a leaf in the wind.
Hajara frowned. “I don’t know. I was told Hajara Hassan. Why?”
The old woman began to cry uncontrollably.
“Subhanallah… Hajara Tudun Ilu… my daughter… my baby…”
Her voice cracked as she sobbed louder.
Jummai and Talatu froze.
Hajara stepped back, her heart pounding.
“What nonsense are you saying?” she snapped, but her voice was unsteady.
The old woman continued, gasping for breath.
“Thirty… thirty-five years ago… armed robbers attacked our home… They took my only daughter. Before they snatched her from my arms… I carved her initials on her skin… ‘H.T.I.’… Hajara Tudun Ilu…”
She touched the scar again, crying.
“This… this is the mark I made on my child… so that someday… Allah zai dawo min da ita… Allah would return her to me.”
Talatu dropped to the floor, wailing.
“Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un! Mama’s lost daughter?!”
Jummai covered her mouth, stunned.
And Nurse Hajara…
The woman feared by all…
The woman who showed no emotion…
Her legs weakened.
Her breathing quickened.
“No… no… this cannot be…”
She shook her head violently.
“I am… I am nobody’s daughter. I was raised in an orphanage. I don’t know you.”
The old woman held her face gently.
“My child… I never stopped praying for you… Every night… Every Ramadan… Every rain… I begged Allah to return you to me…”
Tears spilled from Hajara’s eyes—tears she didn’t even know she could shed.
Her voice cracked.
“Mama… M… Mama…?”
The old woman pulled her close, embracing her with trembling arms.
“Yes, my daughter… yes… Mama… I am here… I never left…”
---
THE BREAKING OF A HARDENED HEART
Hajara fell to her knees.
Years of anger, loneliness, and emotional hunger burst out like a broken dam.
“I’m so sorry…” she cried. “I didn’t know… I didn’t know… Mama, forgive me… wallahi forgive me…”
Her mother stroked her head gently.
“You did nothing wrong, my child. You suffered alone. Come back home… let me love you as I always wished…”
Jummai and Talatu joined the embrace, crying.
“We never knew,” Jummai whispered.
“We thought you were just wicked,” Talatu added softly. “But now we understand.”
Bello, the attendant, watched from afar, wiping tears secretly.
Even Hajara’s fellow nurses peeked through the curtain, shocked to see the iron-hearted woman crying like a lost child finally found.
-
A NEW BEGINNING
The hospital felt different afterward.
Hajara was different.
Her voice softened.
Her eyes carried warmth.
She greeted patients gently, surprising everyone.
One day, a little girl shyly handed her a flower.
“Aunty Nurse, you’re kind.”
Hajara smiled—truly smiled—for the first time in her life.
Later, she sat beside her mother, holding her hand.
“Thank you for finding me,” she whispered.
Her mother smiled weakly.
“Allah had written this day. No scar is meaningless. Every mark carries a story.”
And so, the woman once feared became a symbol of healing—
a reminder that behind every harsh face is a silent pain…
behind every scar is a hidden truth…
and sometimes, even cruelty is just a wounded soul longing to be found.©Asmie's Pen
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