My problem is that I am staying at my ex-husband’s apartment.
After I was released from jail, my children all got either engaged or married.
We told people that their father was a political detainee.
And that I lived near where he was held to visit him and bring him food.
All our relatives think so.
He’s going to be released soon.
And he’s going to reappear in our lives again.
Are we going to tell people where he’s been?
All our relatives, some of our extended family, and my younger sister’s husband know he’s in jail.
They know because my father and mother raised my children alongside my siblings.
Whenever anyone asked where the children’s mother was, they’d explain that I lived close to the prison where my husband—a political detainee—was being held.
This was before 2011. Those arrested back then were untraceable.

I have this friend who always has ex-prisoners over whenever I visit.
They don’t like bringing up their time in prison.
“Nobody knows where I know you from,” my friend said to me once.
“When they ask, I tell them I know you through Shoushou, whose full name is Madame Aisha.”
“So, where do you know her from?” a woman there once asked me.
“I work at Madame Aisha’s. I run errands for them,” I said.
Yeah, we don’t talk about it.

My nieces and nephews know nothing about any of this.
I’m probably the most popular member of my family. Even with my siblings.
I’m always inviting them over and making them the stuff they like.
But they, poor things, always ask me to not talk about what happened.
There are people who know of course, such as old members of the family. They were around when it happened, after all.
But newer members of the family have been told that the children’s father is a political detainee. When will he be released? Only God knows.
I went out with my younger sister once. Something bad happened. Trouble. It wasn’t because of me, though.
“You’re trying to get back at us, aren’t you?” my older sister asked.
I ignored everything that was happening and fixated on what she had said:
“Why would I try to get back at you? Were you the reason I was locked up?”
My parents were my only visitors when I was in jail.
Each of my sisters visited me once.
My uncle never visited at all.
He never sent his regards with my mother, just like my sisters never sent food. My mother never came bearing regards, money, or cigarettes from my uncle. Never.
By the time I was released, my uncle had fallen sick.
My mother asked me to go visit him.
“He never once asked after me. Our neighbors sometimes asked after me, but he never did,” I said.
When he passed away, my mother blamed me for his death.