Asha Ugaas

The fish slipped from my fingers, landing with a dull thud on the dirt floor. The boy behind the counter laughed, shaking his head. "You’re too tired, Asha. You need rest."

Rest. The word itself was a luxury. I wiped my hands on my dress and picked up the fish again, this time gripping it tightly. "Rest won’t feed my children," I said, handing over the crumpled shillings. "Maybe in another life."

Mogadishu, Somalia, my home for all of my thirty-four years, was already alive with voices, engines, and the scent of frying dough. I shifted my basket onto my hip and made my way through the market, calculating what else I could afford. Five children meant five hungry mouths, and stretching money was an art I had perfected over years of practice.

I reached the vegetable stall when I noticed the woman. Her dress was too clean, too stiff, and she was watching me. Not in the casual way people glance at strangers, but with intent. I pretended not to see her as I picked up an onion, pressing it between my fingers. My heart was already hammering.

I made it two streets before she followed. Then she spoke. "Asha."

I turned slowly. She was older than I had thought, maybe in her fifties, her skin smooth in a way that suggested she hadn’t spent years sweating over an open fire. "You don’t remember me," she said, her voice steady.

I didn’t. But something in her eyes made my stomach twist.

"You have five children, don’t you?" she asked. My grip on my basket tightened.

"Who are you?" I demanded, stepping back.

She reached into her bag and pulled out a small, folded paper. "I don’t have time to explain everything here. Just read this. It’s about your husband."

My husband had been dead for three years.

I snatched the paper from her and turned away, walking fast. My breath was unsteady. When I reached home, I locked the door and unfolded the note. A single line of text stared back at me:

He is alive. But you must hurry.