Hidayatul Mustafid Hausa «2025-2026»

Dejected, the boy fled into the darkness of the old quarter. There, under the gnarled roots of a baobab tree, he found an old woman, her face a map of wrinkles. She was mending a worn-out riga .

In the ancient, sun-scorched city of Kano, where the dust of trade routes mingled with the whispers of scholars, there lived a young man named Hidayatul Mustafid. His name, meaning “Guidance of the Chosen One,” was a heavy cloak for a boy who felt lost among the towering shelves of his father’s library. hidayatul mustafid hausa

“Because I cannot be what they want,” he whispered. “I see the world not as laws, but as a story. My father sees fiqh ; I see labari .” Dejected, the boy fled into the darkness of the old quarter

“Why so heavy, son of Mustafa?” she asked, not looking up. In the ancient, sun-scorched city of Kano, where

The room fell silent. The ulama had no answer. Then, Hidayatul stepped forward. He did not cite a hadith or a verse. Instead, he began to speak in clear, simple Hausa.

One evening, after failing yet another recitation test, his father sighed. “Hidayatul, the light of knowledge is al-falaah . Without it, you are a lantern without a flame.”

The old woman chuckled, a dry, rustling sound like wind through millet stalks. “There was once a man in Baghdad,” she said, “who tried to count every drop of the Tigris. He died old and bitter. Another man simply drank from the river and wrote a poem about its taste. Which one was wiser?”